No Damage Yet

Blues pianist Little Willie Littlefield sat at the edge of my bed holding his index finger upright and close to my face.

It was three o’clock in the morning. We were staying in San Francisco at Harry Duncan’s apartment. I’d played drums that night with the Little Willie Littlefield trio at a nightclub in the city. Also on the bill was Albert “the Master of the Telecaster” Collins and his band, for which I was also the drummer.

Harry had booked Littlefield and Collins to play at the Monterey Jazz Festival Blues Afternoon on Saturday, Sept. 16. Harry scheduled a week-long tour prior to the festival for the pick-up band to get the music tight.

Dead seriously, Willie said, “Paul, don’t ever bend this finger,” while staring into my eyes. “I’m a cop.”

He was starting to scare me. He was a slight man, about five-foot-six-inches, dressed in a natty blue sport coat and white shirt. He had been full of musical fun on stage earlier that evening, joking with the crowd and his band — me and my bass player friend, Kip Maerkelein. But his intensity and remarkable transformation from the fun-loving musician with whom I’d performed a few hours earlier perplexed me. 

“What do you mean Willie?” I asked. “I’m a cop,” he repeated. “You met my wife, Jenny, tonight. I own three cars. They’re parked in my garage.”  

I had no idea why he had to tell me that. “Willie, we need to get to sleep,” I said. “We start the tour tomorrow.” He didn’t want to go to bed, but I gently persuaded him to leave my room.

The next morning Willie was bright-eyed and friendly, not a trace of the menacing “don’t ever bend this finger” man of the night before. I figured he probably had a little too much to drink.

That day we’d drive four hours to Garberville, Calif. for both artists to play at the original Mateel Community Center, located in the town’s old Fireman’s Hall. The following day only Albert and the band would play at Vance Log Cabin on Second Street in Eureka. Our last show before Monterey with both artists would be Rancho Nicasio, a historic roadhouse located in the rural ranchlands of western Marin County.

Littlefield, born in El Campo, Texas in 1931, was playing boogie woogie, jump blues and R&B regularly in Houston by the time he was 16. At 18 he made his first record, “Little Willie’s Boogie,” which was a hit in Texas. In 1952 he recorded “K.C. Lovin,’” written by the famous songwriting team of Leiber and Stoller. (Although Willie claimed he wrote the original.) It was later recorded by Wilbert Harrison as “Kansas City,” which became a huge national radio hit. 

Littlefield performed constantly throughout the country and recorded for a handful of labels, including Ace and Modern. In 1977, Harry found him playing in San Jose nightclubs. He asked him to perform a set at the1978 Monterey Jazz Festival Blues Afternoon, which he was booking.

At the same time, Harry reached out to Collins, the legendary Texas blues guitarist, about also playing at the festival. Harry said he had dubbed Albert the “Master of the Telecaster” and the name stuck.

Collins was an electric blues guitarist and singer with a distinctive guitar style. He was noted for his powerful playing and his use of altered tunings and a capo. His cousin, Lightnin’ Hopkins, introduced him to the guitar at an early age.

Over his 40-year career Albert recorded numerous albums including, “Truckin’ with Albert Collins” and a 1985 collaboration with Robert Cray and fellow Texas guitarist Johnny Copeland, “Showdown,” which won a Grammy. 

Collins was an inspiration to a generation of Texas guitar players, including Stevie Ray Vaughan and his brother Jimmie Vaughan. 

At the time of the tour, I was living in Arcata. Garberville, the second stop, was located about an hour south in Southern Humboldt. That area had become the epicenter of marijuana growing in the country. Well-hidden pot farms in the remote mountains near Garberville were cultivating the nation’s most powerful sinsemilla (which translates to without seeds) pot in the country. Money was flowing. Pounds were selling for $3,000 to $5,000.

Albert Collins, guitar, Paul DeMark, drums, Kip Maerkelein, bass playing the Mateel Community Center Fireman’s Hall, September 1978.

The Mateel Community Center had risen out of the vibrant counterculture in Southern Humboldt. At the Mateel, the Little Willie trio delivered a mostly smoking set of boogie woogie blues. But Willie, presumably because he was playing solo in San Jose nightclubs, also played schmaltzy versions of songs like “Mona Lisa” and the cha cha “Never on Sunday.”

Albert and his band – Harry Duncan on harmonica and vocals, Mike Henderson, guitar/vocals, Ron Stallings tenor sax, Kip Maerkelein, bass and me on drums – played a mixture of his driving instrumental shuffles and slow blues. 

At one point Albert walked into the crowd in Garberville with his 50-foot guitar cord and was lifted onto a big man’s shoulders while he kept playing. (Thanks to Gary Glassman for that memory.) The excited crowd loved the charismatic Collins.

The next night the Albert Collins Band played for a full house at well-known hospitality entrepreneur Chris Smith’s Vance Log Cabin in Eureka. Little Willie was given the night off. 

After the show we packed up our equipment. Our next show was in two days at Marin’s Rancho Nicasio club. Little Willie, Harry and I would stay in Humboldt that night and drive to San Francisco the next day. Collins, a veteran road warrior, was going to drive his Econoline van all night to the Bay Area. He always had it together. 

Albert maintained a cool look, which was his brand. He wore a tight, caramel-brown-colored-leather jacket and sported a thin mustache and a soul patch. To me, he epitomized cool. Most of his songs and albums mentioned something about coolness – “Frosty,” “Don’t Lose Your Cool,” “Sno Cone” and “Ice Pickin’.”

He was friendly, but a man of few words. If you asked him how he was doing, he’d invariably say, “I feel better than a government check, or a cashier’s check,” with a laugh. 

As the band was standing outside the Vance Log Cabin at 2 a.m., Little Willie said to Collins, “Albert, I called ahead. It’s fogged in. You can’t drive.”

This was 1978. No cell phones and no phone booth in sight. Albert looked at Willie and shook his head in amazement. “Harry,” Albert said, “keep this guy away from me.”

No Damage

The Rancho Nicasio nightclub held up to 200 people with tables and chairs, a stage and sizable dance floor. On the night we performed, I played an opening set with the Little Willie trio followed by the Albert Collins Band. 

Before the first set, Willie re-introduced me to his wife, Jenny, and stepson, Jerry, who sat at a table in the center of the room. 

“Is Willie a police officer,” I asked Jenny when Willie left. “He told me he’s a cop and owns three cars.”

Jenny laughed. “No, he’s not a cop and he doesn’t own three cars,” she said. “I’m the one who drives.”

Harry had told Willie to cut out the schmaltzy songs like his take on Nat King Cole’s ballad “Mona Lisa.” He told Willie to focus on the driving barrelhouse boogie woogie blues songs he was famous for.

“That’s what I booked you to play at Monterey Jazz Festival,” Harry told him. 

When we were on stage getting ready to play our set, Jenny shouted at Willie from the audience. “Don’t take your shoes off, Willie.”

“I’d like to begin the night by taking my shoes off,” Willie responded over the microphone. I saw Jenny frowning and shaking her head. 

We played a swinging version of “One Scotch, One Bourbon and One Beer,” an Amos Milburn song from 1952.

“We’re going to play a variety of things,” Willie said. Speaking to his wife and stepson, he said, “Jenny, Jerry, no damage yet.”

I thought the back and forth with his wife from the stage was highly unusual. After we played a very slow “Mona Lisa,” I saw Jenny shaking her head again. 

“Jenny, no damage yet,” Willie told her over the mic. After the set, Willie said to Jenny, “The people love the trio.” She said nothing as Willie continued talking about the music, ignoring her while laughing. 

This “no damage” exclamation happened throughout our one-hour set. After that tour, no damage entered the subculture lingo of my friendship circle. “No Damage” became the theme of the Hey Juan Barnstormers softball team that I was a part of. It also became the marketing logo of my son Julian DeMark’s artist website. 

In another nod to Little Willie’s influence, in the mid-’80s I formed a rhythm and blues/reggae band in Southern Humboldt, No Damage. It included Rod Deal, Danny Wymer and Doug Cox and we played clubs like The Cellar in Garberville and the Old Town Bar and Grill in Eureka. 

The Albert Collins sextet played a blistering set of his instrumental blues shuffles, slow blues songs and tunes from his new Alligator Records album “Ice Pickin.” A solid warm-up for our Monterey set we’d play in two days.  

The Monterey County Fairgrounds has hosted the annual Monterey Jazz Festival continuously since 1958. It is still going strong. The venue was famous as the stage for the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, which featured Janis Joplin’s breakout performance, Otis Redding, The Electric Flag and Jimi Hendrix. It was made into a film, “Monterey Pop.”

It holds 7,500 seats and features a 12-foot-high stage. In addition to Albert Collins and Little Willie, other acts included Ruth Brown and Jimmy Witherspoon. The afternoon was sold out on a beautiful late-summer day. 

Producer Jimmy Lyons and his stage crew told the musicians backstage that our sets were to last no longer than 45 minutes. After that, the curtain would close and our music would have to stop. 

The Little Willie Littlefield trio played a swinging set of boogie and barrelhouse blues – no cocktail lounge songs. The crowd dug it and so did I. Willie had delivered a fine set. He was beaming backstage and received enthusiastic congratulations. 

The Albert Collins Band played a couple of warm-up blues standards without Albert before Harry introduced him. We kicked off with an uptempo, swinging shuffle. Albert was a consummate performer, from his cool look to his ferocious guitar playing. He inspired me to play with intensity.

He sang some slow blues like “Angel of Mercy” and Guitar Slim’s “Things that I Used to Do.” We played his driving blues shuffle instrumental “Don’t Lose Your Cool,” and Jimmy Reed’s “Baby What You Want me to Do?” 

His last song was “Frosty,” a famous instrumental shuffle from his debut album. Albert liked to play an extended solo on it. He walked toward the edge of the stage with his 50-foot guitar cord. Then he disappeared from the musicians’ view as he descended the 12 feet of stairs to the audience level.

Meanwhile, the time limit for our 45-minute set was ending. The backstage crew signaled forcefully for us to stop playing. But we kept going because we knew if we stopped, Albert would be hung out to dry. His guitar solo would simply crash and burn because we couldn’t make eye contact with him to end the song together.

Producer Lyons came out to the stage and took the mic as the curtains were closing.

“Albert, Albert come back,” he said plaintively. “The set’s over.” Albert never heard him. The curtain closed and the crew surrounded us and demanded we STOP NOW! We finished the verse and stopped. Predictably, Albert fell off the musical cliff and stumbled to a chaotic crash landing.

Albert ascended the stairs and Lyons reprimanded him. “I’m really sorry Mr. Lyons,” Albert said. 

Collins needed no apology for his performance until that moment. He was incendiary. The audience loved him. 

It was an honor to perform with Albert Collins and the talented Little Willie Littlefield, two distinctly different Texas blues musicians, on that grand stage.  

During that week-long tour, I never did bend Willie’s finger. I didn’t dare.

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Paul DeMark is a graduate of the Humboldt State University journalism program. Thank you to Pamela Long for editing and Julian DeMark for photo scanning.