Howlin’ Wolf-- The Chess Box

(Chess/MCA 3-CD 9332)

More than any other single "blues" performer-- more, even, than Robert Johnson or Muddy Waters-- Chester Burnett, alias the Howlin’ Wolf, has directly influenced the development of rock music.

Johnson was a dextrous guitarist with a violently propulsive rhythmic sense and an uncanny way with words; similarly gifted, the more refined Waters was an inspiring model of poise and punch. But it was the Wolf-- taking his cue from Charley Patton, the delta blues pioneer who committed to shellac such visceral assaults as "Screamin’ And Hollerin’ The Blues"-- who proved to be rock’s direct line to the id.

Elvis Presley’s first recordings for Sam Phillips-- the first and last word in rockabilly-- sound like Howlin’ Wolf filtered through Bill Monroe. (I can’t prove that Elvis ever actually listened to Howlin’ Wolf, but it is worth noting that Burnett made his first recordings for Phillips just three years earlier.) Between 1963 and 1971, nearly every rock band that was worth a damn (and many that weren’t) owed a debt, directly or indirectly, to Howlin’ Wolf. Many of them covered his songs, including The Rolling Stones, The Yardbirds, The Who, The Jeff Beck Group, Cream, Steppenwolf, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Kaleidoscope, Link Wray, Johnny Winter, Little Feat, and The Doors. Many stole his songs, the most egregious offenders being Led Zeppelin-- "How Many More Times" and "The Lemon Song" are, uh, re-interpretations of "No Place To Go" and "Killing Floor," respectively. (Astute listeners may even have noticed a "tribute" to Wolf planted in the coda of "Whole Lotta Love.")

But more than songs, it was the performances and the actual sound of Howlin’ Wolf’s records that changed the world-- or, at least, fundamentally altered the way a lot of people heard music.

Mainly, there was that voice, that elemental bellow seeming to roar out of the listener’s own subconscious like a disturbingly vivid dream, to leap out of the cracks and crevices in the time-space continuum like an alternately cranky and mischievous ghost, to dart across the wide open sky like a heavenful of thunder. Too, there was the guitar work-- particularly that of the unpredictable Hubert Sumlin, who might as well have broadcast his parts from Venus, yet never failed to drive the band and complement the song.

"Wolf’s best records came on like three-minute race riots," critic Greil Marcus once observed. "The drums, bass, piano and harp converged on the beat, hammering, shoving; for a moment they let the beat take the song, let you think you had the sides sorted out and the picture clear, and then the guitarist leaped in, heaved himself through the crowd like a tornado, and the crowd paid no attention and went right on fighting."

Marcus’ description really only applies to some of "Wolf’s best records"-- mainly fast numbers like "Wang Dang Doodle," "Down In The Bottom," "Shake For Me," "Killing Floor," and "Do The Do." Many of his best efforts were medium-to-slow-tempo affairs like "Moanin’ At Midnight" (his 1951 debut-- god, I wish I could’ve been around to see people’s faces when that fearsome noise first snaked out of the box!), "No Place To Go" (aka "You Gonna Wreck My Life"), "Smokestack Lightnin’," "Moanin’ For My Baby," and "Commit A Crime," where the bass and drums would thump out a relentless stomp for the piano to prounce around and the guitar to emphasize with a riff that seemed to repeat endlessly yet also seemed to never be played exactly the same way twice, while the Mighty Wolf howled and moaned and rasped and crooned and hollered with as little regard for the niceties of 12-bar-blues form as possible. Think "1970" by the Stooges, but less genteel.

Speaking of genteel, one mustn’t forget the songs that producer/songwriter Willie Dixon crafted ‘specially for The Wolf: "Howlin’ For My Darlin’," "Back Door Man," "I Ain’t Superstitious," "Hidden Charms," "Three Hundred Pounds of Joy," "Evil," "Do The Do," "The Red Rooster," "You’ll Be Mine," and the decidedly un-sexist "Just Like I Treat You" among them. Dixon’s tunes tended to be a little more refined than Burnett’s own rantings, with wry lyrics and reasonably tidy arrangements. These were genuinely great songs, and one could argue that it is these records more than any others that best demonstrate Wolf’s phenomenal depth and range.

"Do The Do" is inexplicably absent from this otherwise exemplary three-disc set (the 1962 "Do" with Sumlin squeezing out sparks, the streamlined 1970 model with Eric Clapton’s slide guitar chanting it’s way to a higher form of consciousness-- they should both be here); also conspicuous in its absence is the creepy "Somebody In My Home," not to mention the non-appearance of any of Wolf’s early sides for RPM Records. And while I’m glad to have the rare single version of "No Place To Go" preserved in the digital domain, it’s not quite as powerful as the more common LP cut.

But virtually everything else you need is present and accounted for here-- 71 selections in all, and nearly every one of them as enormous as life itself.

Among the several previously-unissued gems are two fascinating, obsessive, deeply felt 1968 recordings of Chester Burnett solo, accompanying himself on an acoustic guitar that’s clearly seen better days, as well as a funny, touching interview from the same sessions.

But you’ll mainly treasure this for some of the wildest electric guitar playing ever waxed, and of course that voice and the incredible messages it continues to relay. "This," said Sam Phillips to himself upon first hearing that awesome instrument, "is where the soul of man never dies." If you don’t understand, this box set explains all.

-- Charles Olver /Catharsis #23-- January 1992