The Making of a Legend

Long John Baldry launched me on my musical journey.

I was 18, playing harmonica and singing a Muddy Waters song in a railway station, when Long John Baldry ran over to me from the other side of the track. I had just been to see him play at a club; he was one of the top bluesmen in England. But John didn't just sing Muddy Waters songs -- he knew Muddy Waters, had performed with him, and with Ramblin' Jack Elliott too. And now he was asking, "Would you like to join the band?"

For me, just shaking his hand -- knowing all the great musicians whose hands he'd shaken before -- was mind-blowing. But so was John. Picture this elegant man with a proper English accent, never without a tie, a towering six-foot-seven. I was a huge fan, and was intimidated by his offer. Rod Stewart wasn't in demand in those days; no one was interested. I immediately said yes.

John had a knack for discovering and mentoring talent. Ginger Baker, Jeff Beck and Brian Jones all worked with him early on. Elton John played piano in one of his bands. In 1962, when the Rolling Stones were just getting started, they opened for him in London. Eric Clapton has said many times that John was one of the musicians who inspired him to play the blues. And for their internationally televised special in 1964, the Beatles invited John to perform his version of "I Got My Mojo Workin'."

In those days, the only music we fell in love with was the blues, and John was one of the first white guys singing it, in his wonderful voice.

It was the true blues, and we all looked up to him. I wasn't very good on the harmonica, but my gravelly voice caught his attention. He was the first person of any stature to tell me, "You really have the gift. You have what it takes."

He turned some of us into musical legends, but it was never what he expected from himself. You didn't hear John on the radio or see him on TV. He just played these clubs that I started going to when I was 16.

At the time, I hadn't thought much about performing except as a way to meet girls. John put me on an amazing wage, close to $100 a week, which in the early '60s was an astronomical amount. I remember thinking, If this lasts for six months, I'll be able to buy a little sports car, which I'd been saving for. Of course, that would help me get more girls.

We didn't rehearse before my first performance with John's band, and I was very nervous, so I had a few drinks. John introduced me as an "up-and-coming" new singer, and I sang John Lee Hooker's classic "Dimples," which died a death! There was a horrible silence after my performance. But John was great. He's one of the kindest guys, reassuring and positive. He just said, "Well, come away. Don't worry about it." Then he had me come to his apartment the next day and go through some songs on the guitar to get the keys worked out.

He always had encouraging words, especially when I'd mess up onstage. He'd just say, "Oh, you're young yet; it'll all come to you." It wasn't dismissive. It was always said in a way that made me feel he believed what he was telling me.

John taught me so much -- things that apply to my life and things that made me the human being I am today. He had tremendous stage presence. "You watch any great performer, and they never stand at the microphone with their legs together," he said. "Have a manly stance. Be bold onstage -- bold as you would playing soccer," which I was good at then. He taught me to project with my hands when I'm singing. See me onstage today, and you're seeing what John taught me.

John also really looked out for me when we were on the road. My first time outside London, we played a club in Manchester. He said, "Don't worry. Just get up there and sing." I was nervous. A band mate gave me a pill -- an amphetamine called a black bomber. I got onstage and played one song for 20 minutes, the same verse over and over. John found out and reprimanded the guy, fining him for corrupting me. He was very fatherly, always looking out for my welfare.

As our careers progressed, John continued playing in clubs, which he's still happily doing. He didn't write songs; he's never been ambitious that way. Although he made some albums that got radio play, he was never a huge recording star. But in the U.K. he did have a No. 1 hit with "Let the Heartaches Begin."

He's not particularly worried about financial gain or seeing himself in the papers. He's comfortable as long as he can play his guitar. John may not be a legend in the proverbial sense, but he's a cult hero with his own following, and fans who flock to his performances.

He leaves me phone messages with that accent of his: "Dear Roddy, how the hell are you?" Every time I pick up a guitar, I play the old folk song "Mother Ain't Dead," which I learned with John in the mid-'60s. We both love the blues, and we're tremendously in love with American folk music. In fact, next time I'm touring and he's in the neighborhood, I think I'll ask him to come onstage and play "Mother Ain't Dead," just the two of us. It'll be great.

As told to N.F. Mendoza.

From Reader's Digest - December 2004

 

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