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Authors: Mary Lou Sullivan

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BOOK: Raisin' Cain: The Wild and Raucous Story of Johnny Winter (Kindle Edition)
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I made several trips to Austin, Texas, where Uncle John Turner and Tommy Shannon regaled me with tales of their early struggles, adventures on LSD, rock festivals, and historic recording sessions. Austin artist Jim Franklin shared memories of his lifelong friendship with Johnny, Johnny’s gigs with Muddy Waters and Freddie King, and some bizarre stories about Salvador Dali.
I interviewed Mark Epstein at a gig he played with Joe Bonamassa, and waited out a hurricane to talk to producer Terry Manning at Compass Point Studios in the Bahamas. I hooked up with Billy Branch and Jerry Portnoy at the North Atlantic Blues Festival in Rockland, Maine. I met Steve Paul backstage at B. B. King’s in New York City, thanks to Johnny’s new manager Paul Nelson, who brought the project and my friendship with Johnny back on track.
I gleaned a wealth of information about Johnny and had a ball speaking with people from throughout the United States and beyond: Edgar Winter in Los Angeles; Edwina Winter in Beaumont, Texas; Muddy’s manager Scott Cameron, Dick Shurman, and Dennis Drugan in Chicago; Bobby Caldwell and Floyd Radford in Florida; Bob Margolin in North Carolina; Doug Brockie in New Jersey; Bobby T. in Connecticut; and Mike and Richard Vernon in Spain and the United Kingdom.
Yet my fondest memory is the night Johnny answered the door wearing the Homer Simpson slippers I had given him the week before. After our interview, he walked over to his CD player, his shirt open to display his trademark tattoos, wearing dark blue sweatpants and those bright yellow slippers with bulging white eyes. I had asked him to play me his fiery rendition of B. B. King’s “It’s My Own Fault” on the
Mike Bloomfield/Al Kooper Fillmore East: The Lost Concert Tapes 12/13/68
CD that had just been released. As I sat beside him on the couch, listening to that historic performance by this amazing guitarist with a wonderful heart, my only thought was, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
December 2009
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 
T
o Johnny Winter, who trusted me with his legacy and shared some amazing stories (and a lot of laughs) during our Saturday nights together.
To Susan Winter, a sweet and gracious lady, who shared her memories and Johnny’s personal archives.
Warm thanks to the musicians, artists, producers, and music industry people who generously shared their time and memories: Andy Aledort, Bill Bentley, Billy Branch, Doug Brockie, Bobby Caldwell, Scott Cameron, Rick Derringer, Rick Dobbis, Dennis Drugan, Mark Epstein, Mark Erlewine, Dennis Ferrante, Jim Franklin, Josh Alan Friedman, Jeff Ganz, Steve Hecht, Styve Homnick, Bruce Iglauer, John Jackson, Wayne June, Vito Liuzzi, Jimmy Jo Longoria, Terry Manning, Bob Margolin, Val Minett, James Montgomery, Paul Nelson, Paul Oscher, Steve Paul, Jerry Portnoy, Floyd Radford, Pat Rush, Tommy Shannon, Dick Shurman, Teddy Slatus (who trusted me enough to start the ball rolling), Scott Spray, Bobby T. (Torello), Uncle John Turner, Mike Vernon, Richard Vernon, Edgar Winter, Edwina Winter, and John Wooler.
To the writers, researchers, and photographers who generously shared their work: Steve Banks, Thomas Brown, Charles Fitzsimmons, Bob Gruen, Tom Guerra, Charles Harbutt, Dennis Hickey, Nels Jacobson, John Nova Lomax, Sean McDevitt, Dan Muise, Paul Natkin, Jim Sherman, Lois Siegel, Jim Summaria, Burton Wilson, and Susan Winter. Special thanks to Jim Geuther from Switzerland, who developed and maintains “The Johnny Winter Story,” the ultimate fan website with 20,000 pages and several thousand photographs.
For his vision, passion, and dedication to the integrity of the project: Mike Edison, my editor at Backbeat.
For literary inspiration, advice, and expertise: Scott Bradfield, Scott Dirks, Robert Gordon, Tom Guerra, John Gustavson, Mark Hoffman, Jordan Pecile, Tom Smith, and Patrick Sullivan.
For transcribing and proofreading: Jessie Bradley, Chris Dimock, Wendy Merchant, Kelly Racine, Lisa Rau, and special thanks to Bev Canfield, who spent endless hours transcribing dozens of interviews.
For legal assistance and friendship above and beyond the call of duty: Vinny Cervoni. To the old friends and new friends who helped me on my journey: Dom Forcella, Andy (Drew Blood) Grzybowski, Steve Knauf, Tim Lee, Ron MacDonald, Neal Olderman, Jack Ortman, Steven Pearl, T. Bone Piazza, Walter Potter, Jim Quist, Les Strong, Josh Sullivan, Kerry Tilton, and members of the Johnny Winter Guitar Slinger Group.
To those warm and wonderful Texans who made me feel at home: Kumi Smedley, Morgan Turner, Jeanne Whittington, Leaa Mechling, Leland Parks, and Alan Haynes, whose amazing guitar virtuosity always makes a trip to Austin memorable.
And finally, a very special thanks to Johnny Georgiades, who offered moral support and encouragement, and believed in me and this book every step of the way.
INTRODUCTION
 
MADISON SQUARE GARDEN, JUNE 1973
 
T
he smell of marijuana permeated Madison Square Garden. The 19,000-seat arena was sold out—filled with fans eagerly awaiting Johnny Winter’s comeback concert after a nine-month hiatus in River Oaks Hospital in New Orleans. Chants of “John-ny, John-ny, John-ny” filled the smoky auditorium. The surreal glow of thousands of matches raised the level of excitement in the charged atmosphere. The house lights dimmed and the crowd jumped to its feet, wildly applauding the return of their guitar hero, who strutted onstage wearing a black velvet cape and brandishing a white Firebird guitar. Unlike his lover Janis Joplin and his friend Jimi Hendrix, Johnny Winter had triumphed over the excesses of a drug-filled lifestyle and lived to tell the tale.
A silver blizzard of tiny metallic photos floated from the rafters as Johnny tore into a blazing version of “Rock Me Baby,” a fiery fusion of the rock that made him famous and the blues he loved. His long agile fingers raced across his guitar strings, cranking out the scorching guitar riffs that had become synonymous with his name. “Rock ‘n’ roll!” he yelled in a guttural voice, a combination rasp and holler emanating from his very soul, working the crowd into a fever pitch.
He teased the audience with an earthy pelvic thrust as he flung his cape aside to reveal an outfit as outrageous as his antics. New York fashion designer Bill Witten had created his costume—a white spandex jumpsuit with silver-studded bellbottoms and suspenders, a studded collar, and an amethyst medallion reflecting the spotlight shining on his bare chest. The overhead spots created a halo on the translucent white hair flowing over his shoulders and bounced off the studded armbands adorned with silver streamers that draped down toward the floor.
Johnny’s band—bassist Randy Jo Hobbs and drummer Richard Hughes—were joined by Jimmy Gillan, a second drummer, whose hard-pounding rhythm added to the intensity of the powerful trio. Susan Warford, a pretty blonde in a blue jumpsuit slit to her navel, pounded on a tambourine and danced to the music with wild abandon.
Wielding his power on a changing array of Firebird guitars, he whipped the audience into a frenzy, playing behind his back, over his head, and perched on his knees at the edge of the stage. He was a combination of Texas bluesman—who captivated the audience with his masterful slide, scorching guitar, and gritty vocals—and the quintessential rock star, who pounced across the stage in a wild celebration of raw sexuality and unbridled rock ‘n’ roll.
He took the audience on a musical journey to the Mississippi Delta and his Texas roots with “Black Cat Bone.” Without missing a beat, he jumped back into rock with an elongated version of “Rock & Roll,” an original that fused a driving rock tempo with blistering Texas slide guitar. His hands slithered around the frets during the blazing solo on his version of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” which appeared on
Johnny Winter And Live,
his first gold album. The Stones shared a mutual respect with Johnny, and had played one of his songs, “I’m Yours and I’m Hers,” for an audience of 250,000 at their Hyde Park concert in London on July 5, 1969. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, who leased rehearsal space next to his at S.I.R. (Studio Instrumental Rentals) in New York, had sent him two more songs for his latest album.
Columbia had released
Still Alive and Well,
his fifth album on that label, in March. The title track was his battle cry; the lyrics reflected the direction his life had taken in the past few years:
“Did you ever take a look and see who’s left around?
Everyone I thought was cool is six feet underground.
They tried to get me lots of times and now they’re comin’ after you.
I got out and I’m here to say, ‘Baby, you can get out too.’
I’m still alive and well,
I’m still alive and well,
Every now and then I know it’s kinda hard to tell,
But I’m still alive and well.”
 
The aura of death and destruction from drugs, alcohol, and the rock lifestyle wasn’t about to leave him alone—within years, Hobbs would die of a cocaine overdose and Hughes would hook a hose to his car’s exhaust pipe and commit suicide. But tonight Johnny was ecstatic and drug-free, playing the music he loved to thousands of adoring fans who hadn’t deserted him.
After two heady encores, coaxed by the deafening sound of thousands of fans clapping their hands and stomping their feet, the lanky albino headed for the sleek stretch limo waiting outside. His manager Steve Paul and the Garden’s bouncers pushed a path through the crowd hovering by the exit and surrounding the limousine. Still reeling from the adulation of a standing ovation, Johnny settled in the white leather seat with Susan, a glass of Jack Daniels in his hand, and a Kool dangling from his lips. The crush of the mob began rocking the limo, signaling to the chauffeur it was time to depart. He gunned the engine as a warning and drove off into the night.
It had been an incredible performance and Johnny was back in the game. He had come a long way from Beaumont, Texas, and the journey had only begun.
PART I
 
1
 
ALBINO IN A REDNECK TOWN
 
“Beaumont is a workingman’s town where everything smells bad—it’s right in the middle of all these chemical plants, a great place to grow up. The population is about 100,000 to 125,000 people. Most of them work in the refinery. You can tell which way the wind blows by which kind of smell you’re getting. That direction over there’s a paper plant, over there’s a sulfur plant, and there’s the oil refinery. It’s glorious.”
—JOHNNY WINTER
 
 
 
B
eaumont was built on a fifty-acre tract of land on the Neches River bluff in southeast Texas in 1835. The earliest industries were lumber, rice, and ranching. On January 10, 1901, a gusher on Spindletop Hill turned it into the world’s first oil boomtown. The Lucas Gusher was quickly joined by five more, and Spindletop’s production of oil outstripped the total yield of the rest of the world.
When Johnny was born in 1944, Jim Crow laws were still in effect across the South; Beaumont’s schools, buses, restaurants, restrooms, and water fountains were segregated. Blacks had their own stores, nightclubs, schools, neighborhoods, and social lives in another side of town. In fact, blacks were turned away from the 1944 Georgia Democratic primary polling booths and not allowed to vote. Drafted into the service during World War II, they were considered unfit for combat and segregated into all-black units.
By the time Johnny graduated from high school, the “Golden Triangle” region of Beaumont, Port Arthur, and Orange was the petrochemical complex of southeastern Texas. Beaumont’s economy was dominated by the chemical, petroleum, shipbuilding, and oil-drilling industries. But Johnny knew long before high school that his destiny would take him far beyond the refineries of Beaumont, Texas.
Johnny’s parents, Edwina Holland Winter, a native of Orange, Texas, and John Dawson Winter Jr., a Leland, Mississippi native, met on a blind date arranged by a mutual friend.
“John was in the Army National Guard,” said Edwina Winter. “We hit it off pretty well. I was twenty-five and he was thirty-three when we got married about a year later on February 5, 1943. The National Guard was activated early in World War II but John did not go overseas until late 1943.”
Edwina describes herself and her husband as “Americans” but Johnny delves deeper into the family genealogy. “Winter is English, German, and Scottish,” he explains. “My father’s family was from Mississippi as far as I can go back. Daddy was a cotton broker in Leland and my grandfather was too. He bought the cotton from the farmers and sold it to the cotton merchants in Manchester, England. It was my grandfather’s company. Daddy wasn’t very old when he started doing brokering. He did it for a while, then went to college at Virginia Military Institute and went into the army.”
The Winters lived at Fort Sill in Oklahoma before John Jr. was sent overseas.
“John went from Oran in South Africa to Italy and then to Manila in the Philippines before he ever got home,” Edwina said. “He was a colonel in the field artillery until he went overseas; then he was a quartermaster of black troops. John was not prejudiced because all his officers were black and he always had a very good relationship with them. Of course, John grew up in Mississippi, where most of the coloreds chopped the cotton. In fact, you didn’t have help at certain times of the year because all the help went to chop the cotton. It was a different kind of life from anything you have now. Southern white people and black people have, as a rule, always had a very special relationship. There were bad white men who didn’t treat their servants well, but the majority had very good relationships because they were in your home all the time.”
BOOK: Raisin' Cain: The Wild and Raucous Story of Johnny Winter (Kindle Edition)
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