It isn’t a secret that Chicago has been thought of as a town that loves and supports its music. And that was never more true than in the 50’s and 60’s. There was the Grant Park Bandshell, Orchestra Hall and Ravinia for the orchestral devotees; the Blue Note and the Sutherland Hotel for the jazz aficionados. And the churches, all over town, with their majestic choirs and organists gave even the most pious a chance to express feelings in response to slow, dark dirges or stomping, clapping spirituals.

And then there was the Blues.

Smitty’s Corner was on the intersection of 43 rd and Indiana, just down from the Louis (as in Joe) Theater. Smitty’s predated the “ambiance” that the Illinois Institute of Technology would later bring to the area and was the “in-residence” home of Mr. McKinley Morganfield, otherwise known as Muddy Waters- the King of Chicago Blues.

Although not quite the “bucket of blood” it was thought of in some circles, Smitty’s was known for being prone to incidents requiring official (and/or medical) attention – except when Muddy was on the bandstand. At those times you got the impression that an “incident” was only imminent if something disrespectful and/or disruptive occurred during Mr. Morganfield’s regime. When Muddy played, his Subjects came out in force to hear the Blues, as rendered by one of the Masters. That was the focus of the evening. And as a Subject, you came properly attired and behaved in a manner that befitted the auspiciousness of the event.

You either got to Smitty’s early or you were prepared to wait for the next set. The space was a double storefront.
It was lit with the subdued glow of neon signs that adorned buildings facing the other direction and you sat knee to knee/ elbow to elbow with the people at all surrounding tables. And, especially important, you took care of your personal needs – drink, cigarettes (yes, you smoked at your table), bathroom, visits to friends, or any other necessities – before the room filled up because once everyone was seated, you could not slide your chair back to stand up. There was a narrow path that led from the front door to the bandstand to a curtained backdoor. One way in. One way out. Period.

On this particular night that I was among the Subjects, the set opened with a few selections from a group of bluesmen headed by Clear Waters, Muddy’s son and a talented progeny of the faith. Although respectfully received, there was the usual chit chat, yuk-yuk and clink-clink of a club in full operation during his offerings.

After a short intermission, a Herald, in both manor and appearance, took the stage and announced that Mr. Muddy Waters was now present. Suddenly, the front door flung open in a dramatic fashion. The musicians on the stage struck a New Orleans style march tempo and the entire club stood as McKinley Morganfield strode along the little path to the bandstand through room-shaking applause. He was dressed in the revered Chicago tradition- brightly colored suit with matching gator shoes. On his arm (as much as the space allowed) was his “Lady”, a full figured woman of undetermined age with shoulder length, “water wave” hair and a satin, brightly-printed, low-cut dress. They were followed by his guitar, borne by another Herald (in both manor and appearance), and some other gentlemen who didn’t command your attention.

With his “Lady” seated properly, Muddy ascended the stage, took over his guitar and, without introduction or discussion, launched into one of his standards. Initially, there was a rapt focus accompanied by a communal hum. From then on in it was all Blues. Just the Blues and the responses of the audience - who became more responsive as the evening progressed. Crowd reaction ranged from boisterous laughs and wistful smiles with hands keeping beat, to bowed heads, obviously heavy with painful memories. The most interesting of these responses came from the couple of females that did impossibly salacious dance routines while hovering about 4 inches above their chair seats. The previously mentioned space considerations were of no concern when Muddy played. It was about the Blues.

The set ended with introductions of the personnel, announcements of future appearances, and some recognition (shout outs) of people in the audience. And then, through some signal that I missed, the audience once again stood up. And in the midst of thunderous applause, Muddy, the Lady, the Guitar Bearer and the rest of his entourage (which had grown considerably larger) took to the path again and sauntered out of the door.

Sunni Knight is a DC metro based writerand soldier in the fight against family violence. She is a regular contributor for which we are grateful. She can be reached at sk@natcreole.com