As I look now at this feature, I am struck at how generally accurate Roy Brown—the first singer of soul who opened up the New Orleans R&B scene—was in his recollections, with the notable exception of his birth details. I recall that he was enthusiastic, friendly, and always smiling as he told of good times and bad. Of all my published interviews, I would say this one attracted the most positive reaction. It is of personal pride to know that, along with the efforts of Jonas Bernholm at Route 66 Records in Sweden, this interview did much to bring fresh attention to Brown in his twilight years. For this republication, I have edited modestly, corrected a few names, factchecked where possible, and added a fresh set of footnotes.
—John Broven, 2013
Good Rockin’ Tonight: The Roy Brown Story
John Broven
Blues Unlimited #123/124 (Jan./Feb./March/June 1977)
Roy Brown became one of R&B’s first stars when his recording of “Good Rockin’ Tonight” hit the charts, twice, in 1948 and 1949. In this illuminating interview, conducted in Los Angeles on June 22, 1975, Brown not only told his personal story but also threw much light on the post–World War II black music scene, including the independent record labels, the talent business, and music publishing. Brown described his early days leading up to his time with De Luxe Records, when he became the hottest property in the nation; then came his decline with King, followed by a temporary revival in the rock ’n’ roll era with Imperial and his rediscovery in the late 1960s.
Roy Brown.
Well, John, I’m sitting here with your book [ Walking to New Orleans aka Rhythm & Blues in New Orleans] and writings [for Blues Unlimited] and I’m a bit flattered, really. It takes me way back, all the old goody goodies, you know.
I was born in (Kinder), Louisiana, September 10, [1920].1 Most people think I’m older, because my first record was in 1947; I was only 21 then. My mother was a choir director and organist; her name was True Love Brown [née Warren] and she was of Algonquin Indian and Negro extract. My father, Yancy Brown, was a plasterer and bricklayer [born in Opelousas, Louisiana] and we traveled quite a bit in those days. I remember we left New Orleans following my dad’s work into a little town called Eunice, Louisiana. I attended elementary school there, a great school, and I had aspirations of becoming a singer. I did most of my singing in the church at that time.
I organized a spiritual quartet when I was only 13, and I recall we were doing some original tunes. I had written the spirituals; I had a knack for writing, I guess. It was a gift. I recall one night we did a thing called “Satan’s Chariot Is Rolling By.” Man, oh, man, I had about, I guess, six or eight ounces of blackberry wine, and my boys and I we got in the church and we started to sing. We started doing things we’d never done before. The sisters started clapping their hands and patting their feet. They were shouting, “Amen! Amen!” and we had them rolling, you know. I was so very proud, because my mother was there.
When I got home my mother didn’t say anything on the way home. We had to walk about a mile and a half back to our residence from the church. When I got home she said, “Okay, so take off your clothes.” I knew what that meant. That meant a whipping, because she didn’t get to me often. But there was a peach tree growing at the front steps and she said, “Get out of your clothes and get me a few limbs.” I said, “Mama, what did I do?” She said, “I’m gonna teach you to jazz up spirituals.” I said, “What do you mean, ‘jazz.’” I didn’t know what she was talking about. She said, “That wasn’t a spiritual you were singing. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t a spiritual.” And she just ripped me apart.
But I guess at that day and age I had the rhythm, you know, and I got it from her. She was a singer. I think that was what you might call my inception of doing rhythmic things.
I really believe blues is a natural derivative from spirituals, because I can recall them, I can hear things now. I mean, what catapulted Ray Charles to fame was things other quartets had done in the church; Ray merely substituted lyrics. I recall his “I’ve Got a Woman,” that was a spiritual: “(There’s a Man Going Around Taking Names) It Must Be Jesus.” I used to sing it myself. What I’m saying is there is a very close relationship between spirituals and rhythm and blues and some aspects of jazz, too. But I really believe that the black artist, most of us—the late Dinah Washington, for instance, and I could just go on—we began our singing careers in the church, you know.
Then I worked in the sugarcane fields. I didn’t hear any blues there, only spirituals. This was out of Eunice. The cane fields were in the neighboring towns, like 25 to 40 miles away: Morgan City, New Iberia, places like that where the farms were. I’d go out there, I’d follow the harvest: I’d do the sugarcane when it was the time for sugarcane; I’d do the rice fields when it was the rice harvest; I’d pick the cotton, chop the cotton, do those things. I was paid about a dollar and a half a day, which was a lot of money at that time. I was very, very thin. My mother used to look at me and cry sometimes, but the doctor said, “There’s nothing wrong with him, he’s gonna be a husky guy.” Anyway, I could hear guys down the fields singing: “I’m cutting this sugarcane, I’m cutting this sugarcane, I’m cutting this sugarcane, / For the man, for the man upstairs.” You know, stuff like that, and I’d hum along with them. But I kept going back to my room, making notes, and putting down things, like little phrases. I’d start rhyming things, then I’d start humming to myself. I was always a little ashamed to be singing the stuff I was getting together around the country because they would kid me, you know. But later all these things became embedded in my subconscious mind, I suppose. They started coming out later, because when I started recording, everything I did, I wrote it myself. So that was the days of harvesting, the farms. It was hard work, but all the other guys were doing it and I didn’t want to be a weakling. I did it too, raw hands sometimes, but it was a living. There was nothing else to do.
My mother died when I was 14, and I didn’t want to live anymore, you know. I finished high school in Houston, Texas, and I started to work and I wanted to sing. When I was 17 I journeyed to the West Coast, Los Angeles, and I turned professional fighter for a while. I had 18 pro fights; I won 16, by the way. I was a weight of 143 pounds; I was a welterweight. I could hit, because I came up in the cotton fields and sugarcane fields. I had developed strong arms, but I couldn’t stand the sight of blood. It nauseated me. When the opposition discovered this fact, they would give their boys ketchup capsules and if the fight was going my way they’d just bite down on the capsule—let what appeared to be blood trickle down the side of their mouths. I’d just keep away from them, and I’d lose the fight. So my manager said, “Get out of it before you got killed, because it’s not for you.”
So then I entered an amateur singing contest right here in Los Angeles on Third and Broadway at the Million Dollar Theater. At this time I wasn’t singing the blues, mind you. I was imitating [Bing] Crosby; he was my favorite singer, still is. I had two songs: “San Antonio Rose” and a thing called “(I Got Spurs That) Jingle, Jangle, Jingle.”2 Well, I did those two songs and I won first prize.
I was behind with my room rent at a hotel on Main Street. I was paying $2.50 a week and I was six weeks behind. As a matter of fact, they had evicted me. But I would slip up the fire escape and sneak into my room and get up real early in the morning, make up my bed the best way I could, and sneak out down the fire escape again. When I won this first prize—it was $60, man—I made a beeline to the hotdog stand; I set up my boys with hot dogs and chili and root beer. I went to pay my rent and there was a Chinaman in the hotel, he was afraid to take the money. He said, “Where did you get this money, you must have stolen it.” So my boy said, “No, man, he won first prize singing.” “Him, sing?” Well, I still had some scars from the fight game, you know. Anyway, I paid him off and I bought a couple of secondhand suits. I got a telephone directory and started singing at all the theaters that had amateur nights—and I started winning first, second, and third prizes. This was in Los Angeles in 1945.3
After I entered the amateur contests and won a few prizes, I went back to Houston, Texas, to be inducted into the services, but due to my flat feet they rejected me. During the next few days I went around the clubs and a guy from Shreveport came. He wanted an emcee and a singer. I had learned a few more songs, some of Crosby’s hit tunes like “Star Dust,” “Temptation,” “Blue Hawaii,” “South Sea Island Magic,” stuff like that—crooning, you know. So [the guy] said, “Hey, here’s a Negro who sounds white, perhaps you’d be a novelty for my club. Would you like to work for me?” I said, “Sure.” He said, “How much money do you want?” I said, “How much do you pay?” I would have been satisfied with about $50 a week. He said, “$125 a week.” I said, “Let’s go!” I stayed at that club at Shreveport for about nine months. It was called Billy Riley’s Palace Park; it was a big ballroom, there was a big ball part. It was away from Texas Street and Fanin, which were downtown. It was my first big real job.
That was my start, that’s where I first learned to sing the blues. The first blues song I ever learned was Buddy Johnson and Ella Johnson’s “When My Man Comes Home” and Billy Eckstine’s “Jelly Jelly.”4 I started singing those songs because the other singers on the show were doing the blues, and the people were throwing their money—dollar bills. [The singers] were making pretty good tips.
[What happened was] my buddy, my drummer, says, “Look, man, you’ve got a voice. Why don’t you sing some blues?” I said, “I don’t like the blues, I just won’t sing ’em.” So he said, “You gotta learn some blues to make some extra money.” So then I learned some extra songs and I went from there. My backing was drums, tenor saxophone, guitar, and bass. We used four pieces at that time, the Eddie “Coot” Lewis Combo;5 they were elderly men, there was nothing more than what they were doing. I was doing “Temptation,” “When They Ask about You,” “That Lucky Old Sun,” that kind of stuff. They were just playing music, that’s all. I hadn’t developed my shouting or crying style yet, because I was doing a Crosby [act]. This particular club had a big show, reminded me of the vaudeville. We had all kinds of acts and I became a favorite there. I was very happy, you know. We had all types of clientele: whites, blacks. They had me singing the Crosby things and I enjoyed it. It was the biggest club in Shreveport.
I did very well there and later the club burned down. Then I went from Shreveport to Galveston, Texas. I got a job with Joe Coleman’s group; they used tenor, guitar, piano, bass, and drums. We played orchestrations, all the hit tunes on the hit parade at that time. I did all the songs: Ink Spots impersonations, I did Frank Sinatra … all that stuff, no blues. I stayed there at this particular club for four months. Then I went into a club called the Club Grenada, where I organized a group. The club was run by a woman named Mary Russell; at that time she was the vice queen. She had everyone on the payroll, I can say that now. She had the mayor down on her payroll, the police commissioner; she had houses of prostitution, everything.
We had the top group. As a matter of fact, my group was the first black group on radio in that area; KGBC, I think it was.6 My theme was “There’s No You,” a Crosby thing.7 But I wrote a tune called “Good Rockin’ Tonight” and we added a trumpet player to the group; his name was Wilbert Brown, and when we did our radio show he sang “Good Rockin’ Tonight.” I did all the ballads. One particular day of the broadcast he had an attack of acute indigestion, and “Good Rockin’ Tonight” was on the cue sheet, it was on the program. [We were] on the air, he just sat there and toppled over in his chair, but the broadcast had to go on. So then the announcer said, “Here’s Roy Brown and His Melodeers and his new original ‘Good Rockin’ Tonight.’” The piano player looked at me and I gave him a signal to give me a shuffle rhythm in F and I started singing. Boy, the fellas looked at me; they wanted to laugh, because I started shouting. The announcer, the typist, they all came to the glass screen, they looked in to see who was the new singer. We got telephone calls after the broadcast, “Who was the new singer?” They didn’t associate my voice with the falsetto-type thing as compared to my baritone, you see.
At the club that night, they wanted the new singer to sing “Good Rockin’ Tonight.” So my trumpet player had recovered from his indigestion and said, “Man, I’m not gonna sing it, it’s your number.” I said, “No,” and I wouldn’t sing it until the boss made me sing it. So then I stayed there awhile. The other members of the group, besides Wilbert Brown, were—my guitarist’s name was Clarence Ward; the drummer’s name was Rip Marshall; my pianist, which was a schoolteacher, was Joel Harris;8 and my bass player was A. D. Adams. We also had a tenor player, Joe Johnson, he was a bad tenor player.
I didn’t smoke anything, you see, didn’t even drink. I didn’t know what whiskey even tasted like until I was about 26 or 27 years of age. That’s the truth. I used to drink blackberry wine, because my mother and my aunt used to make it for me. But I remember one particular night, Joel Harris, the pianist, and myself, we were the only ones that didn’t smoke pot. A. D. Adams, the bass player; Rip, the drummer; Clarence Ward, the guitarist; little Joe Johnson, they sat up there and all smoked pot. These girls from Mary Russell’s house would come in … and would say, “Roy sing!” Some of them wanted the Ink Spots stuff, “If I Didn’t Care,” Frank Sinatra’s stuff, “Lovely Way to Spend an Evening”; and I would do all that stuff. We would go upstairs during the intermission; we had a kitty, see. During the intermission the people would give us the money if we gave them the pot. We made money on the kitty because everybody there was into vice. You had your gamblers, your pimps, your prostitutes; you had your bookies; you had everything. They’d come in and in those days if you made $50 that was money; and we used to take away $40 or $50 apiece, each of us, as kitty money. Joel and I had the money, [the others] would have the pot.
So one night we were having a jam session. There was a singer called Paul Love who had a beautiful silvery voice; that guy could sing, he had a voice. So the band said, “Hey, Paul Love’s coming, he’s coming to knock your head tonight, you better get high, man.” I said, “I can take care of business.” So they said, “But if you get high, man, you can get in the groove.” So I told ’em, “Okay.” So I went upstairs. I smoked this stuff, I choked, I coughed, I cried, but I got high, man.
I remember everything I was doing, but I came down the stairs, saw the jukebox, I saw all those beautiful colors; I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I was looking at all these beautiful colors and everybody was cracking up; the word had got around that Roy Brown—they called me Brownie—Brownie was high. I remember going to the bandstand, got to the bandstand, grabbed the mike. I was doing the Ink Spots number “If I Didn’t Care” and my voice sounded so beautiful. You see, we played 40 minutes on and 20 minutes off. I sang “If I Didn’t Care” for the entire 40 minutes. The people were just cracking up. The piano player was looking at me and everybody was smiling; I thought they were enjoying it. It sounded good to me.
In comes Mary Russell. She comes in cussing, “What are you doing up there? Come here!” I came off the bandstand and I said, “How do you do?” She said, “Get that silly grin off your face.” She really liked me, though; I was like a son to her. She slapped my face and said to Bill the bartender, “Take him home.” So Bill said, “I can’t leave.” There was a bunch of sailors in the club. She said, “Brownie, you gotta go home. Call him a cab.” So Bill said, “A cab’s standing just down the street.” It’s about 1:30 in the morning. I didn’t want to leave; I wanted to wait for Paul Love. I’m singing good—well, I thought I was sounding good. She put me out the door. It was 1:30, nothing on the street. I’m afraid to cross the street; I didn’t want no car to hit me. So she came out, took me by the arm, and got a cab. I remember falling asleep across the bed. It was the first time I smoked pot.
We stayed at this Club Grenada a long time until I left there. (laughs) If you don’t mind me saying this, I had an affair with my boss’s girlfriend and they caught me. Well, I thought they had, but they didn’t. I left Galveston running, and I went back to New Orleans.
There, I looked in the newspapers and saw two ads; one was advertising Cecil Gant. Do you remember Cecil Gant, “I Wonder”?9 [The other ad was for] the late Wynonie Harris. Cecil Gant was at the Dew Drop Inn and Wynonie Harris was appearing at Foster’s Rainbow Room.10 Well, when I was at high school I used to attend the [Houston] Auditorium dances when Wynonie Harris was singing with Lucky Millinder. During my high school days I’d go and hear him, and I’d always say if ever I was going to be a blues singer I’d like to be like that guy. He was flamboyant; he was a good-looking guy, very brash. He was good and he knew it; he just took charge. I liked the style.
When I was in New Orleans I had one suit and there was no bottom in my shoes—I had cardboard. I didn’t even have a bus fare to the club. So I wrote out “Good Rockin’ Tonight” on this brown paper sack and I took it to Wynonie Harris. He took an intermission and I said, “Mr. Harris, can I speak to you?” He said, “Yes, what is it?” I said, “I’ve got a song,” and he said, “Oh, not another one of these songs.” I said, “Yes, I want you to hear it,” and he said, “Don’t bother me, son,” and walked away.
You know, Wynonie Harris, before he’d get on the bandstand, man, he’d walk into a bar and shout, “Here comes Mr. Blues!” Everybody would look and he’d say, “This is Mr. Wynonie Harris, the drinks are on me, get to the bar.” He was wild. He’d jump off the bar and say, “Man, I’ll eat you up!” He was like that. He’d get beat up, but he wouldn’t do those things; he didn’t mean no harm.
Now, you talk about conceited: I thought I was conceited, but this guy … he did it in a jokey way. He was billed as Mr. Blues and he was. He and Joe Turner would be on the same stage; he’d make Joe Turner look like a fool. He’d walk up to him and say, “What you gonna sing, fat boy?” Joe Turner couldn’t read or write, and Wynonie would say, “Sign this autograph.”
I originally wrote “Good Rockin’ Tonight” in Galveston. I really don’t know what the inspiration of the song was. Words start forming in my mind and melodies. I’m not the type of composer who sits at a piano and finds a chord and what have you. I can read notes, but I can’t play. All of my notes are formed in my mind, it’s just a talent, I guess. I can’t explain it. Anyway, this “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” it just came to me and I thought it was quite funny because it had Deacon Jones, Elder Brown, and Fanny Brown and all that stuff in it.
When I tried to give this song to Wynonie, I didn’t know anything about copyrights. He could have taken the song if he desired to. So he wouldn’t take it. During an intermission, the musicians were very jealous of him because he was good-looking guy and he was flamboyant, as I said—and he had all the pretty girls. So they were looking for someone to cut him down. So they said, “Hey, boy, can you sing that song?” I said, “Yes.” So I got to the mike, started singing this song, and everyone came around the bandstand. I guess it was different: the voice wasn’t that exciting, but the words … it was a funny song, a novelty, you see. The guys started clapping their hands, and one guy said, “Hey, man, come with me, I know a guy who will give you a job, perhaps.” So he took me down to the Dew Drop Inn, where Cecil Gant was appearing. Cecil Gant had me sing the song, and during his intermission he took me to the telephone, he called De Luxe Records. He called Jules Braun, who owned De Luxe Records [with brother David in Linden, New Jersey]. He woke him up at 2:30 in the morning and had me sing “Good Rockin’ Tonight” over the telephone. Jules said, “Hold on to that kid. I’m gonna be down on Wednesday to record Annie Laurie and Paul Gayten. Has he got a place to stay?” I didn’t have a place to stay, no food. So he said, “Give him $50, and don’t let him out of your sight.”
So sure enough, I was very happy. I knew who Cecil Gant was; I idolized those guys. But I was very hurt that Wynonie wouldn’t accept it. So Cecil said, “You fool, don’t you go around giving songs away, there’s a lot of money in publishing.” I didn’t think much of it. That was on the Monday morning after the Sunday night, so Cecil gave me $50 and gave me a room at the Dew Drop Inn. There were rooms upstairs, and he kept an eye on me, wouldn’t let me out of his sight.
Cecil Gant, he was an individual, he was a beautiful man. He’s an original. There has never been a Cecil Gant before his time and there never has been one since. A lot of us artists have been imitated, but nobody has been able to imitate Cecil Gant. He sang—he was a heavy drinker, and whenever he sang he was very heavily under the influence—and he did everything from his heart and soul, as if he was pining about something, reminiscing about some sad occasion. He did “Put Another Chair at the Table” and “I Wonder.” I remember those things, I was a youngster. He didn’t have a sensational voice but he had something in that voice, something catchy, a heart-throbbing thing; he made you feel what he was trying to convey to you. He was terrific, he was beautiful, he was responsible for my career, I can tell you that. If he hadn’t made that call to Jules Braun, I probably would have been trying to write for other artists and I wouldn’t have gotten started perhaps. He didn’t play the piano well, but he played. In other words, he was the kind of piano player for his singing as B. B. King is with his guitar and singing.
The next act was on Monday night. They called it Blue Monday and Cecil had me get up and sing this song. [Herman] Lubinsky from Savoy Records [of Newark, New Jersey] happened to be in the house and he approached me. He said to me, “I’d like to record you,” and I was very excited and said, “You would?” He said, “Look, I’m gonna give you $150 right now. I’m at the Jung Hotel.” I said, “$150?” We were earning $25 a week. That was a lot of money. He said, “Yes, but I want you to sign a contract; you sit right here and I’ll be back.” But he didn’t come back; he gave me a $100 bill, two 20s and a 10, and he didn’t come back.
So then Wednesday, Jules Braun came. Cecil Gant got hold of me and Jules Braun said hello to me, took me up to his hotel room, and he talked to me and said, “Look, I want you to get me three more songs. Can you get me three more songs by next week?” I said, “I can get them to you anytime you want.” “No,” he said, “I want three more good ones.” I went back to my hotel room and wrote “Miss Fanny Brown,” a thing called “’Long about Midnight” and “Lolly Pop Mama,” which was the flip of “Good Rockin’ Tonight.” So the very same day I called him and said, “Mr. Braun, I have the other three songs.” “Oh, no, son,” he said. “Not this quick, they gotta be pretty good.” I said, “Well, I think they’re good.” So he said, “Okay, you come down to the studio tomorrow, I’m gonna record Annie Laurie and Paul Gayten.”
So, sure enough, they liked the songs, I did them. Now, we had microphone problems. The piano player [probably Walter Daniels] had a mike at his piano, the horns—the reed section and the brass section—needed a microphone. There was only [mono] at that time, no four and eight tracks then, you know. So I got in a stoop, I squatted at the piano and I sang all those songs in this position, while squatting using the piano’s mike. I did “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” “’Long about Midnight,” “Miss Fanny Brown,” and “Lolly Pop Mama.” He liked them and he had me do some more. The band was just a studio band—well, Bob Ogden’s band; he was a drummer. They did a very good job, they did the arrangements on “Good Rockin’”—I merely sang the song. They supplied the introduction, it was an all-together thing: the trumpet player [Tony Moret] did the introduction; the tenor player, Earl Barnes, he composed the riffs. It was a good rockin’ thing, you know, and, man, I just started singing. The guy said, “Just sing the words,” and I did—and I felt real at ease.11
On my first recording session, and I didn’t know this, but on that session we made the first fadeout record there was ever made. Well, we faded out on “Lolly Pop Mama,” and I didn’t know that until a lady came out and said Roy Brown made the first fadeout record with “Lolly Pop Mama” in 1947 at J. & M. Studios in New Orleans on [North Rampart Street].12 It was unintentional. I was singing: “I got a big fat mama, she calls me her lollipop [x 2], / When she starts to lovin’ she never knows when to stop.” I was singing, “bye, bye, bye, bye,” then I really started feeling it and the band started coming in, so they just kept playing. But it was too long, so they had to fade it out; it was too long, but we had just started rocking. The guy said, “Hey, man, I like that,” but we didn’t do it over. We didn’t plan it that way. Wynonie’s “Good Rockin’ Tonight” was the second fadeout, but Wynonie walked out the studio. The guy said, “I want you to do what Roy Brown and the guys are doing on the end,” but Wynonie said, “To hell with Roy Brown, to hell with you,” and walked out the studio. So they just had to end it, “Hoy, hoy, hoy, hoy.”13
We recorded at J. & M. Studio, then later Cosimo’s [Recording Studios, on Governor Nicholls Street]. I tried to give “Good Rockin’ Tonight” to the guy who owned J. & M. Studios [Cosimo Matassa]; he didn’t want to bother with it. I think he just didn’t want to take advantage of me. He knew I didn’t know what was happening. The studio facilities were very primitive, but let me tell you something. We got a sound out of those studios that we couldn’t duplicate. Cosimo, after J. & M., built a small studio; he got a very beautiful sound. Then later he made a lot of money and built a very modern studio [Jazz City Studios on Camp Street]—nothing, no sound.
Now, at this time I met Clarence Samuels, he was very talented. I think he came from Texas, I don’t know [actually Baton Rouge]. But he had a kind of gruff voice, it wasn’t a pleasing voice. He could sing, but he didn’t play any instrument. He had a strong, powerful singing voice, but it wasn’t pleasant to listen to. We were working at the Down Beat club in New Orleans for Freeman Harris; I was getting $4 a night. Clarence Samuels, his wife, and me had a little room: furnishings and a table. We had a piano player and a drummer and we were billed as the Blues Twins. His wife was selling tickets, putting them in a cash register. I never knew how much, they never had printed tickets. I was supposed to get $4 plus a percentage, but I never got the percentage.
So when my “Good Rockin’ Tonight” hit the radio, it came out on a Tuesday, the fellas came and picked me up from my room in a pickup truck and took me to Rampart Street. I could hear this sound and they kept looking at me, and I kept looking at them. They said, “Man, don’t you hear the record?” I said, “Yeah, it sounds good.” I didn’t know it was me, I didn’t. So we went to the Down Beat club. Boy, everybody was playing the record and then I realized it was me. Man, I stood by that jukebox all afternoon just listening to me sing.
That weekend, you couldn’t get in the place. The admission went from 75 cents to $2, then Freeman took over. He said, “I’m gonna pay $8 a night.” I said, “Really?” He said, “Clarence, you work for $4.” [Samuels] said, “I can’t.” He said, “Well, I don’t need you. This man’s got a big record.” So Clarence said, “Okay, I’ll work.” [Freeman Harris] gave me $8 a night. I didn’t know what was happening. On the Friday night it was a heck of a thing. When he got ready to pay me he said, “I’m gonna give you an extra $2.” I said, “$10?” He said, “Yeah, and you can have that room upstairs, that’s your room. I want you to move from Hamilton Street, bring all your things here. You’re gonna live with me now.” I said, “Thank you, Mr. Freeman.” I was getting $10, my own room, I was a big shot—all the girls I need and my blackberry wine.
That Saturday night, the next weekend, a man named Mr. Washington came to me. He said, “Son, you Roy Brown? How’d you like to work for me?” I said, “I got a job.” He said, “How much do you make here?” I said, “$10 a night.” He said, “I’ll pay you $50 a night,” and I said, “Yeah, I’m President Truman, too!” He kept following me around, saying, “I’m serious. If you think I’m lying I’ll bring your contract ’round to your room. I’ll give you a $100 advance and send you down to Parnell’s tailors and get you some clothes.” I said, “Okay.” So I gave him the old address where I used to live on Hamilton Street. The man went there. I didn’t plan to be there, there was a cleaners next door, so they called me and said, “Hey, man, there’s a man here with some money and a contract, Mr. Washington. He’s got a club uptown.” I told him to stay there, I’ll be right there. So I called a cab and went by there. I went back to my room—the lady had rented it out—and he lay $100 on the bed. He told me he wanted me to sign a contract for $50 a night Friday, Saturday, Sunday; [that is] $150 a week, my room free, my meals free—he had a hotel. And I signed.
Now he sent me down to the photographer to have some pictures made. They put my picture in the Louisiana Weekly, put the ad, “Roy Brown appearing.” Man, I went up to Freeman’s place, the Down Beat, got my clothes, and his wife sent for me: “Somebody wants to see you.” I figured it was Freeman, I wanted to get away. So he came and said, “What is this?” He’d got the paper, “What do you mean? You’re working for me.” I said, “Yeah, but I’ve signed a contract, the man’s paying me $50 a night.” “I’ll pay you $50 a night.” I said, “You didn’t pay me $50,” and that’s how I left the man. That’s when I realized there was some money in show business. He was paying me $8 with a $2 bonus and I thought that was something. But that man paid me $50 a night and we just turned back the people. That’s when I started to form my band. It was called the Starlight Club, and I had my room upstairs. When I signed with the New York agency [Universal Attractions] that’s when we left there with my group, we hit the road. We were together then. We had a lot of fun.
In the meantime this guy came to New Orleans with Dinah Washington. I had “Good Rockin’ Tonight” going. I hadn’t left to play any dates, this is after Wynonie Harris and I had the Battle of the Blues. He brought Dinah Washington to Foster’s Rainbow Room, and Paul Gayten, Annie Laurie, and I were at the Robin Hood, and we just killed them. So this guy, he bribed me, he said, “You come and sing.” I said, “No, I can’t do that.” He said, “Well, you come and emcee the show.” I said I’d do that, so he advertised me in the paper. It said, “Dinah Washington and Roy Brown,” and people came over there, too. They made me sing and the guy at the Robin Hood [probably owner Bennett B. Ross] got angry. He gave me a bad time.
So then this guy said to me, “I want to take you to California.” I said, “No, man, I’m not going to California.” Clarence Samuels, he and I had worked together as the Blues Twins, and he knew my songs and he could sing something like me. So this guy Goldberg takes Clarence Samuels from New Orleans out here to California and passed him off as Roy Brown.14
So he gets to the Down Beat club and Simon—I forget this boy’s first name15—he and I went to high school together in Houston. We worked together because I was singing for a band after the Shreveport thing and he knew me. He went up to this guy at rehearsal and said, “Man, are you Roy Brown?” He said, “Yes,” and he said, “You’re not Roy Brown. I know Roy. We went to school together.” So then they had to pay him to keep him quiet.
When he got to Oakland, California, now, there’s a big record store, a chain of them, called Music City.16 Well, this guy was married to a beautiful girl, and during this time she was coming down to New Orleans and we were seeing each other. The guy found out about it and he could never get hold of me, but he got wind of it. She had gone from Oakland to New Orleans, running around the different places with Roy Brown. So this guy, Clarence Samuels, does a radio show. So this guy and his wife were sitting down having dinner and they said, “We have Roy Brown in the studio.” “Well, Roy Brown, how’re you doing?” “Well, fine.” “Well, you got a big record.” “Well, thank you.” So he takes his wife by the hand, puts his gun in his belt, and he goes to this radio station KSAN. I’m not sure what it was, but he had to come down the stairs, and when he came down this guy accosted him. He said, “Are you Roy Brown?” “That’s right, you heard the new record?” He cocked his gun, then the girl said, “Hey, wait a minute, you’re not Roy Brown,” This guy said, “No, ma’am, I’m not Roy Brown. Look, I’ll show you my driver’s license. My name is Clarence Samuels.” He looked at him and said, “What you mean parading around as Roy Brown?” He said, “I can explain it.” So he looked at the girl; he was about to shoot the guy. So I was glad I didn’t go when I discovered that. I was glad.
At that time King had Wynonie Harris, and as I said earlier, he didn’t want “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” he wouldn’t touch it. But after I did it and it became a hit, he covered me and for a while he outsold me.17 He did it on King Records, because King was a big company and Wynonie Harris was a big-name artist. De Luxe was virtually unknown and so was I. In certain areas, especially the East Coast, Wynonie Harris just went haywire with the record, until later I did a little thing called “’Long about Midnight” [no. 1 race, December 1948] and began to get some stature as a singer. Then my “Good Rockin’” started selling all over again. So it came twice, and once you become a name it’s easy to sell records, you become hot. That’s what happened to me.
So, sure enough, I started to sing the blues and—would you believe this?—the first 16 releases made the “top four” in rhythm and blues [charts]. In 1949 I had four tunes in the Top 10 simultaneously. I was very happy about that: “’Long about Midnight” was a hit; “Rainy Weather Blues” was a hit; “Rockin’ at Midnight” was a follow-up to “Good Rockin’”—that was a hit. “Please Don’t Go” was just a fair record. “Boogie at Midnight” was one of my biggest records; it went to the white kids for the first time, the first time I sold to the whites.18
This record I made in Texas [back in 1947], let me tell you about this. This guy railroaded me, he bootlegged me. During the time we were performing on the bandstand, I’d seen these guys around with tape recorders, I thought nothing of it. But the guy [Bill Quinn] had a company called Gold Star, and when De Luxe Records started releasing records on me, I became a star, so to speak. This guy released something on me that sounded terrible.19 I was on tour and went through some part of Texas and at this service station they were selling records, on Gold Star and Roy Brown. One of my boys brought one out to the car, and my wife [Gertie] said, “Honey, when did you record for this company?” I didn’t even know who they were, and I discovered this guy who was in Galveston, Texas, had taped some stuff on me and later on, when I became famous, he released the stuff. I never recorded for him, that’s how that happened. He just caught us live, it was very crudely done. But if you’re a big name almost anything will sell while you’re hot. It’s a funny thing. The public is fickle, but once you become a big name they will buy almost anything, and that’s how that happened.
“Rainy Weather Blues” on Miltone, let me tell you something about that, man. That was a steal. There was a guy here, his name was Whar Perkins, he was in the bootleg business. You’d be surprised what they were doing to De Luxe, [which] didn’t have a wide distribution. When they were doing that stuff I don’t think De Luxe Records were even doing the West Coast. My records appeared on the Miltone label, Gold Star, and another label that began with a “J.”20 I never heard of the label before, and I’d have people bring records to me and autograph, I said, “Where’d you get these records from?” I’d buy these records and send them to De Luxe.
A guy would come through and say, “I’ve got the Roy Brown new record!” The store would say, “I’ll have it. Give me 50, give me 20,” and he’d say, “You sell ’em, get a dollar for ’em, keep a quarter, give me 75 cents.” And they’d sell ’em.
During the ’40s it wasn’t difficult to get a record promoted, because if you had something saleable—a record with potential sale—disc jockeys at that time, especially rhythm and blues, because they were competing with each other, they wanted to play the new things, because they wanted this recognition from the fans: “Hey, I played this first, I broke this record in this city, this is my thing.” If the artist came to that particular city, the record company made sure the artist was on this guy’s show. Naturally, if the record artist was willing, he’d put 40 or 50 bucks on the guy, to make sure when he left that record would be played again and his next release would be played.
I had a gimmick: When I went into a certain town sometimes I’d give the disc jockey money just out of gratitude because they were playing my records. Once you become a hit artist you don’t have to worry about your records being played. But what I’d do, a lot of disc jockeys are glamour boys, and in a lot of instances there wasn’t a lot of money in disc jockeying, except if you were the big boys. Rhythm-and-blues disc jockeys made about 80 or 90 bucks a week, that’s all. That’s why they were always trying to do little record hops on the side, to help out. What I’m saying is this: I would go to this guy’s house, meet his family, I’d go to the corner grocery store and give the man $100, make him give me a receipt, I’d go back to the disc jockey’s wife and say, “Listen, for the next four weeks you can buy $25 worth of groceries. Make sure your husband plays that Roy Brown record.” Brother, you’d believe me, he was gonna play that record, because every time he sat at the table he was eating some of Roy Brown’s food. That was my own idea, and the disc jockeys thanked me for it. I had the wives on my side.
Now, I’m not condemning the South, it’s a way of life with those people. Some of my best buddies are the white guys, because they did things and they didn’t know why they did it, they were taught that way. What I’m saying, there was a war going out there. The black disc jockeys were competing with the white disc jockeys and a lot of the black disc jockeys. The white kids were listening in when their parents weren’t around, they would listen to the black stations. They’d park their cars outside the radio building and listen, they couldn’t come in; some would peek through the windows. We’d see them on the outside dancing, but they couldn’t come inside—you had cops patrolling the area, no mixing.
B. B. King was a disc jockey [at Radio WDIA] in Memphis, Tennessee, and I went through Memphis in 1949 and I had a thing called “’Fore Day in the Morning.” B. B. had a 15-minute show and it was his theme song. He would open his show by singing my “’Fore Day in the Morning.” I met him and talked to him, he was such a beautiful human being, he still is; he liked me. I said, “Listen, I heard you today, I was about five or ten miles out of town. You sound good. You should record.” So he did and he did a thing called “Three O’Clock in the Morning” [in 1951].
Let me say this. I’m very proud of what happened on the road. I recall my very first date at the [War] Memorial Auditorium, Nashville, Tennessee. We had a sellout crowd. I was booked for $400 with a guarantee of 50 percent over $800 [in takings]; I took out over $2,500 that night. I just couldn’t believe it. I just didn’t think there was that much money for entertainers. But I had “Good Rockin’” going for me, “Lolly Pop Mama”; both sides were going. [De Luxe] had released “’Long about Midnight,” which was a sensation for me and they had never seen me or heard of me. They liked the style, I guess I was different; they liked the songs. The people came out to hear me and I went on from there. We set records all over, like, Atlanta, Georgia; Charleston, South Carolina; Indianapolis; Denver, Colorado. I mean, I played every state except North and South Dakota. Anyway, I was very big on the road. There were 31 days in a month and I was doing 25 to 31 one-nighters. My band used to ask me, “Can we get a day off?” It was just how popular the records were.
In the South they roped off the audiences. I can remember when I set attendance records at certain places; they would have the people roped off or the blacks sat upstairs and the whites downstairs or vice versa, that kind of stuff: Louisiana, Georgia, the Carolinas, Texas, Mississippi, Alabama, Kentucky, even. We had to play those places. Where else was there to play? But now things are different, because when I was making hit-selling records, the white kids weren’t buying records as they are now. I can recall when they were called “race records” and the whites down South wouldn’t even let a black artist’s record into their homes. But all that’s changed.
In Los Angeles we used to do a regular thing—’50, ’51, ’53, ’54, ’55—at Wrigley Field, always used to do it with Nat [King Cole] or Billy Eckstine or somebody like that. I opened the new Richmond [California] Auditorium. The 5-4 Ballroom—it’s no longer there—was rather big. It took about 1,400 to 1,600 people and they did big broadcasts from there, too. I remember one night I was doing a [song], they took it off the air, it was too suggestive; Jimmy Nelson used to do the booking there. I also played the Savoy on Central Avenue, and I did some shows for [promoter] Art Laboe; I used to do the Elks Club on Central.
I had a good group, I didn’t do it alone. I had a group, my buddies from New Orleans. My star was Leroy Rankins, he was my tenor player. We called him Batman because he flew around with that tenor sax; he walked the tables, he walked the bars, he climbed the rafters. And I had Teddy Riley, the trumpet player—he was my bandleader—he was very good; Frankie Parker was my drummer, he was very good; I had Louis Sargent on alto sax; I had Tommy Shelvin, which is in L.A. now, on bass. I had a kid called Edward Santino on piano; I had guys like Billy Eckstine try to get him away from me, but he wouldn’t leave—they offered him all kind of money. We only had six pieces and then later I started using guitar, because at this point I hadn’t become as guitar conscious as I am now. My main thing was the tenor sax, that was my main thing. I’d even go for the rhythm, the heavy beat, because I guess I was a bit conceited. I wanted to be heard over everything. I wanted my voice to stand out; you know how youngsters are. I guess people sort of flattered me and built up my ego, and I was conceited, believe me.
Anyway, I had that type of band. I took them through dance routines just like you would a chorus line, all of our hit tunes; the guys had phases they’d go through, certain clothes they wore. Like when we opened a theater like the Fox in Brooklyn, or the Apollo in New York or the Howard in Washington, the Royal in Baltimore, they’d say, “Here’s Roy Brown and the Mighty Mighty Men!” and everybody just ran on the stage, just ran out, with a big smile. When they said, “Mighty Mighty Men,” nobody in the group except me weighed more than 140 pounds. All of the guys were little; they were nice-looking guys, they were well dressed. If they had a red jacket they had red shoes, if they had a blue jacket they had blue shoes; and when they’d come out we’d go right into one of our hit records. When we started moving, the people started moving with us, and we did that throughout the night; nobody got lazy. When the people left and we came back a second time, they’d say, “Oh, man, this cat was good, I’m gonna be back.” That’s what does it, you gotta give something good.
I never did anybody else’s songs, except if it was a ballad. I used to do Billy Eckstine or Frank Sinatra songs to get loosened up: I used to like “A Cottage for Sale,” which Billy Eckstine did, “I Apologize,” “Jelly Jelly;” and I used to do “Summertime,” Frank Sinatra’s “Day by Day” and “A Lovely Way to Spend an Evening.” I liked those kinds of things. I did “That Lucky Old Sun,” “When They Ask about You”—I’d still like to record that. We used to jive it up and people would be frowning up and say, “I thought you did the blues,” but they didn’t know I was warming up. Then I’d get into the blues.
You may not believe this, during a night’s work I’d sing from 25 to 30 to 40 songs. I can recall when my band would hit, I used to watch the audience. If my band hit and they weren’t buying my band, I’d take the mike. If my band hit at nine o’clock and played a set until 9:15 and they weren’t moving an audience, I’d sing from 9:15 to 10 o’clock and I would have to change clothes four or five times. I’ve lost as much as 15 pounds in one night.
But I put it back on; I used to eat like a dog. I remember when I first married my wife [in 1951], the first engagement I took on I had my valet Jesse Johnson order my regular meal: two whole fried chickens, two double orders of French fried potatoes, three bottles of Jax beer. I did a movie for Jax beer once and I started drinking Jax beer. … Now, if I eat three pieces of chicken a meal that’s a lot, but I’m down from 228 [pounds] to 195.
I bought a brand-new limousine Cadillac for the band, and I bought a brand-new Ford van for the uniforms and instruments. I bought a brand-new station wagon in case they wanted to bring their wives and girlfriends along, and I had a Fleetwood Cadillac for myself. This was all showing off, I guess, because I paid $700 to $800 cash for the limousine in Richmond, Virginia, and I bought the station wagon in New Orleans and I had four drivers. My payroll was $565 a night. I was averaging $1,000 a night, but a lot of people went to commissions.
The Battle of the Blues, it used to be a popular thing; it could be popular right now. You’d be surprised how many people who know about us guys, who have the records, they would advertise us.
Roy Milton and I used to play the Battle of the Blues for this man [Eli] Weinberg. We’d play 30 or 40 or 50 dates within a six weeks’ or two months’ period, he and I. Now, Roy Milton had a great organization, he had a great band; his members were just old men, they were immaculate in their uniforms. He had this girl, a hell of a singer with him [Camille Howard], and all of his things were done so smoothly. He had a certain sound; he was a good drummer. We kept together and played these dates. One night he would close the show, the next night I would close the show.
I remember one night we got to Charleston, South Carolina, and Roy [Milton] had a date. It was his night to close the show, and when I say close, we played four hours. If he closed, I opened. I played from 9 to 10, he played from 10 to 11; I played from 12 to 1, he played from 1 to 2. This particular night [his date] was like a goddess. She was tall, about five foot nine, beautiful wavy curly hair; she looked like a Creole, but she wasn’t—she had some Indian in her. She had on a long gown. So Roy just came out of the shower, with his robe on, and he and the girl had a drink; they embraced. Now Roy’s not too tall, she was looking down on him. It was kinda funny. So I came in, I put on my robe, I said, “Roy?” He said, “Yeah?” I said, “They tell me you wanna talk with me.” He said, “Oh, yeah, Roy Brown, I want you to meet my lady.” I said, “Roy, this is your daughter?” He said, “How about you let me open tonight?” I said, “No, indeed. There’s thousands of people out there tonight, you’re the star, you gotta close.” I know why he wanted to open, he wanted to get away with this chick, you see. But I wanted him to close and give me the last hour with this lady. He said, “I’ll open for you anytime.” I said, “No, when we first came, you made it clear to me that on Monday nights on opening, you wanted my band set up because sometimes my band got a bit late, a bunch of youngsters, you know.” So, anyway, he went and got the promoter. “No,” I said, “it’s his turn to close.”
I can recall when Fats Domino played with us. We had some dates in Kansas City in [1950], and Fats had started to record, but he hadn’t come into his own yet. Something happened to my band coming out of Atlanta, and they were supposed to meet me in Kansas City, but they couldn’t. So I hired Fats Domino and a few more guys. We got to Kansas City, I guess, at about two o’clock in the afternoon. We all got rooms, cleaned up, and took a nap. We got ready to go to the auditorium, and Fats Domino couldn’t find his shoes and they had stolen his shoes. He wore expensive shoes, his feet were bad. He was such a great fella. So we had to get a guy get out of his bed, open up his store, and buy Fats a pair of shoes. I’ll never forget that. That was at the time he’d done a couple of things, but they hadn’t hit yet. He was just hanging around New Orleans doing nothing. I gave him some money.
I can also remember some of the other New Orleans artists who started along with me: Lloyd Price, there was this boy they called the Frogman [Henry], Danny White, Smiley Lewis, Paul Gayten, Annie Laurie. I hired Chubby Newsom, she played a lot of dates with me; she upped my attendance because she was such a beautiful girl. I recall Professor Longhair, Dave Bartholomew, quite a few guys; a lot of talent came out of New Orleans. Frankly speaking, the girl who impressed me was Annie Laurie, [she] could really sing.
But it was all a big thrill. It was something I was very grateful for and I was excited about it. If I went into a bar, into a cafe or post office, people would say, “That’s Roy Brown.” And the darnedest thing, I’d get into every town—and I hate to say this—it seemed that every seven or eight records was one of my records coming up. This is true, I was just that hot. I guess at that time there were not a lot of great, established rhythm-and-blues artists. There were guys like Joe Turner, Wynonie Harris, T-Bone Walker, those guys were ahead of me, but at that time I had brought something new on to the scene—a new style, a fresh thing—and the youngsters were latching on to it.
I had at this stage, my downfall; this was 1950, when King Records bought out my contract from De Luxe, all my masters; I had no say in the deal.21 Then they had me sign with Ben Bart of Universal Attractions booking agency, 2 Park Avenue, New York. My personal manager was Jack Pearl, who handled Dinah Washington, Eddie Vinson, all those; and my recording company was Syd Nathan, King Records. Syd and Ben have both died since. But I didn’t know my personal manager, the head of the recording company, and the booking agency were brothers-in-law, and, brother, let me tell you something: They cleaned me out. I didn’t know what performance royalties were.
When Dave Bartholomew recorded me in 1957 he said, “Roy Brown, you should be a millionaire, but I don’t think you are.” I said, “No, I’m not a millionaire, I’m barely getting along right now, I had a lot of difficulties.” He said, “All the hit records you made, man, you should have money in all the banks around here.” I said, “What do you mean?” He said, “The performance royalties, your mechanical rights.” I said, “What you talking about?” He looked at me, he said, “You must be crazy, who’s your manager?” I said, “Jack Pearl.” Then we went to Broadcast Music Incorporated [BMI], and they said they had never paid Roy Brown no performance royalties or writer’s royalties, because he never signed a form. My manager had all the forms, he never gave them to me; they were taking all my money.
King were very big, they had their own distributorship, nobody distributed their records. They would rent offices, put their own guys in the distributor offices, they handled nobody’s records but their own. They handled King, De Luxe, Bethlehem, and some other labels, but they didn’t sell nobody else’s records. Syd Nathan, one time, I’m told from reliable sources, had a record company from the back of his car. That’s how he started out King Records. He became a multimillionaire; he made his money with the black artists.22
When you think about these guys, how they did it, I could tell you things. I don’t like to discuss it, what these guys do to you; the artists weren’t paid, they weren’t compensated for. If you didn’t make it on your one-night stands, your personal appearances, you didn’t make it. I can recall a certain artist who had the biggest rhythm-and-blues record there was, he was appearing at the Paramount Theatre in New York and he got a royalty check for $500; it should have been something like $2,500. He got a royalty statement for $500, not deductions for what he owed the company. You’d be surprised some of your biggest names don’t even read or write; they take advantage of this fact. When you get hep about it, they say he’s a bad influence on the rest of them.
“Hard Luck Blues” is still my favorite. Remember that? “Well, rocks is my pillow, the cold ground is my bed, / the highway is my home so I might as well be dead.” That was my favorite, and “Love Don’t Love Nobody”: “Well, talk about love, it’s a doggone shame.” James Brown did that, but he didn’t sell it. “’Long about Sundown” was a very good one for me. It wasn’t a big one, but it was a good one. “Big Town” was a big one; “Bar Room Blues” was big.
When I did “Hard Luck Blues” it was not my band. That was the Jimmy Griffin band from Norfolk, Virginia. They were in Cincinnati at the Mance Hotel and I was not due in for a recording session. But I had played Flint, Michigan, on the same night the late Duke Ellington was at the auditorium. I want you to hear this. I was at the armory, 30 miles away at Saginaw, Michigan. Joe Turner, Lowell Fulson, Pee Wee Crayton were a package. The promoters were fighting each other, but I had never been in the Midwest. A lot of the blacks had migrated from the Southern cities working in the sparkplug factories, the automobile factories. They had never seen Roy Brown, but they had a lot of my records. Would you believe, it was threatening rain, I called a cab to take me to the armory. We got a block from the armory, we couldn’t get through, the people were lined up a block square. I said, “I’m Roy Brown, take me downtown, Duke Ellington is here,” and he said, “Where you playing?” I said, “The armory,” and he said, “This is the armory!” I said, “It can’t be,” and he said, “Just a moment.” He had a spotlight on his cab, he directed the light to a telephone pole. He said, “Is that your picture? This is the armory.” I jumped out of the cab, he said, “Hey, what about my fare?” So I came back, gave him $10 and told him to keep the change. When I got to the front entrance, my road manager—he was alcoholic at the time, he wasn’t drinking anything—he was astride a big soap box, and the money was pouring in; they had run out of tickets, they had torn the tickets in half then quartered the tickets. Would you believe at 11:30, Duke Ellington came to my dance; about 12:15 Lowell Fulson, Pee Wee Crayton, and Joe Turner from Saginaw, they came to my dance. I went backstage. I cried like a baby, I was so elated, so happy.
So after I went back to the hotel, I gave my manager a $200 bonus, I gave everybody in my band a $100 bonus and I had over $4,000 left from my end on the coffee table at the hotel. I had never made as much in one night before. I started to think about my poor dead mother, how much I could do for her; I’d come into my own, you see. This is before “Hard Luck Blues,” early 1950. And I canceled South Bend, Indiana; I canceled Terre Haute, Indiana; I canceled Fort Wayne, Indiana; Muskegon, Michigan. I told my band, my manager, “I’ll meet you guys in St. Louis in four days’ time.” He said, “Where you going?” I said, “I’m going home,” but I went to Cincinnati, because the tune “Hard Luck Blues” had formed in the back of my mind and it was lingering on me like a headache.
I took a plane that morning and I flew to Cincinnati. I phoned the record company and told them I was ready to record, but they said, “Hey, you’re not due in here. We’re recording Tiny Bradshaw and the Griffin Brothers and Margie Day.” I said, “I want to record just one song. I gotta record it,” and I was drinking—a bottle of scotch in one hand. I was crying, thinking about my mother. I was happy with the money I was making, but I could do so much for her now. My dad left her when I was a child. She was my sole supporter, put me through school and everything. Well, he said, “There’s nobody here to record you. Have you got your band here?” I said, “No.”
So I went downstairs, where the Griffin Brothers were rehearsing, and I said, “Man, I want to make a record. I’ll give each of you men $100; I’ll give the two brothers, Buddy Griffin and James Griffin (one was blind) $200 apiece.” They said, “Man, we’re with you, right now.” So they asked if I had my music and I said, “No, you just play what I want you to.” Everything I did, I give it them. I’d say, “Play this behind me,” and they did. I went into the studio and recorded that one song, didn’t hear the playback, and left. Because I was crying, didn’t want them to see me crying.23
I didn’t hear the tune until several months later. I was coming out of Atlanta, and the disc jockey played it three times. He said, “This is Roy Brown’s latest, it sounds as if he’s crying. He’s singing from his heart.” It was about my mother. It was my whole life story, how my father drove me from his door, wouldn’t accept me. It was about my whole life. It was much longer, but they edited the thing and cut it down. But I wanted to do it and that’s what happened to that.
Lucky Millinder did a session on me, he produced the session. On this particular session I did a thing called “The Return of Miss Fanny Brown,” which was a sequel to “Miss Fanny Brown,” and “Big Town,” which was a very big record for me. Another thing called “I’ve Got the Last Laugh Now,” that was a big record for me, and I think I did a thing called “Thanksgiving Day.”24
Henry Glover was quite a guy. I did a thing called “Boogie at Midnight,” it was one of my biggest records with King [De Luxe, 1949]. Henry Glover handled the recording session.
I always selected the songs. They never questioned my ability as a writer, they would say to me, “Hey, you’ve got some open dates, we want you next month, we’ve got four days open. The booking agent has four days open, get some material together, rehearse it and go into the studio and record it.” Whether it was in Cincinnati, or Philadelphia or Pittsburgh or New York, they never questioned anything I did. I’d just go ahead and do it, and they accepted it. Of course, my first [15] records were [hits], so that established me as a writer of some stature, and they never hassled over songs.
I made my name in ’47 through “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” and I kept this status through ’51 with records to “Big Town” [and “Bar Room Blues”]. Let me say this to you: nobody can last forever. I had reached the stage where some of my ideas were becoming what I’d call obsolete. All the other singers had producers, people who’d write for them. My record company, King Records, wouldn’t let anybody touch me. They’d say, “No, you write, you record,” because they knew if somebody else came up with material, they couldn’t handle [the publishing of] that song. All my stuff went into their publishing [company] and they had me covered.
As I said, they wouldn’t give me royalties. I hadn’t gone through the proper channels. That’s what you hire a manager for, to give you 10 percent of your income, to guide you through things. They wouldn’t do it, they kept the money for themselves. Nothing I could do about it.
I get my royalties now because Dave Bartholomew, back in 1957, we went to his attorney and called George Miller. He’s dead now, but he was vice president of BMI. [Bartholomew] made him send me the proper forms and now the royalties come to my home. I now get royalties from things I did way back in 1947, 1949, ’50, ’51.
I was looking at your book, those four hit records in 1949, all those royalties I should have had. When an artist would leave one company and go to another, the new company would call the old company and ask what’s the most you paid this guy. “I gave him $3,000.” You’d better believe it, he’d never get more than $3,000 from his big records and, you know, most of us didn’t seem to mind. We just wanted the glory of it. “I’m an artist,” you know, to be noticed by people and have all the choice of the girls, the Cadillacs, diamond rings. It’s a whole new ball game now; they can’t tempt you with that kind of stuff now.
They used to pay $10,000 for a Cadillac and make you pay $15,000. I recall Jack Pearl, my manager at that time, before I went to the union and they revoked his license. He had 10 percent of everything his brothers-in-law had, that’s Universal Attractions [Ben Bart] and Syd Nathan, King Records. [The booking agency] included Dinah Washington, the Ravens, Ruth Brown, Bill Doggett, Eddie Vinson, Cootie Williams, all of them. When I spilled the beans to the union, they revoked [Pearl’s] license. They fined his brothers-in-law, made them pay big money, because they had been mistreating [the artists] and that’s when they blackballed me. You’d be surprised how powerful certain organizations are. They can hurt you, kill you.
It happened in 1951. I had one of my biggest records, called “Big Town”: “I woke up this morning, I have the blues for big town [x 2], / I’m tired of the country, tired of all the people in the town.” That was a big one for me, but right after that was when I discovered they were robbing me blind. I went to my union and they fined all of them, and that’s when they blackballed me. When I took them to the union, they sent letters to all the different promoters around the country that I had become a dope addict, that I had beaten up my wife and kid—I didn’t have a kid at that time. I’m not a violent man, I don’t even smoke, but that was the word that was out.
They booked me simultaneously in Florida and the Los Angeles area. I used to play from 25 to 30 dates twice a year for Cleo Brown out of Tampa in Florida. I’d play Ocala, West Palm Beach, Miami, Tampa, St. Petersburg, Orlando, all the towns. They booked me out here in California, Oregon, Washington [State], and told them three days before my appearance in Florida that I was in jail: I had beaten up my wife and they’d caught me with dope. When I did go down there a few months later to work the winter dates, [Cleo Brown] only had five dates and I asked him why. He said, “You don’t know why? Then start talking to me.” I said, “The dates you had me booked in, Mr. Brown, I was on the West Coast. My wife, I called her long distance from New Orleans, she just picked at random six or seven dates; we started matching dates, and the same contracts he had on me I was booked out here.” He said, “Well, how can that be?” Then I told him what was happening; they were trying to hurt me—and they did. I became very confused. I was supposed to be a bad actor, that’s what happens when you try to fight for yourself.
So I stopped recording, but the records I had done through ’47 to ’51, I still had name value.25 So what I’d do, I’d book my own dates. I get out a map and maybe line up 10 or 12 little cities in Mississippi or Alabama or Louisiana, Texas. I’d call the club owner, and I would say, “Listen, I’m Roy Brown, I’d like to cover your territory.” He’d say, “I can’t buy you, I can’t pay you.” I said, “You don’t have to pay me anything, I’ll work for the door. I’ll put an admission man on the door, I’ll put up all the posters; I’ll get the disc jockey ’cause of the radio time, I’ll send a man out to promote. You sell your food, your liquor.” He couldn’t say no, because I would work Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. I’d charge a small admission, like Mondays through Thursdays I’d charge $1.50 or $1.75. But he couldn’t refuse me, because Monday night would become like a Saturday night if he had an artist coming in.
So I would do that and this was how I made it, because I wasn’t being booked anymore. This was my livelihood. I had to do this and this kept me going. I’d maybe book these towns in Mississippi for two weeks, and I’d let another week or two go by and set up another area, like maybe Alabama. I never went much further than Alabama, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi; sometimes I went into Georgia, because Georgia borders Alabama. I did this repeatedly and I kept things going.
The musicians union caused problems. They’d make you stick to all the rules; they don’t give no quarters and don’t ask none. The unions are a powerful thing. These guys know this, take advantage of this fact. They’d come around, man, and say, “Let’s see your card.” “I don’t have it, must have left it at home.” “Get off that bandstand!” Those kinds of things, [there was] no consideration.
They seemed to envy the musicians, the guys who’re making it. I can recall in my hometown, New Orleans, my president used to get on to me: “Why don’t you play some dates for us? You play dates for everybody else.” I said, “I didn’t even know you wanted me to play a date for you. I’ll play a date for you, just pick your price.” He said, “You gonna charge us?” I said, “Of course I’m gonna charge you.” I’d book my own things. So they’d say to me if I booked a dance (I only had a six-piece band): “You gotta have 14 musicians.” I’d say, “What do you mean?” “You gotta have another eight guys.” “No, man, get them off the bandstand.” They’d say, “You gotta pay them.” I said, “I’ll pay them, but I don’t want them on my bandstand.” The guys that came, they wanted to play with their chicks and girls. I said, “No, they don’t know what we’re doing, they don’t know our arrangements.” “What arrangements?” “My hit records!” They kept pumping me like that, they were angry, you know.
Then came rock ’n’ roll. I believe Elvis Presley, Pat Boone were very active in making this change. I remember Colonel Parker [Presley’s manager] making the statement, “I believe the white kids want to hear the black hit records, but I’m gonna have a white boy do it.” In other words, if you want to hear “Good Rockin’ Tonight” I’m gonna have Elvis Presley do it. A lot of those guys did those things and copied the arrangements note for note, but that way it was accepted. What really happened, when these guys got on television, and do all these dances they had copied us from guys like the Drifters, the Little Richards. But we had never gotten the chance to perform before the white kids, and they thought all these guys, the Elvis Presleys, were original with that stuff. They weren’t original. We’d been doing that stuff for years.
Elvis Presley, we used to play for the high sheriff in Tupelo, Mississippi, and my bandleader, my guitar player at the time, Edgar Blanchard, from New Orleans—he’s dead now—he loved to drink. It was a dry town and Elvis would come around and Edgar wouldn’t let him get on the bandstand. He wanted to sing, but he wouldn’t let him. And so he discovered Edgar liked to drink, so he got him a big bottle of moonshine. When I went to the sheriff’s house to change my clothes—I used to get drinks because I worked so hard—and Elvis was on the bandstand just playing and singing with them, nobody paying any attention to him, but he followed us: Tupelo, Indianola, Memphis. He went up to Tennessee with us, and on my West Coast tour a few months later Tommy Shelvin, my bass player, said, “Hey, man, there’s a hillbilly singing your song [“Good Rockin’ Tonight”].” Sure ’nuff, Elvis was singing this song with a hillbilly band, but he never did sell, because he hadn’t become Elvis as yet, you know. But that was one of his first recordings [for Sun]. Then Pat Boone did it, Ricky Nelson did it, Wynonie Harris did it.26
Then 1957 came along and I got back on the beam with “Let the Four Winds Blow” and “Party Doll,” and I started working again. Well, what I did, Lew Chudd of Imperial had tried to sign me during the time he signed Fats Domino. He said, “I can break your contract with King Records.” I regret the day I didn’t sign for him. I didn’t know who he was, I didn’t trust him. But what really happened, Dave Bartholomew came around to my home in late ’56 and said to me, “What are you doing?” I said, “Nothing, just playing a few weekend dates.” I was clearing 700 to 800 bucks a week playing the dates by myself, buying my own placards, paying the disc jockeys to advertise and giving him 10 percent of the door to emcee the show. He would talk about it and bring the people in.
So Dave said, “How would you like to record for Imperial?” I said, “Okay,” so they signed me to a one-year contract with an open option. “Party Doll” and “Let the Four Winds Blow” were two of the tunes and I did well. I did [most] recordings in New Orleans: “Party Doll,” “Let the Four Winds Blow,” a thing called “Saturday Night,” “Everybody.” The group was the same group that backed Fats Domino. You see, a lot of the Fats Domino hits, Fats wasn’t even on the recording session. There was a guy called [Edward] Frank, and he played [piano] exactly like Fats Domino, you couldn’t tell them apart. They would make the [backing] tracks, and some of the tracks Fats would just go into the studio to dub over the tracks. But this same group, Earl Palmer was in the group at the time, he was still in New Orleans; Lee Allen, all these guys.
“Party Doll” was big [no. 13 R&B, no. 80 pop]. We did 80,000 on that one, then they took it out off the market; it was too suggestive. That was the thing Buddy Knox did and I covered it. “Let the Four Winds Blow” was a million-seller for me [no. 5 R&B, no. 29 pop], oh, yes. I stayed with Imperial just one year, because I had a tax problem at the time. You know, the income tax came down on me. With an artist, if you have trouble with income tax, the Internal Revenue has a right to confiscate the books of the recording company. And no recording company wants you to look at its books, because maybe he’s not doing the right thing with his other artists and himself and the Internal Revenue. So they had to let me go. I can understand it, because I was a threat.27
The package shows, this was when I did “Let the Four Winds Blow” in ’57. I was master of ceremonies of a package headlined by Mickey and Sylvia; there was Ray Charles, Larry Williams, Annie Laurie, Nappy Brown, Joe Turner, Etta James, and one or two supporting artists. I made a deal for $1,700 a week as a single, no band. It was a big package. We were playing every night someplace, and the master of ceremonies out of New York, the guy who was going to have the job, he didn’t show. So they said to me, “Roy, would you do it?” So I said, “Yes, for another $500.” So they said, “Okay.” I did it for two weeks, they paid. Then all of a sudden they started reneging. After the second week they didn’t pay me my $2,200. I just quit the show in San Antonio, Texas. But I discovered this after I quit: they were selling the show for $3,500 upward and the payroll was only $2,300 a night.
How I discovered this, the road manager had a briefcase similar to mine. One particular night in Charleston, South Carolina, he picked up my briefcase and I picked up his. When I got to my hotel to open my briefcase to get out my scotch—I kept the scotch in the briefcase—it had all these contracts in it. So I started looking through them. Then I discovered what was happening and I said to him next morning, “Hey, man, I got your briefcase.” He said, “I know, I know. Did you go through it?” I said, “Yes, I went through it, I know what’s happening. I want more money.”
The package was out of Universal Attractions. You see, most of these artists, it was really the Weinbergs out of Bluefield, West Virginia. Eli Weinberg, he booked from 30 to 40 dates on one artist. I filled a lot of his dates. He would get a big package together, book the package from the Virginias through Texas, and another promoter would pick it up in Texas through to the West Coast. The West Coast promoter would bring the package out here. What I’m saying is, they paid all the entertainers by the week; they guaranteed them a salary by the week and the payroll was not more than $2,300 a night. But they were selling the package from $3,500 a night and still getting commissions from the people on the show. You had to pay your commission because you were being booked. If you got $400, $500, or $600 a night, whatever you got, you still had to pay your commission. So they were making money all kinds of ways and I discovered this fact. So I wanted a piece of the pie.
At this time, [late] 1958, I recall when Jackie Wilson did “Lonely Teardrops” and I heard him. Louis Jordan and I were appearing at a club in Jacksonville, Florida, and this disc jockey emceed the show. When I got in the hotel room at three o’clock in the morning he was on the airplay with “Lonely Teardrops.” He had people calling in who were saying, “Who is this? Who is this? Roy Brown, Roy Brown?” A guy came to my door and said, “I heard your new record, man.” I said, “I haven’t got a new record, that’s a kid called Jackie Wilson.” I called King in Cincinnati the following morning, I said, “There’s a kid singing identical to me. I want to cover that record, I can sound more like me than he can.” But they wouldn’t let me do it; they told me to stick to the blues, because they wanted me to write everything so they could take the money—not pay me money.
Berry Gordy wrote “Lonely Teardrops” [with Billy Davis] and tried to give it to me at the Flame Show Bar in Detroit. He said, “Roy Brown, I’ve got a song for you,” because Berry Gordy, Mr. Motown, was playing piano with Maurice King’s house band. I said, “Berry, I’m not interested.” I didn’t say it that blunt, but I just didn’t dig it. When I heard Jackie do it, I recognized the song because Berry Gordy wrote the song and I think he also recorded Jackie. Anyway, Jackie got on the Dick Clark show a little later. I was asleep, my wife woke me up, she said, “Honey, Jackie Wilson is on the Dick Clark show.” Dick asked [Jackie] who his idol was, he said, “Roy Brown. I can do anything he’s ever done and do it better,” and he was laughing. I said [sarcastically], “Oh, he’s paying me a compliment, very good.” But I’m very proud of the fact that I seem to have influenced a lot of guys, because I was just a youngster myself when I started out.28
Then there was Home of the Blues, oh, I forgot, it was such a small thing.29 I did a few things for Home of the Blues in Memphis in 1960, and I had two things that went well. As a matter of fact, we sold 44,000 copies of “Oh, So Wonderful” in Memphis alone; it wasn’t a blues, it was a rhythmic thing with a girl [Mamie Dell] and myself. We also did a thing called “Tired of Being Alone.” It sold 27,000 copies in Memphis alone, but they didn’t have the distribution outside of Memphis.
What really happened, a guy drove from Memphis to my home in New Orleans. They wanted to buy the [songwriter] rights to “Hard Luck Blues” for Elvis Presley. I said, “No, I don’t want to sell.”30 When they got to New Orleans, I was appearing at a club and they contacted me and heard me sing. He said, “Man, you got this same voice all the time, why aren’t you recording?” I said, “Well, right now, I’m between recording sessions.” So then he got on the telephone and got hold of Ruben Cherry at Home of the Blues in Memphis, and they flew me to Memphis the next day and the third day I was recording.
It was Willie Mitchell’s band; he was quite a guy. I can’t recall the name of the studio, but it was on Union Street—the same street the WDIA radio studios were on. It was just a small studio, but the same guy we had on my session was Scotty [Moore], who did the early Elvis Presley things. Scotty handled the session.31
Then I went out of action for some time and started selling [household utensils for Amway products] out here on the West Coast. I did pretty well, because it was pretty easy to get into the doors, because what I did, I had a gimmick. I had a lot of pictures of me and I rang the doorbell and this woman would come and I’d say, “Ma’am, I’m Roy Brown the recording artist, I’d like to give you an autographed picture.” It was always someone over 30 who remembered me. “Oh, are you Roy? Well, come on in.” Some people would buy. I sold encyclopedias also; I did well. Some weeks I’d do a $1,000 commission and, being a recording artist, I guess anybody could do it if they were as big a name as I was. A lot of people don’t forget too easily, because they keep playing these records over and over again. Then they say, “I wonder what happened to this guy?” All of a sudden I’ve come into their homes. I had a ball, man, really, but that’s not my bag. Singing is my bag.
The Bluesway thing came about through Lee Magid. A distributor, he died, I attended his funeral and Lee Magid said, “Roy Brown, I’ve been trying to find you.” You see, my problem is I never get around Hollywood, nobody knows where I am. You see, I bought a home in the [San Fernando] Valley away from everything. I’m pretty independent. I guess it’s a foolish pride, but I don’t get around clubs, around the recording companies, saying, “Hey, I’m Roy Brown,” because I got fed up with the record business. I thought everybody was crooks, I’ll be honest with you. I just didn’t think everybody was on the level, you know. They’re still ripping people off right now.
But I attended this funeral and Lee Magid said, “Do you know who I handle?” I said, “No.” He said, “I handle Lou Rawls,” and I said, “So?” He said, “I’d like to handle you, if you can still sing.” I said, “I can still sing.” He gave me his office address; I went there in the next couple of days and he had a piano player there. He said, “I want to hear you sing ‘Good Rockin’ Tonight’ again,” and I did. I got through just a few bars and he said, “That’s enough, I want to do some talking with you.” So we sat down and he said, “Can you get me eleven or twelve tunes for an album?” I said, “Yes, when do you want them?” He said, “As soon as you can get them.” So I wrote eleven tunes. He got two arrangers—H. B. Barnum and Arthur Wright—I didn’t like the arrangements. I said, “Man, this is not Roy Brown. I don’t hear that funky sound behind me.” He said, “These are proper arrangements,” and I said, “For whom? Not for me, maybe for Frank Sinatra, O. C. Smith, or Lou Rawls. I’m a different type of singer.”
Anyway, we did it. I forget the guy’s name who was head of ABC-Paramount [Larry Newton], but he was away in Europe, there were some youngsters in the recording company. Lee sent in this stuff by Roy Brown, they didn’t even know who Roy Brown was. He did the session, they reimbursed him his money. He said, “Are you going to put this through my publishing company?” I said, “Okay.” Just before the release they sent an album cover to me to show me what it would be like, and they had a publicity man call me long distance and ask me special things about myself to put in the liner work on the album. Then Larry Newton, I think it is, he came back from Europe and said, “Do you know who this man is? This man is Roy Brown, the recording artist. So this man is a writer, so how in the world could you let him let Lee Magid put all Roy Brown’s tunes into his publishing company? We have publishing, too, you know. We want part of the publishing.” Lee Magid wouldn’t relinquish the publishing, and they didn’t release that album [Hard Times] until about two years ago [1973]—I did it in 1967. [An] attorney called me and told me they would not release the album, you’re with the wrong man. I tried to get away from Lee Magid, but he wouldn’t cut me loose; he had me under contract. So my contract expired a short time ago. Now [in 1975] I’ve just signed with Jimmy Holiday, my producer.
Then there was Summit Records. Like I said, a friend of mine, Miles Grayson, I was working out at Orange County, Santa Fe Springs, a little place called the Cat Patch, and he wanted to get into the record business. He didn’t know how difficult it was, and I was sort of obligated to the guy, personal reasons. I said, “Okay, I’ll do a session,” but I knew he didn’t know what it was all about. So we named the label Summit Records and I did a few things for him. I did a new version of “Let the Four Winds Blow” and it didn’t even get to the radio stations. We didn’t promote it, he just wanted to get off into something, you know. We didn’t lose much money, but he got hurt some.
When you do a record these days the finished product is nothing. It has to be sold, it has to be promoted. Once upon a time you could take a record to a disc jockey, say, “Hey, man, here’s $500, make it a hit,” and he’d ride it. But it’s not like that anymore. They tell you now, “Wait until it’s in the Top 40, then I’ll play it.” How can you get it into the Top 40 if nobody will play it?
Then came the Monterey Jazz Festival in 1970. Well, it was the Johnny Otis Show; all of the greats were on that, man: Ivory Joe Hunter, Jimmy Rushing, Eddie Vinson, Joe Turner, Little Esther, Roy Milton, and myself. I closed the show and we really did fine.32 As a matter of fact, this is what really inspired me to come back and produce my own recording sessions, and I did.
I did a thing called “Love for Sale” and Mercury leased it from me. It did quite well for me. I did that on my own label called Friendship Records [in 1971], and I got it started here in Los Angeles, Oakland, New Orleans, Memphis, Birmingham, and Philadelphia. It was really going, then [Mercury] picked it up. This was recorded in L.A. and on this particular session I used Miles Grayson’s group—[he’s] done a lot of the Little Johnny Taylor stuff. I don’t know the names of the [musicians]: I had one guy on guitar, Johnny Jones, he used to play with me for quite a while, because I worked a lot in the clubs in Orange County; I stayed in one club for nearly two years. I paid Grayson to do four sides; he did two songs he wrote and I did two songs I wrote. When he did the songs he wrote, he said the band had to go and left me there with three musicians. I called up a girl to play piano and I kept my guitar player and had five musicians and did “Love for Sale.” That turned out to be the hit record.33 He did the other arranging. I’ve always arranged my own stuff … not putting the notes down, but humming the parts to the different musicians.
All that’s behind me now: I’ve just signed with Jimmy Holiday, and I think he has a working agreement with 20th Century Fox. We’re doing an album right now, the greatest thing I’ve ever done in my life.34 You’ll be one of the first ones to get a copy—you and Charlie Gillett.35
But I like to think back, and there were the good years and the bad years. But what I’m saying, poor management has been the downfall of many an artist, whether he’s a baseball player, basketball player, football player, fighter, what have you—the managers make the money. It won’t happen to me anymore, because right now I have my own publishing company. It’s understood that some of these tunes are going to my publishing company.
If I appear at clubs, most people won’t believe I’m Roy Brown until I sing. They think I should be older. I’ll soon be 50, that’s old enough, but by me getting started in 1947 that’s way back, but I was only 21 at the time. I’m just very happy about everything, believe me; I’ve had some hard knocks. This record business is a dirty thing: It can be very good or very terrible.
You know, when I look back in retrospect, I was my worst enemy, because I allowed myself to be taken. But I had nobody advising, everybody was, “Yes, yes, you’re right.” I had nobody to guide me. But I’m very grateful to have what you might call a second chance, because I can name a lot of the guys who were popular when I was. Of course they’re much older, their voices have gone. I’m still here and I’m very grateful. But I want everything to be right. I will never be a problem to anyone, because your attitude changes. I’ve got a beautiful family: I’ve been married to the same girl for [24] years come August 18, [1975], my daughter [Connie] is a straight-A student at school. She’s a beautiful girl, very popular, just turned 16; she’s crazy about her mommy and daddy. I’ve got a beautiful home, we’re doing okay.
What I’m saying is, whoever handles me will have no problems, because there’s nothing there to excite me. No glamour, the girls can fall dead if they like, the Cadillacs can go. I drive a new Monte Carlo, my wife drives a Chevron, I’m very happy—and that’s it. I want some money and some holdings for my kid. I think God is on my side.”
Since this interview, Roy Brown’s high hopes with Jimmy Holiday apparently have not materialized. However, he has a new manager, Barry Spinks, and Route 66 Records has just issued an album of his vintage recordings. Even so, I can’t help but recall Johnny Otis’s classic quote that I used in Walking to New Orleans, when he discussed not only Roy Brown but his contemporaries Charles Brown, Roy Milton, Eddie Vinson, and Joe Turner: “These men are national treasures and the way they’ve been treated is a national disgrace.”
With thanks to Lynn Abbott, Andrew Brown, Stuart Colman, Winfried Freyer, Jeff Hannusch, Jan Kotschack, James La Rocca, Eric LeBlanc, and Darryl Stolper. Also consulted: Les Fancourt and Bob McGrath, The Blues Discography, 1943–1970 (West Vancouver, Canada: Eyeball Productions, 2006).
1. In his interviews, including this very first one, Roy Brown consistently shaved five years from his age and gave the wrong birthplace. However, he was born on September 10, 1920 (not 1925), in Kinder, Louisiana (not New Orleans) and died in Lakeview Terrace, California, on May 25, 1981 at the age of 60. Birth details confirmed by Brown’s marriage certificate dated August 18, 1951.
2. “New San Antonio Rose” was a hit for Bing Crosby in 1941, and “Jingle, Jangle, Jingle” was a hit for Kay Kyser and His Orchestra in 1942.
3. In view of the song years in note 2, it is possible that this amateur show was earlier than 1945.
4. “When My Man Comes Home” was a hit for Buddy and Ella Johnson in 1944; “Jelly Jelly” was recorded by Billy Eckstine with Earl Hines Orchestra in 1940.
5. Eddie “Coot” Lewis was active in the 1930s with his orchestra in Shreveport for dance promoter Isaac “Ike” McKinney (Jazz Archivist 22, 2009).
6. Radio KGBC first aired in Galveston on February 1, 1947.
7. “There’s No You” was a hit for Jo Stafford in 1945.
8. According to Texas pianist Candy Green, Joel Harris claimed to have written “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” a fact that Brown vehemently denied.
9. “I Wonder” by Private Cecil Gant (Gilt-Edge) was a massive number 1 race (R&B) hit in 1945, staying on the charts for twenty-eight weeks.
10. The Rainbow Room was located in the Hotel Foster, owned by George Foster.
11. The first De Luxe session was comprised of just “Good Rockin’ Tonight” (as “Good Rocking Tonight”) and “Lolly Pop Mama” in July 1947. According to Paul Gayten, in an interview with John Broven in Los Angeles on June 15, 1975: “Roy Brown was a spiritual singer, he came to me at the Robin Hood, New Orleans, and he started singing. He could sing the blues great, the pop things great but he didn’t have it all together, like bars, because he was a spiritual singer. So he had this song, ‘Good Rockin’ Tonight.’ I sat down with him one night and I said, ‘Roy, we’re gonna have to do this in 12-bar things.’ I showed him everything; he’s a beautiful guy, he’s here in L.A. He started singing ‘Good Rockin’ Tonight’ and that was it—and I think Al Young recorded him. [Brown] was on De Luxe and he was working on the show with us.”
12. Brown is correct: “Lolly Pop Mama” does fade out but very abruptly at 2:20; the full-length acetate master was released by Ace Records (U.K.) in 2005 but lasted only another 10 seconds (on the CD Good Rockin’ Brown, with other 1947 De Luxe acetates). It is impossible to validate Brown’s claim, via a third party, that this was the first fadeout record. Cosimo Matassa’s J. & M. Studios was located at 838–40 North Rampart Street, not Tulane Avenue as stated by Brown.
13. Brown is correct again with the fadeout on Wynonie Harris’s King recording of “Good Rockin’ Tonight.” It is another abrupt fade, but it is not possible to say if Harris “walked out” of the studio at that moment.
14. Hit R&B record artist impersonations were rife in this pre-television era.
15. Probably saxophonist Maurice Simon, who was born in Houston in 1929.
16. Almost certainly Brown is referring to Ray Dobard, owner of Music City stores and the Music City label out of Berkeley, California. Both Dobard and his wife, Jeanne, were from New Orleans.
17. Wynonie Harris’s “Good Rockin’ Tonight” (King 4210) was a Billboard number 1 race hit in a very long chart run of twenty-five weeks.
18. Brown was reasonably accurate in his De Luxe hit record analysis, given a “top of his head” interview situation. The Billboard race and R&B charts indicate he had fifteen hits all told (not 16) from 1948 to 1951. In the early 1948–1949 period, he had three records in the top three: “’Long about Midnight” (no. 1), “Rockin’ at Midnight” (no. 2), “Boogie at Midnight” (no. 3). His “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” as Brown indicated, made the charts twice: number 13 in June 1948 and number 11 in April 1949. Other race/R&B chart hits in this time frame were “’Fore Day in the Morning” (no. 6), “Rainy Weather Blues” (no. 5), “Miss Fanny Brown” (no. 8), and “Please Don’t Go” (no. 9).
19. The Gold Star release “Deep Sea Diver”/“Bye Baby Bye” was recorded in Galveston, Texas, in 1947 and was Brown’s first. At that time Bill Quinn would not have had a tape recorder, so it is almost certain that these were authorized studio recordings featuring Brown’s club band. Interestingly, Brown rerecorded “Deep Sea Diver” in the same year for De Luxe, but the acetate was unreleased until it appeared on a 2005 Ace (U.K.) CD.
20. Outside of De Luxe, the early part of the Roy Brown discography does not show any releases other than on Gold Star (one) and Miltone (two), and certainly nothing on a label starting with a “J.”
21. For more on the King–De Luxe buyout in 1951, also the King branch network, see Record Makers and Breakers by John Broven (University of Illinois Press, 2009).
22. In the later King–De Luxe period, 1950–1951, the R&B chart hits were “Hard Luck Blues” (no. 1), “Love Don’t Love Nobody” (no. 2), “’Long about Sundown” (no. 8), “Cadillac Baby” (no. 6), “Big Town” (no. 8), and “Bar Room Blues” (no. 6). All of these recordings are included in the 1991 Charly CD, Blues DeLuxe.
23. “Hard Luck Blues” was recorded, with the Griffin Brothers, on April 19, 1950. Despite Brown’s comments, he did record three other tracks that day: “Cadillac Baby,” “New Rebecca,” and “Sweet Peach.” There are no sessions by either Tiny Bradshaw or the Griffin Brothers and Margie Day (who soon signed for Dot) listed in the King logs for that day.
24. On January 16, 1951, Brown did record “Big Town” and “I’ve Got the Last Laugh Now.” However, the other two sides recorded that day were “Good Rockin’ Man” and “Wrong Woman Blues.” There is no sign of “Thanksgiving Day” in Brown’s De Luxe discography.
25. Although Brown had every cause to forget his time at King, he did in fact record for the label in 1952 through 1955, with another two sessions in 1959 but without any hits. A cross-section of recordings from this later King period can be found in the 1993 Ace (U.K.) CD Mighty, Mighty Man!
26. In 2012 the BMI song register showed “Good Rockin’ Tonight” as composed by Roy Brown, with publishing by Brown Angel Music Publishing and Trio Music, indicating that Brown’s heirs were benefiting from the song’s considerable earnings.
27. The Imperial period lasted from September 26, 1956, through March 6, 1958. After recording in New Orleans during the first year, Brown had a one-off session in 1958 in Los Angeles with rockers Johnny and Dorsey Burnette. All told, there were twenty Imperial sides that appeared on a 1995 U.S. Capitol CD, Roy Brown: The Complete Capitol Recordings.
28. Of the many artists influenced by Roy Brown were notables such as Johnny Ace, Bobby Bland, James Brown, B. B. King, Little Milton, Little Richard, and Clyde McPhatter.
29. Home of the Blues, owned by Ruben Cherry and Celia Camp, was based at their record shop at 107 Beale St., Memphis, Tennessee, from 1960 to 1962. Although the label produced no hits, it had a strong artist lineup with Brown, including Dave Dixon (also from New Orleans), Willie Mitchell, the 5 Royales, Larry Birdsong, and Billy Riley. Interestingly, Brown did not mention the best of his four Home of the Blues singles: “Rocking All the Time.”
Before signing for Home of the Blues, Brown hit a low point (not discussed in our interview) when he “was arrested by the FBI in February 1960 for defrauding a promoter out of $200 by impersonating B. B. King over the phone and trying to get him to wire him money in New Orleans.” (Jeff Hannusch, I Hear You Knockin’: The Sound of New Orleans Rhythm and Blues [Ville Platte, LA: Swallow Books, 1985.]) This incident was confirmed in a story headed “Nab Rocknroll Singer as Con” in the St. Louis Argus, on February 26, 1960, which noted, “If found guilty, he faces a possible fine of $1,000 or five years in prison” (courtesy Bill Greensmith). As well, Brown told Jonas Bernholm of Sweden that he “never completely cleared up his tax situation and served time in a federal prison.” (Notes to Saturday Nite LP, Mr R&B Records, 1982).
30. This interesting incident implies that Elvis Presley was contemplating recording “Hard Luck Blues.” At this stage of his post-Army career, Presley, through New York publisher Freddy Bienstock of Hill & Range Music, had enough clout to demand a large percentage of writer and publishing credits to record a song. If Brown and publisher Blue Ridge Music, associated with King Records, rejected the Presley offer, as Brown indicated, it was probably to their detriment. The intermediary is not known.
31. From Brown’s description the session could have been recorded at Sam Phillips’s Sun Studio at 706 Union Avenue. However, about the time of the Home of the Blues sessions, Phillips was in the process of opening his new Sam Phillips Studios at 639 Madison Avenue (near Union), where Scotty Moore was appointed as a salaried studio manager and chief cutting engineer in June 1960. (Colin Escott with Martin Hawkins, Good Rockin’ Tonight: Sun Records and the Birth of Rock ’n’ Roll [New York. St. Martin’s Press, 1991.]) The new Phillips studio is the more likely location.
32. Brown’s “Good Rockin’ Tonight” was included in the Epic LP The Johnny Otis Show Live at Monterey! but was not recorded live.
33. “Love for Sale” did seem to make some noise but never charted nationally pop or R&B, even when on Mercury.
34. The 20th Century Fox deal never materialized, but the 1975 LP may have appeared on Brown’s Friendship label in 1978. In the period from 1962 until his death in 1981, Brown also recorded for DRA, Connie (named after Brown’s daughter), Chess (unissued), Gert (named after Brown’s wife), Tru-Love (named after his mother), AMFPR, Faith (another Brown label), Solid Smoke, and Intermedia. As well, there were the important Route 66 and Mr R&B LP reissues by Sweden’s Jonas Bernholm from 1977 onward; the first album, Laughing but Crying: Legendary Recordings, 1947–1959, led to Brown’s successful European tour in 1978.
35. Brown admired Charlie Gillett after the respected English author and broadcaster wrote about the 1970 Monterey Jazz Festival appearance in glowing terms.