Henry Qualls
Swb...@aol.com
by Bill Fountain.
Near Dark in Elmo, Texas.
It gets dark out here. Not the glowing neon city dark. No. this is the real
thing. This is pitch black, can't see the hand in front of your face, stars
like lighted pin holes in the curtain of night, country dark. Further on up
the road, an unknown, unseen animal howls menacingly.
I know exactly how he feels.
Echoes in the distance of a truck hauling heavy goods, storming down
highway 80 at illegal speed. A train beats a rhythmic heartbeat on the nearby
tracks. Listen. Can you hear it? Just beyond the noise of the faraway road.
Just beyond the night sounds. When it all settles down. At first, you aren't
even sure it's real.
Truth be known, it's as real as it gets. That's where the story starts. It
starts with the sound of an old guitar breaking the so called silence of the
night with a strained, lonesome chord. An old vanilla extract bottle,
sometimes a hot sauce bottle, slides on the frets, distilling the essence of
some higher blues knowledge. There is truth in the sound. The truth of the
soul. Some kind of bare ass collective unconscious shared by all of us but
appreciated by only a lucky few. The sound is uncompromising. It is visceral
and raw. Most of all it is real.
This is the story of Henry Qualls.
Elmo is a hamlet or so they say, which in Texan means a tiny little town
with no franchised hamburger joints and they don't take credit cards. It's
far enough away from Dallas to be country, but close enough to the highway
and the railroad tracks to still be accessed.
This is where Henry lives. This is where Henry was born. This is where
Henry plays.
We stop at a liquor store in Terrell to buy Henry some Beam's Eight Star
whiskey, his favorite. The clerk knows as soon as we ask for it where we are
headed. Once in Elmo, we stop at Aunt Kate's BBQ to grab incredible
sandwiches; a couple for us, a couple for Henry. They make Henry's up
special; adding a touch more fat to it.
We come bearing gifts.
Off the highway onto the country road. There's a 1949 tractor sitting out
in front of the large house. Henry got the house back in 1969. It used to be
a railroad house where the workers would come and sleep. A friendly man on
the porch invites us in. Henry is out getting some food. We go inside and
wait.
The main room is occupied by a large oil drum that Henry has converted into
a heating system for the house. It hooks to the fireplace and is anchored to
the floor with brick. It's not a cold day outside but the heat from the drum
is reassuring.
An old calendar on the wall. A beat up amplifier. A taped up microphone
stand. An old 58 Marquis Montgomery Wards guitar named Mabelline in the
corner of the room. Outside in the corridor, a drum kit.
This is the stage. This is where it happens.
Henry arrives, shotgun in hand and a who the hell is in my house look on
his bearded face. A flannel shirt. A cap holding his hair. Strong grip. I
don't know if he was out hunting food or buying it. I suspect the first. I
remember his song about squirrel sandwiches.
Henry asks if we need to use the bathroom. "I'm running kind of shy on
toilet paper." He says.
Henry's eyes are deep. There's a life's worth of stories in there. He saves
the BBQ sandwiches for later and we sit to chat a spell.
"My parents came out of Louisiana. But I was born right back there in Cedar
Grove." He says.
You step back in time when you speak to Henry. Not in just some vague
metaphorical sense, but literally, you take a leap into a different world
that moves and jives to a separate groove. It's not some "I remember when…"
retro dance, it's eerie and unnerving, yet captivating.
"I come from hard times, brother. Nobody came from where I came from,"
Henry says.
Born in 1934, Henry is one of a kind. There isn't another one like him
anywhere and guess what? There never will be again. He's untouched blues. The
pure stuff. Untainted by cyberspace, digital recordings or pop music. Henry
exists outside of the realm of the recent; separate from the artificial crop
of blues wannabes trying to one up Blind Lemon or add rap to Robert Johnson.
Henry plays his music on the porch. He toured Europe, he made a CD, he
played some local gigs. But Henry isn't looking for the bright lights or the
clamor of the crowd. He's happy playing because he is happy playing. Simple
as that.
Henry is the real thing. Country blues at its zenith, gospel blues as it as
he heard it as a young boy growing up around his grandmother.
"Go ahead ask me some questions," Henry says, "And I won't tell you no
lies."
"When is the first time you picked up a guitar?" I ask.
"My Grandma. They were the ones who had all that. They all played it."
Henry pauses, puffs two puffs then continues. "Fourteen children she had. All
of them played. That's where I picked it up from. Started out playing gospel
music. I still play it. That's what she loved to hear. So they all played it.
My Uncles. My Aunties. That's where that started from."
"Then as I went on through the years, I would listen to other people play
it. So forth and so on. I couldn't play that good at that time. But I learned
how to play it."
"Of course they got me written up as the blues man that lives in Texas. I
don't know what they talking about - the blues man. The spirituals are
natural blues."
"I play whenever I got the feeling to play it. A certain thing - I don't
know what it is - but that's it. I get that feeling and I pick up my guitar
and I play it. I hadn't forgot it, you see what I mean, sir? And it really
don't make me no difference whether I play it or I don't."
"By myself, that's when I play it. It's sort of a funny thing, real real
funny. I am not trying to get rich, that's another thing. Money. If I can get
me a little bit, that's all it takes. I ain't got to have a whole lot. I
worked hard for everything I got. Cause I got nothing but a bunch of junk -
don't misunderstand me there. I worked for it so it's mine."
"I was telling some people I'm going to stop playing all together. I
stopped playing for ten or twelve years. Never picked my guitar up. Then my
wife told me 'Hey, why don't you pick it up and play me a tune?' At that time
I was working real hard mowing yards. I will not play no more like I used to
play. I think I'm going to stop it - Unless I am playing for ya'll - like my
friends and so forth.
"I ain't going to think about going to Europe no more. I can go anytime I
get ready. It's a long trip over there. Take me fourteen hours going over
there on one way. But I'll go back if they want me to come. But I ain't
particular about going over the Atlantic Ocean and all that. Now, I done got
up in the age, I don't feel like going over there much."
Local music man and all around champion of jam, Hash Brown arrives at
Henry's villa. Accompanied by some Austin up and coming ax man, loaded down
with guitars and amps, Hash is obviously a welcomed visitor to the Quall's
homestead.
"Happy New Year," Hash says to Henry. "I see you made it into the
millenium."
"Everything is bad and sad with me now!" Henry laughs, hugging Hash Brown.
There's tuning. Henry is frustrated with one of the strings on a guitar
Hash bought him. They work with it, tape up some of the loose cords, plug up
the amps and dive into some sound.
"This is my church," Austin man says smiling. This is a religious
experience for him.
Henry launches into "Bread and Butter." Hash Brown catches up to him
without missing a beat. The amps are so loud the windows shake and in the
half dark, stove warmed room, the smell of exquisite BBQ still clinging to
the air, the jam takes on a life of its own.
Henry's hands, shaking previously, are meticulous and sure. His
arrangements ferocious and powerful. It's like he's ripping the sound out of
somewhere else and throwing it into the guitar. He takes two puffs of a
cigarette and tosses it into an ash tray on the floor filled with cigarettes
that have been puffed about twice. He cackles and laughs. The tune comes
alive in a way I have never heard it before.
There's that unmistakable gospel bottleneck slide that tastes of the spirit
of Blind Willie Johnson. There's flashes that hearken back to the men Henry
cut his musical teeth on: Frankie Lee Sims, Lil' Son Jackson, Lightnin'
Hopkins. There's a good ten percent of his ax work that pays dues to the
masters. The other ninety percent is all Henry. There's a divine wildness to
his approach; unpredictable riffs and changes.
"We go on what God gave us. Wisdom and knowledge. Didn't have no education
at all. That's fine. We know how to prize life itself. That's what it's all
about anyway. That's what it is finally gonna boil down to. Either way you
look at it. It boils down to wisdom. Knowledge. We have our brains up here.
Don't you never forget it. Brains up in there. I don't care nothing about
that other stuff. My guitar and my amplifier, they are gonna tell me whenever
I get ready to play 'em. Simple as that. It's just the way I am."
The jam spirals for an hour or so. Twists and turns. Old tunes, both
familiar and not, take off. A whole concert unfolds right there in that room.
The likes of which few people have ever witnessed. It's not coming soon to a
blues emporium near you. You can't get the tickets through ticketmasters.
It's not digitally sampled on Amazon.com. It's not prepackaged for mass
consumption.
It's near dark in Elmo, Texas when I finally understand what it is about
Henry Qualls that is so mystifying; so unique. The thing that makes Henry
"the real thing."
I'd tell you what it is, but to understand it, you'd have to hear him play.
Hard to explain in words when words don't explain it. The best I can offer
you is that feeling you get in the bottom of your gut when the world drops
the floor out from under you and leaves you with this overwhelming,
undeniable euphoria; comprehending something much bigger, much grander in
scale and design than you could have possibly imagined.
Henry is tuned into it. and it is tuned into him.
- Bill Fountain
Jim
I remember the first time I met Henry. Hash introduced us one night at
the Lakewood Bar & Grill and the first thing Henry did was look me straight
in the eye and say, "Nice to meetcha. I'm the devil." So I looked right
back at him and said, "Good! I been meaning to talk to you about that deal
we made back in '59." We cracked up.
Later he played a set with Hash on one guitar through an old Super and
Henry on the other guitar through another old Super. Bobby "Eat Yo'
Veggies" Baranowski was on drums. No bass player... Great set. Nobody
plays like Henry except Henry.
Rgds...Jim
------------------------------------------------------------------
jwe...@iadfw.net
www.geocities.com/big_jim_wells
>-----Original Message-----
>From: Swb...@aol.com <Swb...@aol.com>
>To: BLU...@LISTSERV.BROWN.EDU <BLU...@LISTSERV.BROWN.EDU>
>Date: Sunday, March 12, 2000 10:10 AM
>Subject: Henry Qualls
>
>Thought I'd post our feature from March on Henry Qualls for the list to
read
>by Bill Fountain.
>
>Near Dark in Elmo, Texas.
> It gets dark out here. Not the glowing neon city dark. No. this is the
real
<SNIP>
Don O.
>Date: Mon, Mar 13, 2000 14:59 EST
>He's quite a character. I remember after the picture was taken he
>asked, "where's my money?" I asked him how much he wanted. He just sort of
>got a devilish grin and said, "No, pay me later. That way I'll always be
>rich, because you'll always owe me!"
I had a similar encounter with Henry at a festival in Dallas. At the end of his set, someone asked me if I would take a picture of them with Henry. I said if it was OK with Henry, no problem. Well they got together and I took the picture. Then Henry comes sauntering up and looks me in the eye, dead serious, and says "Now you know I charge $50 to have my picture taken." I looked back at him, just as serious, and said "That's Ok, I only charge $100 to take 'em." I thought Henry was going to bust a gut laughing. That's what you call a good ol' double east Texas leg pull. I'd say it was a draw.
I think anyone who talks to Mr. Qualls, for even a minute, will leave with a "Henry story." He is a genuinely unique character. Hash Brown and Chuck Nevitt probably have book-length stories to tell. In fact, that's a great idea! We need a Henry Qualls book!
---
Don O.
Dallas/Fort Worth Blues Website at: http://members.xoom.com/don_o
This week's photo of the week: Carey Bell
Join 18 million Eudora users by signing up for a free Eudora Web-Mail account at http://www.eudoramail.com
Juke...@aol.com
> In fact, that's a great idea! We need a Henry Qualls book!
I would buy it....I love his CD I have. Wish he'd play in my area.
michael huggins
has forgotten more about the Blues than I know. Nice guy too.
We are so lucky in Dallas area to have the veritable plethora of talent we
are blessed with. HashBrown, Henry , SAM ( the nacho kid ) MYERS, Anson
Funderburgh, Mike Morgan, Bobby Baranowski, Terry Montgomery, Nick
(Hillbilly) Curran, John (theMeat) Garza, Smokin Joe , Bnois, Jerry Jines,
Jim Suhler, MR..D., et al.............. the list could go on., but you get
my drift. These Dallas Cats ARE the blues here there and everywhere for the
Standard by which Texas Blues Music is measured. IMHO. No, none of them
paid me to post this . :~`) The Dallas Blues Music Scene IS the MOST.
Henry Qualls the epitome of East Texas Country Blues!.......... Nuf Sed!
MH
The Blues is ALRIGHT
-----Original Message-----
From: Don O. <do...@eudoramail.com>
To: BLU...@LISTSERV.BROWN.EDU <BLU...@LISTSERV.BROWN.EDU>
Date: Monday, March 13, 2000 10:43 PM
Subject: Re: Henry Qualls
>>From: DSt...@FSC.FOLLETT.COM
>>Date: Mon, Mar 13, 2000 14:59 EST
>
>>He's quite a character. I remember after the picture was taken he
>>asked, "where's my money?" I asked him how much he wanted. He just sort of
>>got a devilish grin and said, "No, pay me later. That way I'll always be
>>rich, because you'll always owe me!"
>
>I had a similar encounter with Henry at a festival in Dallas. At the end
of his set, someone asked me if I would take a picture of them with Henry.
I said if it was OK with Henry, no problem. Well they got together and I
took the picture. Then Henry comes sauntering up and looks me in the eye,
dead serious, and says "Now you know I charge $50 to have my picture taken."
I looked back at him, just as serious, and said "That's Ok, I only charge
$100 to take 'em." I thought Henry was going to bust a gut laughing.
That's what you call a good ol' double east Texas leg pull. I'd say it was
a draw.
>
>I think anyone who talks to Mr. Qualls, for even a minute, will leave with
a "Henry story." He is a genuinely unique character. Hash Brown and Chuck
Nevitt probably have book-length stories to tell. In fact, that's a great
idea! We need a Henry Qualls book!
>
Peace Kenneth
(and marriage) permit.
2000 is most likely off - see y'all in 2001.
Swb...@aol.com
do...@eudoramail.com writes:
<< We need a Henry Qualls book! >>
What a great idea Don! When ya starting it??
Patti
southwestblues.com
"Ya should be gettin' it every month"
chuck n.
put him on the cover of its Sunday supplement magazine, the photo was him
setting on his tractor in front of his place. The article, the first to be
published on Henry, ran about 7 or 8 pages with lots of great color photos
and was written by award winning writer--and friend of the blues--Bill
Minutaglio.
The most memorable moment I had was when he got nabbed going through the
metal detector at DFW Airport (on his first plane ride and first trip to
Europe). Seems he had been wearing that coat a day earlier on a squirrel
hunt, and had forgot about the extra 22 shells in his pocket.
You can take Henry out of the country, but. . .
Oh yeah...another funny thing happened in Holland, when Henry turned a
corner in a shopping plaza only to come face-to-face with a huge statue of a
big black Santa like figure. That cracked him smooth up!
Patti, you should scan in the cover to this issue's cover, just to show the
artwork. ;)
Btw, Henry has a couple of songs up on mp3.com now:
http://www.mp3.com/henryqualls
chuck
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Swb...@aol.com
cne...@hotmail.com writes:
<< Patti, you should scan in the cover to this issue's cover, just to show the
artwork. ;) >>
For all the cheap seats just go to our webpage at www.southwestblues.com