Bubbie Newman and the Dixie Blues Kings

During the Great Depression there was a band on the Chitlin Circuit who were one best loved Delta Blues Bands straight out of Jackson, Mississippi known as the Bubbie Newman and the Dixie Blues Kings.  At one time, this six piece ensemble were the kings of the circuit, but when I decided to do a nostalgic piece on the band, I found holes in the band's history starting with their charismatic band leader, Bubbie Newman.  In searching for historical records on him, there simply were none to be found, no birth or death certificate, nothing. It is as if Bubbie Newman never existed at all.

"Bubbie Newman?" Roger Poindexter, the county records clerk scratched his balding head, "You sure you got that right?"

"Yeah." I put the old newspaper clipping on the counter announcing an upcoming show at the state fair on September 15, 1935. He picked up the clipping and looked at it and then he looked at me. "Ever heard of them?"

"Wish I could say yes, but I'm not much on old musical bands." He shrugged, "But who am I to argue?"

"I actually heard an old recording." I sniffed and hit the play button. The black and white images moved in a herky-jerky motion as they played some bluesy music with sexually explicit lyrics sung in a slow and sleepy alto voice of their leader Bubbie Newman.

"Not really a fan." He shook his head.

"Don't have to be a fan, I just need some proof this guy actually existed." I picked up the newspaper article from the counter.

"Wish I could help you Gene, but I have nothing." Roger shook his head, Adding, "You know those show business types, they have stage names."

"I checked but came up with nothing." I shrugged, "It is almost as if he never was at all."

"Interesting angle." Roger chuckled as I found my way to the exit.

I got this Podcast show called The Gene Baxter Show.  What I lack in creative titles I make up in content. I devote the last ten minutes of my show for call-ins from my listeners.  Most of the time I answer questions rehashing what was covered during the show, but one night a caller stated," Rumor has it that you are looking for proof Bubbie Newman was the lead vocalist for the Dixie Blues Kings."

My heart nearly stopped, but I managed to stammer, "Yes, yes… am...looking..."

"Then you may want to drop me a line." He assured me as he gave me his email address. After I ended the show, I emailed my mysterious caller who did not even give me his name.  George DeWitt, my producer, asked me what had turned my normally pasty white skin, scarlet red.

"A caller told me he has evidence about Bubbie Newman's involvement with the band." I could barely contain my enthusiasm.  He sat there at his desk, staring at me over his glasses.

"Are you kidding?" He rubbed his thinning hair.

"Sent the email a few minutes ago." I closed my laptop.

"This is big, Gene." He removed his glasses.

"Sure is." I rubbed my hands together.  I figured with my twelve minute commute from the studio, it would give my mysterious caller time to answer my email, "See you later, George."

"Good luck, pal." He waved as I left the studio.

It's never been a secret that I am a vinyl man and on pay day I celebrate by making my usual pilgrimage to Al's Big Wax Shop to purchase 33 1/3 records of Some hidden blues masterpiece. I don't know what there is about this genre of musical composition that takes the hard edge off the day, but I kick my shoes off, pour myself a tumbler of scotch and recline on my couch as I listen to the crude notes from musicians who are playing instruments they have rented.

One afternoon, I was approaching the store when I heard "Dark River, Dark Water" about a boy who loved his woman so much, he was willing to jump into the river and swim to her on the other shore.  To me, the tune and lyrics were hypnotic. 

"Hey Gene." He greeted me as I walked in the door.  That musty smell of old records excite me as much as steaks sizzling on the grill get most guys.  To me, history began when the devil met Robert Johnson at the crossroads.  And as I thumb through the record racks I begin to hear the honey dripping notes of those Delta Blues. Then I heard "Dark River, Dark Water" playing over Al's speakers and I stopped dead in my tracks.

"Who is this you are playing, Al?" I asked when I regained my senses.

"Some local sound from way back." He nodded, picking the record jacket, "Bubbie Newman and the Dixie Blues Kings.  I heard they stuck around until the war and never heard from them again."

"They got it." I snapped my fingers to the chorus.

"Yeah, they came along at the right time. Filled some of those dance halls." He chuckles, "Heard them a few times myself. I was just a young thing back then."

"I envy you, Al." I shook my head.

"Only thing is, Bubbie Newman vanished once the war was over and some of the bands began forming up again." He handed me the record after putting it in the jacket.  I glanced at the blurry photograph of the band.  There were six of them, one of them with an accordion slung over his shoulder. "That be him,"

Am reached over the counter and pointed to the figure standing near the microphone.

"Bubbie Newman?" I asked squinting to see, but it did not do much good.

" Um-huh." He confirmed.

"Did he go to war?"

"Sonny, we all went to war." He laughed.

"Did he make it back?"

"Far as I know." He nodded, "I did some checking.  I was a clerk in the army. Most colored weren't allowed to carry weapons back then." Al folded his large hands on the counter.  I heard rumors that he blew a mean horn in a jazz band in Chicago, but rumors can be false sometimes, "That man done walked off the face of the earth, if you ask me."

By the third week, I felt like a puppy chasing his tail. No one had any idea what became of Bubbie.  

"Back then white boys didn't sing no Delta Blues." An old timer told me as he was playing chess with a much younger opponent. "But then Bubbie don't sound like no Colored man's name either."

The blurry photo on the jacket cover did not make him appeared as if he was black.  I began to wonder if this guy was the Invisible Man Ralph Ellison wrote about in his book.

It had to be a stage name, but no agent would claim to have a client with that name.

The music was so honey sweet.  His voice was like velvet. No wonder these Singers could sing a girl right out of her dress.  The lyrics were so seductive.  The music went straight to the heart.  It was the essence of the human spirit.  You could hear the glasses tinkle as the singer's voice spilled out.

My poor phonograph had played through hours of music while I drank gallons of scotch, sometimes straight from the bottle.

I was divorced under much the same circumstances like on the third song on side one, "She Done Me Wrong."

Funny how times don't really change that much where a song recorded in 1935 could still tell the story of someone five decades later or even eight. Time certainly does have a way of speeding by you like a train.

Woke up on the couch with cotton in my mouth. The ringing phone woke me up.  I stumbled over To my phone and nearly belched, "Hello,"

"It's me, Gene." It was the person who called me during my Podcast. 

My blood froze and I had to make several attempts to swallow.  

“What is it you want?” I asked slowly wondering what he would say.

“There are vicious rumors about Bubbie Newman.” His voice was like ice. 

“Like?”

“He has disappeared.” He answered. “He is still in the land of the living.”

What a strange way to say it, but if he was still in the land of living, there was a good chance he would be over one hundred years old.  Al was approaching his centennial birthday. It was astounding that some of these former blues musicians were still around as if they wanted to ensure that their art would not die.  

“Are you Bubbie Newman?” I asked.

“Are you serious?  Do I sound like I’m an old timer?” He laughed. 

“So where is he?” 

“For me to know and you to find out.”  The line went dead.

“He’s alive.” I told George.

“Who?” George took off his noise reducing headphones.

"Bubbie Newman." I answered.

"Are you sure? He'd be over a hundred by now." George tilted his head in disbelief.

"Where has he been all this time?"

"A lot of the black soldiers stayed in France as expatriates. They escaped Jim Crow.  French love their jazz." George turned a couple knobs on the soundboard. 

"It was Delta Blues not jazz." I pointed out.

"Doesn't matter." He snickered, "Black music. They love it."

"I'm not sold on the fact he was black." 

"Seriously?" George snickered again, "Listen to that voice.  It's the voice of a black man."

"Race does not always determine the timbre Of the voice." I picked up the record album and rubbed my chin.

"Don't you dare make me out to be a racist." He glared at me over his glasses.

"Sorry, didn't mean it that way, it's just that when I hear the voice, I can't be sure." I shook my head.

"I'm pretty sure whether that makes me a racist or not." He put his hands on his hips.

"George, I've known you for a while and you are not a racist." I put my hand on his shoulder as a gesture of solidarity. "I am just trying to find something...anything to prove this man existed."

"You have it right there." He tapped the record album in my hands.

"But that's it."

"What other proof do you need?" He smiled.

"I just want to know what happened to him." 

"Me? Do I sound like a blues singer?" My mystery caller laughed, "You think I'm Bubbie? Naw, It ain't me."

"Then who?  You've been stringing me along like a chump." I was angry and I made sure my caller knew this.

"I have information." He interjected quickly.

"What do you want, money?"

His laugh came deep from his belly, "If that's what I wanted, I would have named my price, but all I want to know, are you serious?"

"What do I have to do to prove how serious I am?"

There was a pause, but even the brief silence spoke loudly.

"You know him.  He knows you." He broke the silence.

Now it was my turn to be silent.1

"He knows you." He repeated. 

My dreams were clouded with strange visions of hopping dance halls within a stone throw of Mississippi With the wooden dance floors and gaps between the boards you could see the red glow from the fires and brimstone of Hell. All the musicians had horns protruding from their heads, but the music was hot as could be expected.

My caller also quit calling. My hours of research yielded next to nothing.

You know him. It echoed in my head over and over again. How did he know? Who was he? His words haunted me. 

"Are you alright?" George asked.

I realized I had been sitting in front of the microphone For over five minutes without saying anything.  I turned the microphone off and glanced at George.

"I am haunted by this man that never was." I rubbed my eyes.

"This whole Bubbie Newman is eating you up on the inside." George had always been a pragmatic sort which was a good quality to have as a producer.

"I know him. That's what he told me." I slapped the table with my open hand.

"Make a list and start crossing off names. Start with me." He rested his head On his fists.  

"I considered that, but I have this feeling it's someone I would not suspect." I mused.

"Okay, don't cross my name out then." He stood up, "Whadda Say we call it a night?  Neither one of us has the heart to go on."

The phone rang.  I looked at George and he looked at me.

"Hello."

"Good you are still there.  I was waiting for a show.  So what's up?" It was him.

"Look, Whoever you are, I'm tired of this sick game you are playing-"

"This Is not a game, Gene. I have been most patient, but you have been trying my patience."  His voice was stern.

"You have put me on a wild goose chase looking for a man who may not even exist." I matched his level of irritation.

Silence.

"You must take my word the he is real and you know him and he knows you. We have never met. You have only heard my voice, but I know you better than you know yourself at times.  I only ask for your trust that what I say is the truth." His voice faded as he neared the end.

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. George was shaking his head, but I knew the only way I'd ever learn the truth was to put my faith in what he was saying.

"Alright. You've got it." I said as I closed my eyes.

"You must remember it was a different time when the difference between black and white made all difference that mattered and being able to stowaway could change the entire outcome." He coughed, "Lemme ask you, If you were born as a colored man and you had the chance to disguise your ethnicity, would you do it?  Would you do it if it meant you'd have to live your life  as a second class citizen?  You bet you would. You bet you would."

The line went dead.  I still held the phone in my hand with a shocked expression On my face..

"it was you." I whispered to Al when I walked into his shop.  He looked at me with eyes that had seen countless sunrises, eyes that had known both sorrow and joy over nearly a century.

"How did you know?" His jowls shook when he spoke.

"It wasn't easy." I admitted.

"Well, I am Bubbie Newsome." He slung his arm around me.  It was heavier than it looked.

"How?  Bubbie Was a white man."

"Ain't no white man was born to sing the Delta Blues.  It come from the roots of slavery through Jim Crow surviving the Middle Passage all the way from Africa. It's who we are." He laughed, "I was born with light skin, so I was passing once I had the makeup applied.  I looked as white as any white man I knew. But once the show was over I was just the same as any colored Negro. When the war come, I saw my chance to. escape and so  I did.  Playing in a five piece ensemble until I met Millie.  She was a nurse, but then she got homesick so we came home.  I opened up my record store, because music Is what I know. People always wanna know what it would be like to live someone else’s life.  Well, I reckon I’ve done it all my life. Whadda think about that?"

We both laughed about it, but the reality was he had done it 

One night my mysterious caller called, “You figured it out.” 

“I did.” I said proudly.

“All his life he lived as someone else.” He chuckled. “It’s strange spending your life pretending to be someone else and living the life of a Chameleon.”

I gave that idea some consideration, for it was true that Al had lived as someone else and then just walked away as if he was some kind of phantom.  

“Well, I just called to let you know, Al passed away last night.” 

The words bit me.  I felt as though someone had kicked me in the chest. 

“Was watching television, fell asleep and never woke up.  It was a very peaceful passing, eh?” 

Bubbie Newman was one the front man of a very popular band. He once sang a song that lives in my heart to this day, “Dark River, Dark Water.” He lived his life as an enigma, but he was dedicated to the music he loved, the Delta Blues. I went to his record store to pay my respects. There was a young man behind the counter.

“I want to pay my condolences to Bubbie Newman.” I said, handing him a card.

“Who?” His face instantly became a mask of confusion.

“Never mind.” I nodded as I left Al’s Records for the last time.