Chester Burnett, known to the rest of us as Howlin Fucking Wolf was born on this day in 1910. The Wolf is perhaps my favorite blues artist of all time and was one of the first artists of any genre that completely scared the bejesus out of me as a child.
My Father owned a copy of Moanin’ In The Moonlight and, based entirely on his name alone, I gave it a listen. Wolf’s voice was so visceral and abrasive that it was, and remains, heavier than most of the heavy metal albums ever released. I think I lasted one track before I put the album away.
It wasn’t until many years later, probably around the time I went to college and started to pay attention to those references that classic rock always seemed to acknowledge, when I started to examine Wolf’s body of work and appreciate the impact it had on rock and roll. Every time Wolf opens his mouth, it sounds like the epitome of a repressed Southern black man that’s ready to kick the shit out of his oppressor by means of his voice alone. And there are times in which he sounds like he can do it.
One of my favorite Wolf albums is The London Howlin Wolf Sessions, probably because it attempts (and succeeds) to bridge the gap between old school blues and the fans who were inspired by it to the point where they started down their own journey. Wolf is joined by such luminaries like Charlie Watts, Bill Wyman, Steve Winwood, and Eric Clapton. At one point, Wolf shows Clapton how to play a guitar part and Eric obediently listens to the master. Clapton tries to get Wolf to play on the track, but he’s too stubborn to consider Eric’s request.
Not only was Wolf’s voice intimidating, so was his stature; over six feet tall and over 300 pounds, he didn’t need any punk-ass English cracker telling him what to do.
But the best place to start with discovering the music of Howlin Wolf is with The Chess Box, three discs (reasonably priced too) filled with great, guttural blues classics that perfectly captures the essence of what made him such a legend.
Happy birthday, Wolf, you bad motherfucker.
