Me and Junior Parker
Me and Junior Parker - a Poem
Me and Junior Parker used to hang, back in that old Mississippi juke house out on highway 61. He’d play the harmonica, and I’d do a soft shoe. He’d thrust a spear into the ground, and we’d laugh. Boy would we laugh.
“Remember that time we both worked for Richard Nixon, at the White House, back in 1973, I think it was?” Junior asked. He chuckled at the thought with a little snort, picked up a bottle of Ripple—wine so cheap—that shit would give you the willies for days, and he’d begin to drink.
One thing I know is, Junior could sing! Could play the harp, too!
A soft-shoe never seemed to be enough, though. Not with Junior’s kind of rhythm. So I began playing guitar. A 1951 Fender telecaster, with a black-face Fender vibroverb amp. Sheer magic, man! Really magic!
Live, Junior would use an old Montgomery Ward amp, to mike his harp with. Kind’a sounded like Little Walter, but Junior wasn’t nearly as good as Walter. Not on harp, he wasn’t. But he could out-sing Walter, any day…..any day!
“That’s the blues baby! You got to sing it like you feel it.” He’d say. “You got to move and groove. You’ve got to rock then roll, and do the stroll. You got to boogaloo, shing-a-ling, too.” Then he’d count off “1, 2, 3,” and the band would begin its journey, like a distant memory, lost in some deep, dark past, since all memories by definition, must be in the past.
That’s when Junior would shout “Don’t be goin’ all post modern on me. Ain’t no groove in the post modernist blues, that shit will wreck your mind.”
“I know!” I says, in return.
And then we all began to wail, Junior on his Mississippi-saxophone. Me on my 51 tele. Buster playing drums. Bebo Jackson on bass. Let me tell ya' muscle Shoals never sounded so good.
That’s when a woman jackknifed her husband, who was messing with some 19 year old Black beauty. His blood poured out onto the stage, while the crowd grew into a frenzy, just as the boogaloo reached a fever pitch. No one seemed to notice, though. The moonshine was too rich, too powerful, leaving the dancers in a hypnotic state.
“Them was the days.” Junior laughed, as the curtain fell, one last time, his harp echoing in the distance. The sound of dancers thundering off the plywood floor.
“That’s the blues, baby! That’s the blues!”
“Sho-nuff is!” I answered back, while Junior continued to play, long into the night. You could actually see the notes careen off the floor and back to ceiling, the blues absolutely drenched the place.
That was the story of me and Junior Parker
Shaka Zulu
Me and Junior Parker used to hang, back in that old Mississippi juke house out on highway 61. He’d play the harmonica, and I’d do a soft shoe. He’d thrust a spear into the ground, and we’d laugh. Boy would we laugh.
“Remember that time we both worked for Richard Nixon, at the White House, back in 1973, I think it was?” Junior asked. He chuckled at the thought with a little snort, picked up a bottle of Ripple—wine so cheap—that shit would give you the willies for days, and he’d begin to drink.
One thing I know is, Junior could sing! Could play the harp, too!
A soft-shoe never seemed to be enough, though. Not with Junior’s kind of rhythm. So I began playing guitar. A 1951 Fender telecaster, with a black-face Fender vibroverb amp. Sheer magic, man! Really magic!
Live, Junior would use an old Montgomery Ward amp, to mike his harp with. Kind’a sounded like Little Walter, but Junior wasn’t nearly as good as Walter. Not on harp, he wasn’t. But he could out-sing Walter, any day…..any day!
“That’s the blues baby! You got to sing it like you feel it.” He’d say. “You got to move and groove. You’ve got to rock then roll, and do the stroll. You got to boogaloo, shing-a-ling, too.” Then he’d count off “1, 2, 3,” and the band would begin its journey, like a distant memory, lost in some deep, dark past, since all memories by definition, must be in the past.
That’s when Junior would shout “Don’t be goin’ all post modern on me. Ain’t no groove in the post modernist blues, that shit will wreck your mind.”
“I know!” I says, in return.
And then we all began to wail, Junior on his Mississippi-saxophone. Me on my 51 tele. Buster playing drums. Bebo Jackson on bass. Let me tell ya' muscle Shoals never sounded so good.
That’s when a woman jackknifed her husband, who was messing with some 19 year old Black beauty. His blood poured out onto the stage, while the crowd grew into a frenzy, just as the boogaloo reached a fever pitch. No one seemed to notice, though. The moonshine was too rich, too powerful, leaving the dancers in a hypnotic state.
“Them was the days.” Junior laughed, as the curtain fell, one last time, his harp echoing in the distance. The sound of dancers thundering off the plywood floor.
“That’s the blues, baby! That’s the blues!”
“Sho-nuff is!” I answered back, while Junior continued to play, long into the night. You could actually see the notes careen off the floor and back to ceiling, the blues absolutely drenched the place.
That was the story of me and Junior Parker
Shaka Zulu