By Christian Schaeffer
By Daniel Hill
By Joseph Hess
By Joseph Hess
By Allison Babka
By Gina Tron
By Kelsey McClure
By Roy Kasten
Sumlin, the baby of the three, won't turn 70 until the middle of November. His guitar-playing was as important as Wolf's guttural howl on those signature classics of the '50s. He brought to the table not only riffs that stung with originality and verve but a brilliant, shiny and nasty tone that, recycled by major players such as Jeff Beck and Jimi Hendrix, became one of the most influential in rock & roll history. But never mind what happened after others picked up on his techniques: An astounding guitarist, Sumlin continues to travel and record, generating his own heat as a performer without having to compete with an outsized presence such as Howlin' Wolf, whose death 25 years ago forced Sumlin to go solo. Sumlin sings now and does a credible job, but his guitar is what people want to hear. He lives up to his reputation. (Repeated attempts to contact Sumlin for an interview were unsuccessful.)
Pryor turned 80 just a few days after playing the Big Muddy Blues Festival on Labor Day in St. Louis. That show, on a hot afternoon, was a delight: Pryor's searing harmonica pierced the slippery grooves of his backup band, some members of which he hadn't met before that day. "That was not my best show," Pryor says in his hotel room afterward. "At a good show, you have the people up dancing. I was up in Pennsylvania last year at a festival, and I had people at the end who wanted to slash their wrists because they couldn't get my autograph. That's a good show."
A few hardy souls did shake their groove things at the foot of the stage, but people sitting on a grassy incline in 90-degree weather rarely get up and dance, no matter how incredible the performance. Pryor's vocals were boisterous, exuberant, playful. His harp was loud, searing, incandescent. At one point, he let the band play a song without him, and the energy level dropped measurably. "If there's other musicians around, I feel like I'm gonna do somebody in," Pryor says. "Most all the musicians are jealous of me. They don't like to run into me. Even James Cotton, when he was in his prime, didn't like that. And Jimmy Rogers, me and him growed up together until I was 16 years old. He didn't like to run into me on no bandstand. None of them do."
Pryor grew up in the Mississippi Delta and heard most of the great acoustic-blues musicians of the '30s, including Townsend, on records. He also saw Rice Miller, soon to become better known as Sonny Boy Williamson II, playing on the streets of his hometown. Williamson became his biggest influence as a player, which Pryor has always acknowledged. Pryor's career, however, didn't begin until after he was discharged from the service at the end of World War II. "I'm the one that miked the harmonica first," Pryor explains with the practiced air of one who has told the story over and over and over without ever quite thinking it's believed. "I started that when I was in the Army, around 1943. I was the bugler. After I would play those calls, there would be a little PA on that system. After I blowed my bugle through the Army PA system, I would take my harmonica and play it through there, too. I was just trying, just testing something. I remember it sounded like a saxophone to me. Then, when I came back to the United States, came back to Chicago, in November of 1945, I went downtown, 504 S. State St. in Chicago, and bought me a PA system with two speakers to it. Then I went to Maxwell Street, and I hooked up that PA system on the street. I sat out there by myself alone. And people couldn't imagine I was getting that kind of noise out of a harmonica."
Before long, he met Moody Jones, who wanted to join his band; soon thereafter, Pryor was approached by a record company: "I was 25 years old then," Pryor recalls. "I told them, 'Yeah, I want to make a record.' That's when I made "Telephone Blues" and "Snooky and Moody's Boogie." That was the first record made after the war." By "first record," Pryor means the first record to document the new amplified sound of blues that was taking Chicago by storm.