The record changer (Feb-Dec 1943)

OLD HUTCH And the Blues And the Original Rib Joint lui "Tom The blues have been familiar music to me for as long as 1 can remember. Of the many characters I have run across, associat ed with the blues the most unforgettable was Harvey Hutchinson. " Hutch" was the first serious patron of the blues art that I ever encountered. As a kid in Alabama I heard the blues as soon as I heard amy music, — blues sung by field hands in town on Saturdays, blues sung by chain gang road workers, blues sung by itinerant guitar -playing troubadours who followed county fairs and carnivals and (around 1920) the recorded blues of Mamie Smith floating out of windows and doors of bawdy Joints. Enjoyable as the music was, both of itself and for the fact that one had to dig It clandestinely, I never thought of it seriously or that there was any merit in It. Parental taboo and the places in which 1 heard it had led me to no other conclusion; but than I met Hutch. Harvey Hutchinson was a short fat black man in his fiftys,— sober, quiet and extremely good natured, the latter trait which he tried to hide with poorly feigned irascibility. He had been a dining car chef for many years and whether his bulk got too much for the cubby hols' kitchens of diners or whether he had Just never been able to develope the tyranlcal personality that seems to be part of oelng a good chef or whether he J us t wanted more time to listen to the blues I never knew. However, he built a small one-story frame building, opened a barbecue emporium, and settled down to a career of turning out the world's best barbecue. Hutch prepared barbecue not to be confused with roast pork cooked over charcoal grates on electrically-rotated spits. He had a large open hearth with a wire grill over It and his place was always hazy with redolent hickory smoke from slow smoldering logs and pungent spicy smells which assailed your nose and set your salivary glands agog as Hutch lovingly basted great Joints of meat with a dish mop dipped In a savery sauce. In those charming surround ings we listened for hours to the blues. Hutch catered mostly to the e*vening trade and during the day he prepared his delicacies and played his blues. He bought all blues records. He had standing orders with Paramount, Gennett, Columbia, Black Swan; they would arrive direct by mail. A piano-playing crony of mine, John Love-tt (who incidentally first interested Teddy Wilson In Jazz) worked after school in the Past Office and informed me when a consignment arrived, whereupon off we •went to help Hutch audition the new master works • The boxes , having been opened, Hutch would look around for silence, and when It was complete he would start his machine. From then on he brooked no extraneous sounds save the slow popping of the fire or the soft clank of his big^ spoon stirring his Brunswick Stew pot. Between numbers Hutch would make a few sober, and as I think back, well chosen commentaries on the tunes, accompaniments and singers; one I remember .particularly w&s on the occasion of our first playing of two records by an unknown singer by the name of Bessie Smith. Hutch played one record and said nothing. He played the second and still no comment. He merely went to the machine and played both records over again. I c ould wai t no longer for the oracle, so I hesitatingly queried "She's pretty good huh?" Hutch turned and In his slow deep voice said "Pretty good? Son, that woman's a songstress'! • After all the records had been played Hutch would then spend about a half an hour In serious discussion of some phase of blues* One day he would tell us how they started. Another day he would explain their significance.. And always he Insisted on their Importance. Finally he would stop suddenly as though he had overrun his time and brusquely tell us to go home before our mothers came out looking for us. On days when some of his Idols such as Bessie, Clara, or Trlxie, would be playing theatres in cities within range, Hutch would close up shop and go off to hear them in person, and the next day we could always depend upon a complete report of the performance. At his insistence, I heard my first blues singer in the flesh, Ma Ralney, in the nearby city of Montgomery, Alabama. My last visit to Hutch's was in the fall of 1924. I was leaving to go off to school and I told Hutch about my pians, including the fact that I was taking a small phonograph with me. He pondered over trie matter for a few minutes and then went to his record piles and got a package together of c ho ice items (Bessie's Gulf Coast, Ma Rainey's Moonshine Blues, Ida Cox's Grave Yard Dream Blues and Rampart Street Blues among them and gave them to me. He told me that if I were going to Massachusetts I'd better take these with me and that those folks up there didn't know anything about good music. I took them along and later was to have fellows from all over the school drop by my room to hear "those records" they hj|d heard about. Hutch died before I got back to Alabama again, and I never had the chance to tell hien of the success I had, spreading his gospel in Massachusetts. I went back to Alabama planning'to get_Hutch's record' collection; I knew his was as complete as a blues collection could possibly be; moreover he took the best of care of his records and had many duplicates; his was the answer to a collector's prayer. I could see Gordon Gullickson's eyes green and glittering as he looked over my haul and made rapid mathematical calculations and Nesuhl Ertegun practically drooling over the original Rainey's. I had decided to have an auction of the duplicates and buy a place In the country and retire. But on my return to Hutch's old stand I found a county health center desecrating the spot ; after questioning res idents, I found that his widow was living some twenty miles away and I set out to see her. She let me In hesitantly, and I hetd to chat for some time with her before the atmosphere seemed right to. broach the Important matter. When finally I did inquire of the records, she replied "That Junk,--I throwed that stuff all away when I cleaned out the store; I never see so many records, and not a church song among them." I staggered to my feet, bid her good day, and came back home. I am sure I have never been the same since, and I am sure that every time she threw an arm full of "that Junk" Into the alley old Hutch turned over in his grave. 13