Once upon a time, I had the notion that I might want to be one of those professional songwriters that went to an office every day and wrote hit songs for up-and-coming artists. Hell, I would have settled for has-beens on their way back down, to be honest.
My good friend and big brother figure, Mike, had a similar notion, so one day we just said, “Fuck it,” and decided to move to Nashville pretty much sight unseen. Our heroes had made a go of it, so why shouldn't we?
The only thing standing in our way was the fact Mike was acting in a production in Chicago and had a couple of months of rehearsal and shows left until the play wrapped up. So, me being of sound mind and perpetually questionable judgment, decided to crash on Mike's couch for those couple of months.
On one particular evening, we found ourselves sitting at a bar in Lakeview uniquely named the Lakeview Bar and Grill. There wasn't anything particularly noteworthy about the place that I can remember except for one thing: the jukebox only seemed to play songs by Otis Rush. We must have been there a half hour by the time I noticed, but sure enough, one right after the next, Otis Rush.
I asked the bartender, “Hey man, who keeps playing all the Otis Rush?" He just grinned, pulled the toothpick from his mouth, and in the deepest voice I've yet to hear, replied, “That would be Otis.” As he said it, he kind of gestured to the end of the bar, and sure enough, sitting there digging on his own tunes was the man himself.
I recognized him right away from his black cowboy hat, but another observation cemented the fact that this was Otis: the realization that in his possession—well, his handler's possession, anyway—was a Flying V-style guitar with the word “Hoshit” inscribed on the headstock. I'd seen a picture of it before, so I knew it to be the real thing.
Mike and I made our way down the bar, and in true Midwestern hospitable fashion, bought a round of whatever he was drinking, and he welcomed us to sit down. It was pretty standard fare as far as the conversation went. I don't recall anything out of the normal range of pleasantries. I did, however, notice a couple of things that seemed fairly peculiar to me.
First, his guitar wasn't in a case. This wouldn't be all that peculiar except for the fact that he wasn't playing at this venue. The guy I called his handler was just carrying the thing.
Second, the handler himself was this tall, seemingly Italian-American fella that looked more Jersey Shore than Chicago. He was dressed like he was headed out clubbing. It was just jarring right away. I'm not sure I had ever given much thought before then who exactly should be Otis Rush's handler, but I can tell you that if I had, it wasn't this guy.
The third thing, and maybe the strangest, was the fact that there was a group of about five white guys just kind of hanging around. They didn't say anything directly to Otis or the handler, but they were all clearly there together. They were just in the wings. It was weird. I kind of dug it because it was so weird.
After a couple of drinks and not too much prodding, it was decided that Mike and I would venture with the whole gang to the club that Otis was booked at later that evening. Now the guitar made a little more sense, but not much.
It was apparently close enough that we could make it on foot, so we headed out. Otis, me, Mike, the handler, and bringing up the rear was the group of white guys. Three or four paces behind us, and they still didn't say nothin'.
We arrive at the location, and brothers and sisters, I shit you not—it's closed! Otis is pissed and starts beating on the door. He wants to get paid. Finally, the door cracks open, and this guy pokes his head out, looks around, and hurries us inside. It's completely dark inside except for one light casting a beam out onto the floor of the main room from the kitchen. It kind of reminded me of one of those interrogation scenes in a movie, the swinging single light bulb kind of thing. In the kitchen is a guy feverishly mopping the floor. The dude that let us in explains to Otis that the show is canceled for the time being and scurries us through to the alley door, and that's that. I don't know what happened in that place before we got there, and I don't want to.
Now, out in the alley, it's decided that we'll head over to some other guy's place to hang for the rest of the evening. I'm gonna guess it's around 5 a.m. at this point because all the bars are closing up. Mike decided to head home, but I was in it for the long haul. This thing had gotten so weird I had to see it through.
So here I am in some apartment somewhere in Chicago with a blues legend, his handler, the apartment owner, and the white guys. And in case you're wondering—still nothin'! Not a word.
At some point, another guitar appears, and in almost like a weird scene in an even weirder movie inspired by that Ralph Macchio film Crossroads, I'm sitting face-to-face with one of my guitar heroes trading licks, and it was epic!
I really settled in, and I must have been flowing, because mid-phrase Otis puts his guitar down and stands up over me. I was actually kind of scared and somewhat bracing for impact when he finally speaks to the group of white guys and says, “This is what I've been trying to get you all to do.” To this day, I'm not sure what the “this” was, but I'm keeping it as a compliment.
Then he just kind of hovers over me and tells me to keep playing, so I do. I'm playing the best blues licks I know, probably some of his, and then he lays on the greatest thing that any human has ever said to me.
“You don't play blues like no white boy! And, you don't play blues like no black boy! Just who is you, Mutha Fucka?!”
“My name's Matt Morrow, and Otis, it's the pleasure of my young life to be sitting with you here tonight.”
I stuck out my hand, and he shook it. We talked about music and laughed a ton. I suspect the joint we smoked had a lot to do with that.
We left the apartment and made our way to a little cafe that was just around the corner from the couch I was crashing on: just myself, Otis, and the handler. We had breakfast as the sun was coming up, and Otis was very encouraging about me pursuing my dreams in the music biz. And just like that, as unexpected as it had started, the night was over, and I was on my way.
I was on cloud nine and couldn't sleep, so I called the coolest person I know because I knew how proud she'd be that I smoked a joint. Thanks for always picking up the phone, sis!
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