Through the Open Window Tonight

 My friend Jim Bessman passed away suddenly this week; it was a shock and a huge loss to the music community.  He was a fine writer and paid attention not just to the celebrities among us, but to the more obscure and less acknowledged.  Not a week ago, he'd offered to review my new book, although poetry was not his bedfellow.  Over time he'd accumulated a massive body of writing; to pay homage to his legacy, it occurred to me to memoir-ize an old friend.

Recently I've heard from several people that a book is being written about the late John Campbell.  I would doubt I'd be any kind of prodigious source... but these things slip through our mental fingers before we know it.  Jim's death reminded me of the fragility of even the staunchest friendships.  

The first time I heard John he played solo at some kind of Delta blues event.  It was maybe early or mid-80's and he was at the front end of a series of performers.  I seem to recall it was maybe a Sunday afternoon...  at Under Acme or some such vanished place... maybe not. Anyway, he had recently moved to the city and among us downtown regulars he looked and spoke like a new arrival. I sat at a front table and I could see his thin fingers trembling with nerves.  I'd never heard his name at that moment, but his approach to blues was undeniably unique-- delicate and sure at the same time. I hung on the notes... I can remember, nearly 40 years later, the sound of his guitars.  Sometimes blues goes straight to your heart; you recognize it. 

The next time we met was backstage at a John Lee Hooker concert at the Bottom Line where I was lucky enough to be the bass player.  I was still a novice musician--not yet comfortable on the gig and a little overwhelmed by the backstage celebrity crowd.  John Campbell introduced himself... praised the simplicity of my playing in a way that convinced me.  He told me I was the first bassist with JLH that he could stand, lol.  He gave me confidence.  I had a kind of voice but I hadn't known it then.  

Later on we met at the old Lone Star on 13th Street.  He repeated his praise... told me I was part of the dream band he wanted to create-- me and the late great Charles Otis, one of the groovingest drummers New York ever saw... with strong NOLA roots.  Charles and I played many gigs together.  I loved the guy.  I can't recall who was playing that night, but we drank upstairs with some of Muddy Waters' former band members.   I remember the bartender buying me a burger; the old Lone Star was like a home for its regulars.  John also introduced me with great respect to Ronnie Earl, a fellow guitar hero and friend.

Later on I played in a band with Zonder Kennedy, Mark Grandfield and Bob Medici... a regular gig on Houston Street I think. John often came by and sat in with us on the tiny space we used as a stage.  I loved that band.. those gigs.  As always, John's playing was unique and soulful and passionate.  The little dream band never happened; John was becoming a star, I'd moved to London part-time, got married, etc.  One night I was playing bass downtown with a huge pregnant stomach, setting up... and he in his southern-gentleman accent blurted out that he wished he could help carry the baby for me-- I looked so burdened with my gear.  He blushed, I didn't.  

When my son was about 10 months old, I went down with a date to see the record-deal signed version of John.  He was still absolutely killing on his guitar... special... but he was on the edge of rockstardom... he was super thin-- wiry and fragile but somehow strong.  I took my date ( a well-known writer) backstage where John spoke to us with mad enthusiasm and energy that was a little worrying.  

The last time I saw him was in a casket at his wake underneath a guitar-shaped floral arrangement at the ironically named Campbell funeral home.  It was around this time of year-- early summer.  The Hell's Angels were there in the crowd with their bikes illegally parked on Madison Avenue; the security detail was jumpy.  The funeral the next day (I fictionalized it in a novel) was at a church filled with musicians, family and a slew of beautiful women.  It was tragic.  

Fortunately John left a daughter behind, and a catalogue of recordings... but I fear he was never canonized the way some of his heroes were.  He was not just gifted but 'charged'.  He also had the manners and courtesy of an old-world  southern gentleman, so foreign in the hard-drinking and drugging music scene of the 1980's. More than anything, he gave me a bonafide blues 'crown' I wore from that moment on.  He complimented and acknowledged me at a time when I felt a little lost in the crossfire of the 1980's New York City music scene.  Charles Otis and I kept up a friendship until he passed a few years ago.  We often spoke of John and felt somehow connected as part of the 'dream trio' we never executed.  Charles, too, made me feel 'real'.  He surely was one of a kind. 

I'm sure I contributed nothing here to the legacy of John Campbell. The performances and recordings spoke for themselves, and hopefully the forthcoming book and people like Zonder will fill in the rest.  If Jim Bessman was still here to finish our interview I might have shared with him that I was thinking about John when I wrote : 

'Through the open window tonight

I can sense Mississippi dirt-- 

thin-necked fingers tapping softly

on plantation-wood coffins…

your old Gibson buried 

with hot reptilean cravings, 

cooling at last in delta mud…'

But this was not to be.  Rest in Peace John Campbell, Jim Bessman, Charles Otis.  The list will sadly go on, until one day it won't.