Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown Interview: “Don’t Call Me a Bluesman!”
In 1992, the Outspoken Texan Reflected on Life and Music
It was not a good idea to call Gatemouth Brown a bluesman to his face. “I’m a musician,” he’d growl in response, “not some dirty lowdown bluesman. I play American and world music, Texas-style. I play a part of the past with the present and just a taste of the future.”
Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown, who passed away in 2005, was among the foremost exponents of the swinging, sophisticated blues guitar school once headed by T-Bone Walker. He was equally adept at jazz, swing, Cajun, bluegrass, country, and folk music.
Gruff, direct, and, fiercely individualistic, the Stetson-wearing, pipe-smoking Texan had a rich singing voice and spirited, horn-like approach to the electric guitar, which he played bare-fingered. He could easily double on violin, viola, mandolin, bass, drums, and harmonica.
A previous post of mine, Clarence “Gatemouth Brown” at Aladdin Records, details his upbringing, musical development, various band, and recording sessions. Gatemouth provided much of the information in this article during our first interview, a day-long session in June 1978.
We stayed in touch during the ensuing years. When Gatemouth invited me do another interview with him in late 1992, I happily agreed. James Rotondi accompanied me to the interview, which took place in a San Francisco hotel room. An edited version of our conversation appeared in the March ’93 Guitar Player as “‘Don’t Call Me a Bluesman!’ Gatemouth Brown Takes on the World.” Here’s a transcription of the whole conversation.
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You’ve often said that you don’t play guitar like guitar, but…
Like a horn. I play horn lines and horn kicks. You know how a horn would phrase different passages? Well, I do that with my guitar.
Do you always pick with just your fingers?
Always. I got control of my mind with my fingers. I got control of the guitar with my fingers. I can let them ring, or I can smother my strings in a snap and cut it just like a horn would do when your breath run out. The circle of breathing–I can do that by using my fingers. And of course another secret of mine, I pick with both hands. A lot of people don’t understand that, and it’s hard to explain.
Which fingers do you use?
Depends on what I’m playing. I might use ’em all, and I might use a thumb. I may use an index finger. I might use my ring finger. It’s unexplainable. People ask, “How you do that?” I say, “Magic.” When they say, “Show me how to do that,” I say, “I show no one nothing.”
Years ago when I was playing along with my father, I said, “Dad, how you do this?” He said, “I’m not going to show you anything.” I said, “How shall I learn?” He said, “Pay attention.” It’s as simple as that. I love my father more than life itself. Of course, I lost him in 1954, and man, that hurt me more than anything on earth. He was my life, and it was a great loss to me, but I kept my promise. I promised him that I would be the best in my field that I possibly could, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.
When you arrange your music . . .
I head-arrange with the guitar. I put it on there, and then I got a guy that writes it–or they memorize it–and you got your take. Other guys in the band help with the filling in spaces too. And once we get them down, we write ’em.
What’s the greatest satisfaction when it all comes together?
The greatest satisfaction to me is we don’t have the same sound on everything. Most records you hear just strike one medium, and you can’t even leave that. You have to stay with it, and that’s bad, man, because if you can’t grow, you’re in trouble.
You’ve been making records longer than John Lee Hooker and B.B. King.
Why, sure I have. Notice the caliber of the music too.
It stayed high.
It stayed together. You see, friends are one thing, but I cannot shield a man if he’s not musical, if he’s not creative. And if you’re gonna sound like you did when you first started, there’s no point in keeping going.
Is it a compliment when guitarists try to figure out your tone or parts on the Peacock 78s?
Yeah, I think so. I’m not a blues player; I’m a musician. But all blues players, when they play the blues, their minds are in their work. It’s what they want out of life—it’s not what you need. But I’m different from that. When I walk on that bandstand, I’m giving myself to all of my kids. You are my child, you are too [points to Jas and James]—all of you. I have no color barrier. Period. And the message I’m trying to give to them will help them rather than make them try to live like these supposedly blues players do. That’s why I hate the idea of people labeling me as a blues player, because I’m not.
Although you’ve played some really great . . .
I play blues, sure, but don’t call me a bluesman. When the white society think of blues, they think further back. See my last album? No Looking Back. So forget it.
Don’t look back to older musicians?
No. Forget it.
Why? What if that old music still brings pleasure to people?
That’s fine if somebody else want to do it, but I don’t want them to ask me to do it. I cannot talk for others, but I can always talk for myself. Mostly all you kids do is listen to the beat or listen to how sorrowful a blues is. And it is sorrowful, because it’s very negative. And you notice that every white blues player that ever got out there to play what he thinks is the blues, if he tried to live that life, it killed him. I’m serious! That’s what I’m trying to get to. Do not tackle something you don’t know nothing about!
When you were young, how was blues music regarded in your neighborhood?
Well, son, I’m gonna be honest with you. When I was a kid, I listened to very little blues because it made me feel sick inside. It just made me feel physically sick.
Hearing a Leadbelly or Blind Lemon Jefferson record?
Yeah, man. I wouldn’t listen to that stuff. I didn’t like it. It made me see disastrous things facing me. You see, my father was a great, great, great musician—three “greats” to it—and I don’t ever consider myself better than he. I took what he taught me—just like what the Japanese doing with our inventions—and added to it.
Blues and jazz is not my first music. My first music is country, Cajun, and bluegrass. My daddy sung Cajun, country, and bluegrass, and played it on fiddle, accordion, banjo, and mandolin. He was a heck of a vocalist. But he was a railroad man. When he was coming up, they didn’t have nightclubs like they have today. They had what they called “house parties.” People who had the biggest houses moved all the furniture back, they would cook a lot, and they would have all kinds of drinks—it was great days when I was coming up.
And another thing—I never been an alcoholic. I drank twice in my life. I got drunk because I was going in the service, and I was scared. The second time was through a woman—it happens to all of us. And I said, “If I ever get over this sickness, I’ll never do it no more because I can’t stand to be sick of the stomach.” I can’t, man.
I learned the other person’s downfall, but I took advantage of it and didn’t do it. Like all the cokeheads and all them people back when I was growing up: They was acting very strange, and I said I would never want to do that, and I never did. I wouldn’t even know what cocaine tastes or feels like. It only takes a weak person to want to kill himself. And you can see it kill other people, like Charlie Parker, Gene Ammons—oh, dozens and dozens of other artists. Alcohol and narcotics killed ’em. I knew that’s what killed ’em —why should I do it?
Can I ask you something off the record?
You can print anything you want, because I’m not going to give you a negative answer.
Do you think reefer is bad for musicians?
No! It’s not, and I’ve always said that. Marijuana is the only substance on earth that’s grown by what we know as God, nature, or whatever, that don’t really harm no one. But all this manmade chemicals—that’s what killing them. Alcohol is killing us. Whiskey is the most deadly drug on earth; it killed my third brother. Great, great guitarist and vocalist, but he followed people like Lightnin’ Hopkins and Guitar Slim, and you see where they all end up: six feet deep. Alcohol is one of the most devastating drugs there is. You get too many drinks and run out there and kill everybody, including yourself. They’re fighting the wrong substance—that’s all.
Guys used to say they’d have to drink to play good.
What do you mean used to, son? Right now we have what could be some great musicians, but this alcohol and women get in front of it. When you try to go with all these women—you can’t do that. I am one of the few entertainers that don’t go out there womanizing just because I’m in a position to do it. It means nothing to me. What means something to me is trying to keep families together and trying to keep people with love and concern for each other.
Do you see your music as a positive healing force?
It is. I’ve stated that all over the world. I do positive music. Even just my music without me opening my mouth is very positive. It tells a story. It tells you something about life. I’ve had ladies and men come up to me and say, “You know, Brown, when I left the house I felt very bad. But now I feel so good from the inside out.” Boy, that’s a great statement for people to make to someone. That’s a great thing to be honored for.
Can compliments be a distraction?
To some of them. Not me. If I was asked about my Grammy Award, I’d say it was alright, but it wasn’t nothing that was going to make me flip out on. It was just a piece of metal. What’s important is the people I can get to with my music, not the piece of metal that’s going to get to me. What good is that piece of metal? I don’t care if I ever got a Grammy, and I’ve always said that. But I’ve got one, and very seldom does it ever make it in my write-ups. I just don’t bother naming it. I got four or five Handy Blues Awards. I’ve gotten many documents from mayors all over the country. I’m a deputy sheriff in Louisiana, where I live. I arrest no one, but I’m well bonded by the sheriff’s department, and I carry my stuff with me all over the world where I go. And I’m real good with all the policemans that I meet because I became one of them and maybe I have some good influence on them.
Are there certain songs you have to play every night or else people will be disappointed?
Well, they don’t say anything about it. [Laughs.] I can’t possibly play everything that I know in the run of the night. Sometimes they request “Okie Dokie Stomp,” but I have ways I can soft them down. I may use the excuse about the band hasn’t rehearsed this, and I don’t want to do nothin’ unless it’s rehearsed—that sort of stuff. But basically I keep people so well geared up they forget about what they might want to ask. You have to keep ’em occupied.
What have you learned about performing after being on the road for 50 years?
Well, son, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen failure after failure after failure. I can see why they have failed, but what I’ve learned beyond that is not to get up on a bandstand trying to please me. I get myself on that public. That’s why I don’t like a heavy spotlight on me where I can’t see the public, because I work with my public. That’s the name of the game. I want to get a visual of you, so I know exactly what to do to get your response, and I can’t do that if I can’t see you.
Now, when you’re on TV, that’s a different story. You have to think of getting to the people in a different way. And you have to be careful about not making mistakes, because too many out there know when you’ve made one. And if you happen to make one—as we all will do—be smart enough to cover it. Like a cat—cover up your mistakes.
Do you ever just repeat it, so it seems like that’s what you were supposed to do?
That’s exactly it a lot of times! And it works. “Okie Dokie Stomp” has one of the biggest boo-boos in the world in it—I made a note that I wasn’t supposed to make in it—and it works because I play it over.
We recently saw an old photo of you playing a Fender Telecaster.
Yeah. Fender used to give me a Telecaster every year and a half, but I never could like ’em. But I loved their amplifiers. Now I use Music Man amps—one for my viola and fiddle, and the other one for my two guitars.
What’s your all-time favorite setup?
Well, son, let’s put it this way: My favorite guitar is the one that sounded good to me at the precise moment I was playing. I’m not cutting you short. Now, I got a Washburn guitar that I bought for $175 brand-new out of a pawnshop. I love pawnshops; I get good stuff out of there. Then, of course, my [’63 Gibson] Firebird has been with me for years. It’s famous all over the world—the one with that leather pickguard. I use that with the Music Man, and that’s my sound.
What does the fiddle give you that the guitar doesn’t?
A different sound, a different feeling, a different avenue, and another planet. When I’m playing fiddle, I feel like my father is standing beneath it with me. It has been written that I’m the most unorthodox fiddle player and guitar player in the world—well, that’s good because I’m all out there by myself. No one has ever been able to really copy my music. You can do the horn lines, but when you get to the guitar solo, that’s when they all die off. I got my own individual style, and it’s hard to explain. I can’t explain my feelings to you.
Do you play rock and roll?
I play rock and roll a lot of times. You see, what they call rock and roll today is not rock and roll, son. It’s a lot of noise. A lot of string bending and not even making a statement. Remember that tune of mine called “Chicken Shift”? That’s rock and roll. “Dolly Got the Blues” —that’s rock and roll. Louisiana zydeco is a mixture of rock and roll and Creole music. Then I play straight-ahead Cajun that has nothing to do with nothing else but Cajun.
What can you say to young rockers?
If a guy’s a heavy drinker or heavy dope user, don’t follow him, because he’s in misery in the first place. That’s why he’s playing that kind of music. And them hard rock players, well, all I can say for those kids is they’re being brainwashed to brainwash others. Why play music that loud and ruin yourself before you hit 20 years old? And what they’re playing is not understood—no way—because everything is so high volume. Why play something so loud where it’s going to tear you up inside? I’ve seen guys that was so loud, my stomach was hurting!
What do you look for in a tone?
Dynamics. Just what I do. And there’s four dynamics, all told: High volume, midrange, soft, and off. See, if you play in a high volume, you’ve got it goin’. Now, at a certain portion you drop it down and leave it to midrange. I go further than that: I go from a high volume to real soft, but just keep that drive going. And every time I do it, you can hear ’em scream all over the place because it feels good. I can rattle my guitar and almost tear out windows, and drop it to where you just barely hear it. Every man in my band knows when to do this. That makes music.
What should a Gatemouth Brown solo be about?
I don’t understand the question.
A lot of guys show off during solos. They play fast licks over and over, but they don’t tell a story in the way that you seem to on your records.
You asked that real nicely. In the first place, a guy who’s doing that is not playing for people. He’s on an ego trip trying to tell hisself he’s the greatest guitar player in the world, and not playing nothing! Making a lot of nonsense. You can take a five-year-old kid, give him a pick, and tell him just start hitting all them strings—that’s all they’re doing. It’s not making any sense.
Your solos work so well with the rhythm. If you’re doing a nice shuffle, you move right into the rhythm.
Here’s one secret about music—I don’t care what instrument you’re playing. If somewhere in the song you have a solo, every one that’s playing with you needs to get underneath you—not even with you or over you. Then you do that for them when they solo too. I do nothin’ I don’t want my men to do. When the piano player is playing, I comp under him where he can be heard. Why? Because he’s the one featured at the time. Not you. And every man in my band has got to be a good musician—if he isn’t, he can’t stay. Because I’m gonna damn sure make him solo. I give every man a chance for the world to hear him as well as me. That’s what teamwork is all about.
What are your rules for the band?
Not a beer bottle, not a whiskey glass, or nothing on that bandstand—number one. I don’t want no bullshitting and talking to each other on the bandstand unnecessarily. I want everybody to concentrate on his job. I don’t want no scrambling about all over the bandstand.
Do you have rehearsals?
Never. I need to, but I don’t. Son, I haven’t had no time.
How many nights a year do you play?
About 300 or less.
You’ve been playing Ellington’s “C Jam Blues” for a long time.
Yes. I just like the drive of the tune. I like the concept. I don’t like all of Ellington’s music, no, but that’s one of the few I’ve liked. It’s a different blues from the other kind of blues. I put myself into it and just keep the identification.
That’s the next thing. When somebody does somebody’s music, don’t do it note-for-note like that person—that’s stupid. Use the head of the tune, and then when you come in, play it yourself. Don’t try to play what that other person played, because you can’t do it. I wouldn’t even attempt to try. That’s what you call a copier, and not a re-arranger.
I rearrange everything. I can kick any big band tune and rearrange it, but you’ll know it’s the tune because the idea is there. After that it’s me, but it’s all gonna fit. I used to do the theme from Dr. Zhivago, and I never knew that bridge. So I made a bridge up to go with it, and it was perfect. When somebody said that’s not right, I said, “Look—what is right? You want me to copy? You want to hear every note that was done in this tune? I’m not going to do it. There’s going to be some changes.” I’m going to use his head idea, and after that it’s me. That’s how I’m successful in what I do.
Frank Zappa has said that you’re probably his favorite guitar player.
Man, there’s 100,000 guitar players around the world say this. But I don’t hear me nowhere. Maybe I influenced them to get started. If you notice, a lot of people now are trying to use my type of arrangement, but they can’t do it because I never do the same thing twice. All these musicians get right down in front of me. . . .
I’m going to be there tonight.
And I’m gonna get you, son. In concert I say, “How many musicians, guitar players, what have you, are here tonight?” Boy, they all stand up. I say, “I know why you’re here. You’re here to snatch some licks.” Then my final word is, “Snatch on this,” and I may come up with a jazz tune, man, and burn it. [Laughs.] They just sit there like, oh, no. I say, “This is a very easy tune to play.” I love to tease the kids. Back in the ’60s and ’50s, you used to get guitar players from all over the world wanting to have what they called a battle of guitars. And I’ve never lost one.
What was your secret?
Being myself.
Would you be put up against guys like Guitar Slim?
No, man, they’re not guitar players! See, that’s what I said a while ago. When they think of blues, you all go right to the bottom of the barrel and scrape off the crud. And you expect me to go along with it, but I’m not. This man killed himself trying to be me. He was so frustrated. He tried to dress like me, he tried to walk like me, he tried to play like me, he tried to sing like me, and he didn’t do none of that. But one thing he did that wasn’t like me was being a heavy drunk.
I played in Kansas City one time, and he come to town. And back in them early days, I was wearin’ tails [a tuxedo]. And he went and bought him tails just like me and changed his Cadillac color every day to suit the tails that he was wearing—that was so stupid. But the ultimate of the story was he was real ignorant, and he went and opened his trunk right on the street with me and a bunch of people standing right there, and he had about ten gallons of wine in that car. And he died a young man—too young. I met his son, who said, “Mr. Brown, I want you to tell me something about my daddy, because I don’t know him.” And I said, “Son, I would rather you not know.”
Which historical musicians would you most like to have seen?
Count Basie and Louis Jordan. Those were my idols as a child. Louis Jordan was one of the greatest gimmick singers in the world. Nobody has ever surpassed this man.
What would you have young players learn from your concerts?
Good question. Here’s your answer: What the young people can learn from me through my concert is the positive music. Let’s go back to the way that people lived in Mississippi, like with B.B. and all them. During their times, they wrote about the common life that was going on. It was about hardship and working, no money, and that sort of stuff. In Texas, T-Bone was writing about how no good a woman was. Now to me, if the man didn’t like no woman, he must have hated his mother. Every song that he’s got is against a woman. What caused him to be what he is was a woman.
Your music has a lot of love in it.
Thank you. That’s the difference. Now you see what I’m talking about. I’ve had a few hard times, but no one ever had good times all their life. Somewhere back in your life you did somebody wrong, and you sure gotta pay—it’s the truth, but I try to outlive that.
What records are the best introduction to your guitar playing?
Any one you pick will have a good message for you. That’s all I can say.
What keeps you growing?
Positive thinking, positive living, treating you like I wished to be treated. I don’t look at you because your skin is light. I don’t want you to look at me because my skin is dark. We’re all people. We need each other. If we don’t have each other, what the hell we got? One shouldn’t look at one because of the color of his skin. Because there’s Blacks I don’t want around me, and there’s whites I don’t want around me. There’s other nationalities I don’t want around me, but I take people as individuals.
You’ve spent your whole career knocking down racial barriers.
That’s right. And if I had to go back and do it all over again, it’d be a hard job. Still is. I turned down two movies because I didn’t like what they wanted me to portray. I’m not going to be an Uncle Tom for nobody. I came this far by being me; I’ll continue going by being me.
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For more Texas blues:
Clarence “Gatemouth Brown” at Aladdin Records
Lightnin’ Hopkins: “I Was Born With the Blues”
The Gospel Blues of Blind Willie Johnson
Stevie Ray Vaughan: The “Texas Flood” Session
ZZ Top’s Billy Gibbons: The Early Years
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Never liked his dry ass tone…but that’s just me! Lousy attitude as well!