Howlin' Wolf
The London Howlin' Wolf Sessions

London 1970 - Little Red Rooster - a tale about Howlin' Wolf's London session

A Chicago club on a Friday night in March 1970. A concert has just ended. Two pieces of American music history are drinking at the counter. On the sofas, two prostitutes are working on some drunk, tie-wearing guys, likely employees on a business trip. The place is a mess, the atmosphere is also a mess, there are few people, and they seem depressed. It's raining outside. The two guys at the counter, the pieces of American history, are the old Chester Burnett, aka Howlin' Wolf (born in 1910), who has just finished his show, and his manager, Norman Dayron, also a co-founder of Chess Records.

Old Wolf seemed satisfied: "Did you see that drive, that groove?" Drive? Groove? Maybe. Dayron said nothing. He looked at the glass he was holding. In his bourbon, he saw an image of the Beatles at Shea Stadium. He had been there that day in New York, among those 55,000 people. He remembered all those people, the confusion, the hysteria of the young girls, the impotent police officers, the threat of an army of teenagers in plaid skirts and white knee-high socks. Then he turned his head, looking back at some of those hardly 30 wasted people behind him.

Yet Howlin' Wolf had suffered less than other colleagues from the crisis of the blues sector in the USA. Many old blues musicians were literally starving, while in Europe, the genre was all the rage among young people. Wolf's records still sold well, but for a couple of years, his health had been failing him, and so was much of his audience. The two continued drinking in silence in the half-empty club. Across from them, on the other side of the counter, the bartender was slowly drying a glass with a cloth.

The next evening, it was still raining in Chicago, old Howlin' Wolf was at home having dinner with his wife, Lillie. A 330-pound woman with a temperament to match her weight. The only person in the world able to stand up to her husband's tender jerkiness. The TV was broadcasting a documentary about British rock. Some footage of a recent Rolling Stones concert was shown. The camera captured Mick Jagger backstage inhaling from a mask connected to an oxygen tank held by an assistant, and then returning to the stage while Keith Richards was already playing the first chords of Little Red Rooster. The screams of at least 50,000 people were a sound wall.

Howlin' Wolf was used to hearing his songs played in rock contexts, but every time he remained astonished at seeing all that crowd. The American blues world had different numbers. His wife nudged him on the arm: "Hey Pa, this is your stuff." At that precise moment, the phone rang. It was Norman Dayron, who had seen the same footage.

From that evening, Dayron started working on his project to bring the great Howlin' Wolf back to his former glory. The idea wasn't new: linking Wolf's name to a rock context, which in those years attracted immense crowds. Wolf had already done it in the past, as had Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, and others with remarkable results. Just having Eric Clapton's name on an album cover could add a zero to the sales numbers. Dayron used all his knowledge and contacts and managed to bring into the project none other than the Rolling Stones, the Traffic, Eric Clapton, Ringo Starr (in the midst of the Beatles' breakup), and a couple of other young and famous names.

The really difficult thing was dealing with Howlin' Wolf's boundless pride, but Dayron cleverly thought of using his wife Big Mama Lillie, who could afford much more straightforward methods with the old artist when necessary. Bitter words, and certainly something more, flew between the spouses. The fact is that in the end, Wolf expressed his willingness. Few noticed the bruise under his left eye. The only condition he insisted on was the presence in the band of his old faithful guitarist Hubert Sumlin. In late spring, they all left for London.

On the early afternoon of May 7, 1970, at the Olympic Studios in London, Norman Dayron, all the engineers and sound technicians, Wolf, and Sumlin were already present. Outside, the weather was almost clear after weeks of rain. The first to arrive were the Stones. Jagger and Richards were there just to observe the historic occasion and to revere a myth of their adolescence. It was planned that only the Stones' rhythm section would play, the drummer Charlie Watts and the bassist Bill Wyman.

The four Stones displayed all the colorful extravagance of the hippie fashion of the time. Jagger wore a fuchsia silk suit; the pants, tightened by a diamond belt, clung to a small apple-sized backside and hugged the thin, nervous legs, ending in two wide elephant flare bells. A jacket with a fox collar and an enormous cream felt hat. Richards sported a t-shirt printed with the Stones' new logo designed by a young Art student, the red mouth with the tongue sticking out. Richards’ mouth, on the other hand, was in bad shape: he was missing an upper incisor, executed by brown sugar heroin. When the colorful company entered, Sumlin and Wolf exchanged a glance and muttered something with a chuckle. The Stones greeted the Maestro with great deference.

Then the Traffic of Steve Winwood arrived. For the same reason as the Stones, the entire group was there, although only Winwood would be playing the piano. Wolf, with a slyly ironic smile, introduced Steve Winwood to Sumlin, who had a vaguely feminine beauty. Winwood noticed but pretended not to. The young rockers were aware of Howlin' Wolf's renowned character, and they were prepared. Finally, Eric Clapton, the real protagonist of the rock wing of the formation, arrived late, as he would play guitar in a duet with Sumlin. He was totally high. Now the group was complete.

All the musicians knew perfectly well how to play the song "Little Red Rooster," an old blues tune of uncertain origins, probably appearing in the '20s, perfected in the lyrics by musician Willie Dixon, and brought to success in 1962 by Howlin' Wolf himself in the "Rockin' Chair album," his first major discographic success. Later, the song found its way into the repertoire of many British invasion groups, including the Rolling Stones since 1964 and Eric Clapton. In the USA, it was performed by Jimi Hendrix, Sam Cooke, Canned Heat, Janis Joplin, and none other than the Doors. The lyrics talk about a little red rooster that has wandered off, leaving the chicken coop unguarded and vulnerable to any "back door man," a thief crouched behind the door, ready to take advantage of the unguarded hens. Obscene double entendres, in the most classic blues jargon.

From the start, the studio divided into two factions, on one side the two old black men, on the other the young white Englishmen. Discussions began on this or that chord or this or that passage. The discussions turned into actual arguments. At least three times, Wolf made the move to leave, ditching everyone, and three times he was stopped on the elevator threshold by a very sweaty Norman Dayron and convinced to return.

Finally, it was Eric Clapton who found the right way. The guitarist, with his opiate calmness, addressed Wolf: "Buddy, you need to show us how to play it. Can you do the rhythm guitar chords and passages so we can learn the piece?" The old Wolf, caught off guard, asked if Clapton was taking the mickey out of him. Clapton said the magic words: "No man, we just want to get into the right spirit." From that moment, Wolf's pride softened, and the unrepeatable formation started to seriously play.

When Norman Dayron at the console heard a fantastic "Red Rooster" take off like a jetliner on the runway, he asked the audio technician for a cigarette, lit it, and took two deep drags, then looked at it, a filter-less Pall Mall, and it seemed wonderful to him. The previous cigarette he had smoked fifteen years earlier, in a hospital waiting room, immediately after the birth of his youngest daughter.

On the vinyl, today a collector's item not particularly rare and worth about twenty euros, the conversation between Eric Clapton and Howlin' Wolf has been left in, and can be heard followed by Wolf's explanation of the passages and chords. The recordings lasted 5 days. The album "The London Howlin' Wolf Sessions" was released in August 1971 and had a fair success.