Oh, Koko Taylor, wherefore art thou? I faithfully waited by the phone, sure that the mighty blues diva would return my call. I imagined that booming voice, with origins waaaaaaay down in the gut, gaining momentum like a rabid wildebeest in the sternum, and finally gushing past her tonsils and parting every audience’s hair in the joint.

“I get to talk to the Queen of the Blues,” I told myself a couple of hours before the interview. I knew this was a moniker to be taken seriously. The title of King of the Blues changes hands more than an error prone Waffle House. Anyone could be King (i.e., Muddy Waters, B.B. King, Willie Dixon), but the regal endowment of Queen is singular. Her rule expands beyond the normal boundaries of longevity. Her majesty’s singing has enough power to make a wayward man go clean, a curly head go straight, and a stone heart go sentimental.

She has touched many with her conviction, and the world has responded in kind - 19 W.C. Handy Awards (more than any other female blues artist), six Grammy nominations (including a win in 1984), and an induction into the Blues Foundation’s Blues Hall Of Fame in 1999. The butterflies in my stomach were in full maturity, knowing that I was going to talk to the woman who in 1993, was given a full day with her name on it. “Koko Taylor Day,” Chicago Mayor Daley declared after bestowing her with a “Legend of the Year” award. Imagine that, a city of millions forgoing the usual label day and putting your name in its place.

Like a jersey number, the name “Queen” should retire when Koko decides to hang up her wails. If it ever happens. I knew the interview would be solid because Taylor goes to great lengths with whatever she does. Over a 100 dates a year for a woman in her youthful 60s is tremendous. Her latest album, “Royal Blue” is as strong as any of her previous recordings. Old daddies (B.B. King) and the “teeth-cutters” (Keb Mo, Kenny Wayne Shepherd) all appear to lend buoyancy to an album already afloat with strong blues cuts.

“I put my heart and soul into everything that I do,” she told Alligator Records. “I worked long and hard on Royal Blue, and I want my fans to enjoy it as much as I do.”

The butterflies turned into a swirling horde as the interview time drew near. I began having doubts. My life had been a cakewalk compared to hers. A little suburban lad talking to a woman whose family had been sharecroppers in Memphis. “Rough, hard, that’s what it was like. It was hard,” she told Clockwatch’s James Plath. “When we worked in the field it was like in the summertime. The summertime in Memphis, Tenn., was like a day in August in Florida. Now, we out there in the hot sun and the sun is comin’ down like a hundred degrees, shinin’ on us, no shade, no nothin’ over us. We’re just out there humped over, pickin’ cotton or standin’ up choppin’ cotton with a hoe. It wasn’t nothin’ easy, it wasn’t nothin’ to rejoice over or be proud of — I can tell you that much. It was hard work, and also it was work that we didn’t get paid for.”

Born Cora Walton on Sept. 28, 1935, the nickname Koko is believed to have come from her affinity for chocolate. She also developed a strong bond with church and gospel music. Her father’s insistence on getting up every Sunday grounded Koko early on. Her work ethic, as well as her interpretation of the blues, has origins in the church.

“You see, my daddy said, ‘Everybody in this house, whether you like it or not, we goin’ to church today,’” she told Plath. “‘Today’s Sunday, we goin’ to church.’ So, because I grew up goin’ to church, grew up in gospel, naturally that put a different reflection on me and on my life ... because instead of goin’ somewhere, gettin’ into somethin’ bad or doin’ something that maybe some other kids are doin’ that wasn’t in church on Sunday, I didn’t have that opportunity. And living in the gospel taught me to love, it taught me the pleasure and the great things about life.”

I snickered when I read that the angel Koko had her wings bent from time to time. Ignoring their father’s insistence on singing only gospel music, Taylor and her siblings would sneak out back with their homemade instruments and play the taboo blues. With one brother accompanying on a guitar made of bailing wire and nails and one brother on a fife made out of a corncob, Koko would lend her vocals to the primitive orchestra. The radio also spoke louder than her father’s voice, with names like Big Mama Thornton, Bessie Smith, Muddy Waters, and Howlin’ Wolf whispering to her about destiny. She loved the sounds, but she never imagined she would be as regal as they one day.

An orphan by 11, Koko moved to Chicago when she was 18 with her future (and late) husband, Robert “Pops” Taylor. Their income consisted of nothing more than “thirty five cents and a box of Ritz Crackers,” and they soon found dwellings on Chicago’s rough South Side, which was also an enabler for some of the dirtiest blues in the city.

Koko soon found employment, cleaning house in the more affluent northern suburbs. On the weekends, she and Pops would visit juke joints on the West and South Side. These weren’t places for a quaint beer. Establishments like the Bucket of Blood had a mean clientele where only the blues was more vicious. My musical experiences felt inconsequential compared to what Taylor’s memory banks must hold. Seeing Buddy Guy and Junior Wells for a nickel must have been something.

Koko only wanted to be a gaped mouth observer at these performances, but husband Pops knew better. He prodded her constantly to get on stage, and when she gave in, the blues world gained another alum. Taylor began sitting in with the greats, and so her ascension to legendary status began. However, she still thought of herself as a tiny tater until Willie Dixon came along and set her straight.

“My God, I never heard a woman sing the blues like you sing the blues,” Dixon told her after an especially sweltering performance in 1962. “There are lots of men singing the blues today, but not enough women. That’s what the world needs today, a woman with a voice like yours to sing the blues.”
Dixon became her mentor, getting her a recording contract as well as writing her first song, “Wang Dang Doodle.” It sold over a million copies and her reputation became cemented over night. Audiences grew, new record contracts were signed and gigs a year numbered over 200. Awards popped up faster than locusts on Miracle-Gro. She made TV (PBS) and movie appearances (David Lynch’s 1991 “Wild At Heart) and she still adhered to her trademark “therapeutic blues.” The words to “Wang Dang” are indicative of a live Taylor performance:

“Tonight we’re gonna pitch a ball/Down to that union hall/Gonna romp and tromp ‘till midnight/We’re gonna fuss and fight ‘till daylight/We’re gonna pitch a wang dang doodle all night long....”

She celebrates the blues like no other. Her explorations go beyond the 12-bar renditions of the downtrodden. She adds a puff of light to her shows, giving a positive air to a genre of music that some believe started with a fiery handshake. Her individuality (let alone being the Queen of the “old boy network” music business) launched her into the legendary realm.

I patted myself vigorously, proud that little old I was talking to an establishment.

Then that pesky self-doubt began whispering sweet-nothings in my ear. How was I going to pull this interview off? The day before, I was told that I would have 15 minutes to spit out my questions.

“She doesn’t like to do more than that,” the publicist cheerily told me. I was aghast. There was so much to ask. I wanted to know how she puts a light into a music that transformed a color into a glum adjective. I was also curious about how she is able to stay on the same level with her ardent admirers.
After 40 years of performing, she has yet to become jaded from her fans. She sometimes even hosts poolside barbecues for the flocks that come to her shows. Was that a misprint? I didn’t know that kind of celebrity/fan relationship existed. I calculated that this conversation alone would steal away more than a couple of precious minutes. “Surely there’s a law against a 15-minute interview,” I stammered. I could only pray for efficiency.

It was 10 minutes before showdown and I still had to cram fathoms into a cubbyhole. Questions multiplied rather than dissipated. One excerpt stuck in my head that warranted a hearty query - “It’s a challenge,” she once told Alligator Records. “It’s tough being out here doing what I’m doing in what they call a man’s world. It’s not every woman that can hang in there and do what I am doing today.”
What would she tell a young girl, brimming with talent, on how to succeed in the male dominated record business? Or even more important, how about a young black girl?

Five minutes and I was still treading on a 90-degree slope. Would she ever retire? Did she think blues was headed in a good direction? Has she ... the phone rang and my heart jumped out the window. The voice on the other line said he was the publicist for Alligator Records.

“We can’t do today, we can’t seem to find her,” the voice said, sounding farther away by the second. I think I told him it was OK and I understood. The little lady is in high demand and I don’t blame her for a reprieve from phone duty. Disappointed as I was, I had gained a booty of information about one of our national treasures. However, one last question lingered, and it will fester until I can possibly meet her at Bele Chere. I will ask it with a coupling of pride and humility - “Ms. Taylor, can I have your autograph?”

 

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