When I Left Home Read Free Page B

called “Boogie Chillen.” That’s the record that did it.
    In 1949, about when I turned thirteen, “Boogie Chillen” was the biggest hit in the country among black folk—it was by far the biggest hit in the Guy household. Wasn’t anything more than one guy playing his electric guitar by himself. Notes were simple. Words were simple. Words didn’t even rhyme. But the groove got to me. The mood was so strong that after the song had done played, you had to play it over. When the man said, “Mama told Papa, let the boy boogie woogie,” I figured that this John Lee Hooker had to be talking about me. I figured that one way or the other I had to get me a guitar and learn “Boogie Chillen.” I knew that inside that song was a mystery I had to know. Once I figured out how the notes worked together, once I memorized all the words and sang the song myself, I’d have a key that would open a door. Didn’t know what was on the other side of that door—but I had to find out.
    I’d wait for Christmas—not because there were presents, but because Coot was coming. Like everyone who had a guitar, Coot had figured out “Boogie Chillen” and didn’t mind when I asked him to play it six or seven times in a row. I’d watch him real careful. Didn’t miss nothing. And when he went to drink the wine my daddy had set aside for him, I picked up the guitar and tried to play it myself. My mind heard it, but my fingers couldn’t coordinate it. I fumbled. I was frustrated, and when Coot came back, a little happier for the wine, I asked to play the thing again.
    “Ain’t you ever getting tired of that tune, boy?” he asked.
    “No, sir.”
     
    Must have been two or three months into the new year when I walked to the little general store. I was on an errand for Mama, buying sugar and salt. I happened to glance outside as an old car pulled up. A skinny man got out. He was wearing a big straw hat, and when I saw what he was carrying under his arm, my heart got to beating so hard I thought it’d bust out my chest.
    He was carrying a guitar along with a big black box.
    “Who’s that?” I asked Artigo, the white man who ran the store.
    “Lightnin’ Slim.”
    “He play guitar?”
    “Famous for it.”
    “He gonna play here today?” I asked.
    “He will if I give him a bottle of beer.”
    “Give him two bottles.”
    He walked in real slow, giving Artigo a big smile.
    “That beer cold?” he asked.
    Artigo said, “Got a kid here who loves him some guitar.”
    “What’s in that black box?” I asked Lightnin’.
    “Just a bunch of wires and tubes. Ain’t you never seen no amp?”
    “No, sir. What it do?”
    “Pushes electricity through the guitar. Makes it louder and stronger. Makes it scream until you can hear it over folk talking. You can hear it over anything. When this here electrical guitar starts to buzzing, folks gonna be flying in here like bees to honey.”
    “You know ‘Boogie Chillen?’” I asked.
    “Who don’t?”
    “You gonna play it?”
    “Sure will. You gonna sing along with me, boy?”
    “I can’t sing.”
    “Boy, everybody can sing, just like everybody can talk.”
    As Lightnin’ set up I studied the whole situation. Saw him plug the amp thing in the wall. A tiny little light turned red. As he started fingering the guitar, I stood there right in front of him. With the first twang of his guitar a shock ran through my body. The blood inside my head, the blood pumping my heart, the blood running through my limbs—all that blood started into boiling. When Lightnin’ began singing, the raw sound of his voice and the jolt of his guitar set me back on my heels. My mouth dropped open so wide a family of flies could have flown in. At that moment I wasn’t noticing nothing but Lightnin’ Slim playing “Boogie Chillen” on his electrical guitar. He didn’t sound like John Lee Hooker—no one does—but he sounded good. While he played four or five other songs, I didn’t move a muscle. I focused my