When Muddy Passed Me the Whisky Bottle

Blues in E Flat

I was a terrible rock critic. I was young,full of myself, and trying to write like my idols. Since my idols were Lester Bangs and R. Meltzer, ‘twas a fool’s errand. But, as I said, I was young.

The Cellar Door in Washington, D.C. was a showcase club with a capacity of 163, honored more in the breech than in the observance. It was the room to play in the D.C. area because it was pretty much the only room. Record companies sent about-to-break or hoping-to-reboot acts there to get the buzz going before they hit New York.People like John Prine and Patti Smith made their “Who the heck are they?” debuts there. Miles and Monk burned the house down while Neil, Gram, Joni and Jimmy cooled it out. The good thing about living in D.C., maybe the only good thing, was that there were very few hip music fans. You could always get a ticket.

I wrote for the student newspaper at the University of Maryland in nearby College Park, and I could get front row seats and backstage passes at the Cellar Door just by calling. And so it happened that my photograper/girlfriend and I were backstage with Muddy Waters and his band after a hot ‘n’ sweaty show in the early ‘70s, sitting in a circle of folding chairs. I was interviewing Mr. Morganfield — not well, but he was very kind, and did his best to help me. The band chilled and chatted and smoked cigarettes and passed around a bottle of whisky. Muddy took a big swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and passed the bottle along to me.

I…I froze. Like many youths in hippie days, I had no experience of hard liquor. Was I thinking that I had to drive home immediately after, in my parents’ immaculate Ford sedan? Was I afraid this was some voodoo blues ritual that would steal my soul? (If only!) Was I worried about cooties?

“I’m sorry, I don’t drink,” I said, and passed the bottle, unquaffed, to the next guy in the circle.

I was not meant to be a rock critic.