John Lee Hooker & Canned Heat
Hooker 'n Heat

I look at the photos of this record, the cover and the others... Hooker is tired, thoughtful, he has another sleepless and fiery night behind him, with more cold sweat on his back. Tired, as we said, but hyper-clear, poised in a plastic and lanky pose at the same time, a mix between contemplative and ready to leap into the air, summoning the last energies cleverly set aside, just in case there was a need to dodge Satan's last tail swipe. The Canned Heat are comfortably seated, with a satisfied air, with smooth, slow, and cozy looks and poses. The night has passed, think the Heat as they gaze at the city from the window, and the blues was fantastic again this time, in fact, tonight was the greatest experience among those lived. Now that the dances have ended, they think, it's time to enjoy a soothing rest. For John, it's different; for John, the night seems never to want to end.
That night together was one of direct sounds, a filthy night, full of mites and a thousand other foul microbes. A night in which old John led the carefree and white kids a meter lower than they managed with the help of a thousand drugs. A night when the skeleton of the blues managed with its own legs to come out of the closet, in that filthy hotel room. It's Hooker who leads the dance, sets the pace, pushes the raft forward; a protective Charon, who seems to advise "let me handle it, guys, trust me."
Satan has already seen Canned Heat play when he blended into the crowd of the Summer Of Love; he also saw them at the Topanga Corral and Woodstock. He judged them very well, but there were too many bands he had to work on at that time, and then there was that troublemaker Richard Manson, who always did one too many. Like the most common of overworked men, he set the case aside, promising to study it when he had time, even if it was the first lunch break. And as inevitably happens, years pass, and the case remains there, forgotten. Three years after '68, it is John Lee Hooker who works to push the boys forward. The Canned Heat absolutely want to sell their records even to the damned. And what's better than the classic (and damn) recommendation?
The old man knows well that with the devil, it's not advisable to linger in preambles, to get lost in sycophancy, and the best way to knock on hell's door is to start with the blues, which those who must receive it already know is there and what it has come to do. John doesn't need any partnership to properly dirty his sound, as well as give his pieces body, blood, and tense nerves, but the Canned Heat create a great noise all around his precious, unmissable voice, and then the band accelerates, exacerbates, exaggerates everywhere, so the sparse parts become anorexic, and the rich ones are not blues but blues rock.
No preambles: "Hey, now you're 'Messin' With The Hook.' Do you understand who I am, and you know well what's waiting for you. So what are you waiting for? Open up!"
No interest in usability, the drums are not there, and the rhythm is the dull thud of a shoe's heel on the sodden wood of a cross. Zero patterns, zero frivolities, and poses of kings on earth, just one note of blues after another. If one talks, whispers, shouts or sings; if a solo becomes a riff, and a riff turns into a solo, who cares. Here, people do whatever they damn please with the sound, voice, and instruments.
Slow tracks dragged by the hair, obsessive tracks, always louder! Always louder! and tired tracks, going by sheer inertia in the interminable and slow descent toward the bottom of everything. The blues is this slow and infinite descent, a pain, a sting that never stops, that even if in daily life, distracted by many engagements, you almost forget about it, but not because of this, the pain ceases to exist. A pain in the soul, to be precise. From which it is certainly not easy to recover. And then recover for what? Good question.
The king of darkness benevolently welcomes the old friend, but he's not focused on him: that's his usual show, that's the artist he knows all too well, with the usual themes, urges, the same style. "The Hook" is invaluable as always, but even he wouldn't be where he is if it weren't for those guys. The host observes them, listens to them, and runs his hands through his long Afro curls: how could he lose sight of them like this? He immediately calls the secretary, orders her to procure the folder on them, no matter if it's three in the morning and no one knows on which shelf it has been stashed away for years, and it doesn't even matter if all the office personnel - the secretary reports - including herself, are at John Lee Hooker's concert tonight. When, finally, the file lands in his hands, it's a moment of realization: "Boogie With Canned Heat," "Living The Blues," "Hallelujah," "Vintage"... Masterpieces of records. And now this "Hooker 'n Heat."
Hooker knows he's not the star of the night, at least not for those in command around here. He knows he won't receive a contract upgrade, knows he's there to do a favor for others and not for himself, so he pulls one of his coups: he gifts the host "Burning Hell," the most incendiary piece, the most witch-like. But blues is as much a child of fire as it is of faith. The flesh burns while the soul yearns for God. And so, right in the most devilish piece, while the flesh melts, while Satan enjoys, the fiercest questions rise to the sky, the most lacerating doubts, the most heartbreaking invocations. Blues, in essence, is praying while sinning, ascending while sinking, purifying the soul while dirtying the body. No little prayers, much less requests for miracles: indications, suggestions, signs of presence, tips, something like "go easy, I haven't forgotten about you; I'm not like a certain mutual friend, who loses track of the files and then at the last minute throws temper tantrums everywhere, dumping onto others his responsibilities."
When the body burns in hell, from within us a small flame rises, reaching the sky. There it regenerates to come back and cleanse our soul.
His infernal majesty notices the trick Hooker played on him and smiles: it's as if John had told him, "We're friends, ok, but don't get strange ideas." "Musicians," he thinks to himself with a grimace, "in the end, they just want to sell their records, become famous, no matter how much they pose as rebels, how much they flaunt indifference to trends and sales. Even those who declare themselves my followers, in the end, only think about selling, about the vile money, my worst invention. Hooker won't join me; he has found a way to play around here whenever he wants, but he won't join me at the end of his life. Another sly dog."
Things bounce back with "Whiskey And Wimmen" and end with boogie in its purity, in "Let's Move It" and "Peavine": the drums return, the band arrangement returns, and hell jumps and dances. And then there's a twelve-minute boogie, fertile ground for the Canned Heat and their '68 blues. Satan has already signed his part of the contract, and at the end of the performance, it will be the Bear's, the Sunflower's, and the Blind Owl's turn. "Bear, Sunflower, Blind Owl: such great names!" he thinks to himself, and he can't help but notice how the latter is smiling at him...
The band will approach timidly and emotionally, while Hooker waits seated on a chair in the anteroom, stirring memories of when the black angel would never have dreamed of shutting the door of his office in his face. But that was the price to pay for the clear will of not joining him at the end of his days. And then, years pass for everyone, he thinks, and they will pass for the Canned Heat as well. For now, this is their moment; let's not ruin it for them.
I look again at the faces on the cover and the other photos, the men, and their postures, and understand: John Lee Hooker is worn out, and he seems to think to himself: "I'm getting too old for certain things" and the Canned Heat, tired but happy, a little drunk and dazed, seem to say: "You were right, John, hell is without a doubt the best place for a live. When do we do it again?"
"Hooker 'n Heat": Hell in a Hotel room.