First, I want to say this: no matter what happens from today forward, we all live in a different country than the one we occupied on November 3, 2008. From this day forward, America has lived up to her promise that anyone can be the President of the United States. The one waiting to take his place on January 20 is perhaps one of the most qualified to ever take office, but also, given his name and his skin color, one of the least likely in this crazy time of ours. Eight years ago, and then four years ago, a tiny fraction over half of America decided George W. Bush was the guy who should lead us, and boy, did he ever. Right over the edge. The guy to get us back to reality, America decided, was Barack Hussein Obama. And that amazing night in Grant Park, Chicago, where 40 years ago the whole world was watching while the Chicago police unleashed their fury on thousands of people Sarah Palin would call domestic terrorists (and I was there in spirit, though too young to be there in person), before President Obama gave his remarks, there was a recording played of "Sweet Home Chicago," a song first written and performed by Robert Johnson, one of the greatest blues men who ever lived. Johnson, who thought Chicago was in California, because they didn't school black folks in the south too well back then, would be utterly amazed to see where we have come in the 70 short years since he wrote that song. Well done, President Obama. May you and Michelle prosper and thrive, and help all Americans to do the same.
Another blues man who changed the world of that music was John Lee Hooker, the man who schooled me in the blues and gave me my first chance at really being professional. He came to my high school in 1970, kind of washed up in those days, hanging on to the fringes of his former popularity, and he played us a few tunes. Afterwards, I approached him and explained that I played guitar as well, and loved the blues. He was amused, and invited me to come to his house any time (he lived in East Oakland in those days) and jam. Well, it wasn't many days before I was knocking on his front door. After some back and forth, his manager, the dear Tex Coleman, who also owned Blues Boys Records on East 14th Street, signed me up and put me in the band, where I stayed off and on for the next four years. I got to meet other legends -- Brownie McGhee, Lightnin' Hopkins, Freddie King, and a lot of others -- as they came through town and stayed at John's house. I got to take the stage with one of the giants of the blues, plug in my guitar and, when he nodded in my direction, take solos. At first, of course, I was young and hungry and full of the notion that I would be a star, so I would flail and wail and trounce and bounce and do all kinds of stupid things, playing way more notes than fit into the song, and make these really pained faces. John would just look over at me, stoic and puzzled, never saying a word, but eventually I got it. Never play more than is in your heart. Everything else is a waste of time and energy. And it's not true to the music. He said all that without one word to me, and it remains one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. John never mentioned race, and I don't think he really thought about it much. He was far more interested in the women hanging around backstage, and the songs swirling around in his head.
After all the years of music, I am still floored by the fact that people let me get on stage and make noise. John is gone, Tex is gone, and some of my very best friends are gone. But many of them remain, and still play with me, and it is a distinct honor each and every time. And it is even more of an honor to play for the people who come to hear the music. That is the most amazing thing, and for that I am truly grateful and humbled.
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