Ashgrove
c2021 B. Greene
The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly to speaking
The harp through it playing has language for me;
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,
A host of kind faces is gazing on me…
-The Ashgrove Traditional Welsh Folk Song
It’s often said if you can remember the 60s then you weren’t there. I was there and I remember most everything. The music, the sit-ins, the love-ins, and the marches are all vivid in my mind. The political assinations, the incense, the hair length, and the Black Panther Party were all part of my higher education. The bell-bottoms, the Army surplus store shirt selection, the Indian moccasins, and Wellington boots were all in my closet. Dylan and Donovan, and Baez albums huddled around a portable record player with Albert King and a blues anthology or two.
I spent most of the late 60s days on the UCLA campus. Working part time in the research library while commuting between the San Fernando Valley and Westwood left little time for anything but study and sleep. But there was one place that I’d frequent during those times because it was truly transformative. On Melrose Ave, just a few blocks off Fairfax was an oasis. This hallowed ground has been called legendary by some but was burned down 3 times in its 15 year history by others. This sacred place was The Ashgrove, arguably the most important and influential music club of the era.
Like any oasis, The Ashgrove was fed by deep springs. Instead of water, these roots went to the core of traditional American music. Here, in a city of millions was a chance to see the music and culture of the many feeder streams that nourished what has come to be known as American roots music. One night it might be the Atlantic Coast Blues of Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee or the Georgia Sea-island Singers, the next could be Bill Monroe and his Bluegrass Boys. Doc Watson,could be paired with Texas bluesman Mance Lipscomb. The variety was limitless and often illuminating.
My first visit to The Ashgrove came on a rainy night riding through a flooded Laurel Canyon. My friend Kenny’s VW bug felt more like a rollar coaster car. We landed a parking spot at an abandoned gas station on Melrose. The rain stopped and within minutes we joined the few people standing outside the club. The first set had already begun but we managed to stumble through the darkness to the far right corner of the last row of seats. On stage was Jessie Fuller. Billed as a one-man-band, Fuller sat in a chair on the small wooden stage with a strange instrument in front of him. Around his neck was a harmonica rack with a kazoo and blues harp. A 12 string guitar rested on his lap. I would later learn that the odd-looking instrument was Fuller’s invention called a Fotella, a foot-operated string bass.
“Thanks folks,” he said. “Now here’s the song I made a little money on, San Francisco Bay Blues.”
With that, Fuller filled the room with music.
“Walkin” with my baby down by the San Francisco Bay,” the audience cheered in recognition. For a minute, I was standing on a street corner in Jonesboro, Georgia lstening to the local street musician. The sound was so crisp and seemed like a quartet was playing. Jesse Fuller was billed as “Lone Cat,” but the irony was lost on noone. He picked the guitar, sang an occasional verse, accompanied himself on harmonica and then kazoo, all the while pumping foot pedals for a full bass bottom. I was enthralled.
After a 15 minute intermission, the lights dimmed and a sleek figure appeared on stage. As the lights went up a voice filled the room.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Ashgrove is proud to present “Spider” John Koerner.
One look at the young man sitting behind the mic and I knew where his nickname came from. He was tall, rail-thin, and had the spindly legs of a spider. Like Jessie Fuller, Spider John played 12 string guitar and sported a harmonica rack. His songs were dark and bluesy drawing on the rich folk tradition of tunes like John Henry and Delia. Again, I was spellbound. At 19, my age that night, I hadn’t heard all that much live music. The Ashgrove would remedy that over the next few years. Before I returned for my second visit, I had a harmonica in my pocket at all times.
The roster of names I would see perform between 1966-69 reads like a hall of fame. It didn’t seem at the time that I was witnessing some of the legends that would soon be gone. Years later, in recollecting many of those performances, I realize how fortunate I have been. Let me drop some names:
Son House, Bukka White, Howlin’ Wolf, J.B. Hutto, Long Gone Miles, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Sleepy John Estes, Elizabeth Cotton, Hedy West, Big Mama Thornton, George Harmonica Smith, The Chambers Brothers, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee and many more.
One performer I saw more than any others was a young 20 something bluesman who often hung out at the Ashgrove after hours or well before the shows started. Taj Mahal had recorded an album with a group called The Rising Sons, but was now performing solo mostly and occasionally with a new group he called The Blue Flame Blues Band. On Sundays, after studying all morning and working a shift at the UCLA research library, I’d stop at the Ashgrove before going home. Taj would be giving one on one guitar lessons to students in the main room, and you could slip in silently and sit in the darkened last row of seats and get a free concert. After explaining someting or demonstrating a chord, or blues run, he’d often just keep going. It would be 10 or 15 minutes before he’d come back from the trance that accompanied his playing. He was an extremely attentive teacher but his digressions were always welcome. Sitting in that dark corner I’d look up and see a sliver of light illuminating a ceiling fan. The shadows and reflections spinning off that old fan added to the ambiance. A little imagination was all that was necessary to put me in the Mississippi Delta.
The Ashgrove was more than a music venue. In the front of the club, before the entrance to the main room was a counter. Books, records, miscellaneous publications were available for purchase. I recall a person flipping through albums one afternoon. Something about that face seemed familiar. But the blue jeans and the bucket hat obscured the identity of the large woman standing in front of me. Then she signed some papers brought forth by a guy from the office nearby. Instantly it clicked, that’s Big Mama Thornton and she just signed a contract to play here next week!
A week later, Kenny and I settled in for another Ashgrove experience. The lights dimmed and that deep, clear, invisible voice sounded:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Ashgrove is proud to present, Willie Mae, Big Mama Thornton.”
A shadowy figure strolled through the audience, up the center isle, and onto the stage as the band responded with a slow blues riff. She had attitude, with a twinkle in her eye. The band suddenly stopped playing. A spotlight caught Big Mama’s face and she positioned herself behind a microphone. In her right hand was a white lacy handerchief.
“Are you ready,” she asked. The audience yelled, “Yeah!”
“I said,… are you ready?” Big Mama repeated. We all yelled “Yeah” as loud as we could.
From behind that handerchief Big Mama produced a gleaming silver harmonica and proceded to blow a powrful, blues roll. The band responded with an upbeat schuffle and her set was underway.
It soon became apparent that we were living in a most important and unusual time. Aside from the fact that change was in the air, many of us realized this was our last or only chance to see and hear the musicians who were passing the torch of America’s heirloom music. Like many, I attended these performances as often as I could. As my knowledge increased, I longed to see some of the blues giants who were well on in years. One afternoon my firend Kenny and I stopped by the Ashgrove to pick up a flyer of coming events and to brouse through the records for sale. On the counter was a clipboard with some lined paper. Across the top of the sheet was written, Who would you like to see at the Ashgrove in coming weeks? People were invited to list some names. Having recently started playing blues harmonica, I had one name in mind.
“Who are you gonna write down?” Kenny asked.
“Im thinking of asking for Sonny Boy Williamson II,” I said.
Just then I heard a raspy voice behind me.
“He dead. Sonny Boy dead.” It was Taj Mahal. “Yeah man, Sonny Boy died a month or so ago.”
That strengthened my resolve.
One time an unrecognizable name appeared on the Ashgrove’s flyer of coming attractions. A Chicago bluesman named Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup was set to appear the following week. Though I’d never heard of him, it soon became apparent that this appearance was something special. In those pre-Google days, a little background research was a bit more challenging. Before Crudup’s performance I learned that he was the writer of a song called “That’s All right.” He’d recorded it back in 1947 but it wasn’t until a young man from Tupelo, Mississippi recorded it in 1955 that millions heard it. Elvis Presley’s recording of “That’s All Right” is generally regarded as the springboard to his career. Crudup only lived a few years after that trip to the Ashgrove, but in the audience that night were young musicians who wanted the opportunity to see “The Father of Rock and Roll,” as he came to be called. I’ve no doubt that many of the bands playing in LA clubs like the Whiskey a-go-go, The Trip, and Bido Lidos were in attendance to see Crudup. He died a few years after that performance, but not before enjoying some of the respect and notoriety long overdue. The proper royalities never came.
As the Vietnam War and resultant protest movement grew in intensity, so too did the Ashgrove’s commitment to social change and artists that promoted both their art and themes of social justice. The Firesign Theater became regulars with their brand of biting comedy set in the form of old radio dramas. One memorable evening featured the country blues of the legendary Son House followed by local poets reading anit-war poems. Billed as the Angry Arts, among them was Dalton Trumbo, the author of the powerful anti-war novel Johnny Got His Gun. Trumbo was the last to read. He chose an excerpt from his criticaly aclaimed novel where the disabled veteran is thinking to himslef:
There's nothing noble about dying. Not even if you die for honor. Not even if you die the greatest hero the world ever saw. Not even if you're so great your name will never be forgotten and who's that great? The most important thing is your life little guys. You're worth nothing dead except for speeches. Don't let them kid you any more. Pay no attention when they tap you on the shoulder and say come along we've got to fight for liberty or whatever their word is there's always a word.
Just say mister I'm sorry I got no time to die I'm too busy and then turn and run like hell. If they say coward why don't pay any attention because it's your job to live not to die. If they talk about dying for principles that are bigger than life you say mister you're a liar. Nothing is bigger than life. There's nothing noble in death. What's noble about lying in the ground and rotting? What's noble about never seeing sunshine again? What's noble about having your legs and arms blown off? What's noble about being an idiot? What's noble about being dead? Because when you're dead mister it's all over. It's the end. You're less then a dog less than a rat less than a bee or an ant less than a white maggot crawling around on a dungheap. You're dead mister and you died for nothing.
You're dead mister
Dead.
Before he reached the last word, dead, he paused for about 10 seconds, and then shouted it out at the top of his lungs. Simultaneously, the lights went out and we all sat in total darkness for about a minute. Chilling does not begin to describe the feeling in the room.
Fortunately, some music filled the air before that evening ended.
60s survivors like to think that as a culture, we have learned something. Just as we truly believed that we could change the world, so too were we sure that our music was a big part of that equation. I’ll leave that for the historians and pundits to discuss. What concerns me most is how we now get our music and the fact that small clubs like the Ashgrove are a thing of the past. It’s easy to fall into a mawkish trap and romantisize the way things were. I’m content to honor the memory of those watershed days and relive in my mind the nights spent with many seminal figures of American music. Still, I wish I could take you there for a full sensory experience. You’d see the wooden chairs, hear the sound of intstruments well-tuned and well- worn, played by legends. I wish you could experience the live sound of the Mississippi Delta, Southside Chicago, the Georgia Sea Islands, and the Texas plains. All in one small room and an hour from your door.
