Drink Small

I've had the opportunity to meet and trade licks with a number of the "living legends" of the blues over the years. Every visit or jam session has a fond memory attached to it, and most encounters left me with a good story to tell. However, if I had to choose my most memorable encounter, I'd have to choose the first time I met Columbia, SC bluesman Drink Small, the Blues Doctor.

When I first met Drink, I was actually young and foolish enough to think I knew something, not just about life in general, but about the blues! One would think the time I spent with Big Smokey Smothers, Jimmy Walker, David "Honeyboy" Edwards and assorted other characters in Chicago earlier in my "blues education" would have cured me of that foolishness, but I guess I'm what you would call a slow learner.

I met Drink Small (that is his real name), around 1993 while doing some work with a Blues in the Schools program in Columbia, SC. On the first day of the program, I served as Drink's ride and guide for what was to be a several week program that would teach high school aged children about the blues. Turns out I learned as much (probably more), than those kids did. As I drove Drink from school to school we spoke at some length on a wide variety of subjects. Everything from current events to guitars to women. We were hitting it off pretty good and somehow or another I got the bright idea that I'd tell Drink that I played and sang some blues as well. "Really," Drink said with a bemused chuckle. "I'd like to hear some of that!" That seemingly innocuous statement was to earn me a big ol' heapin' helpin' of humble pie before days end.

By the end of the school day Drink had lit up several school auditoriums with his singing, guitar and piano playing. Often times there was no PA provided for his performance, yet he demonstrated a supernatural ability to fill a room with his deep baritone and funky playing. All the kids loved him and I was often forced to drag him away from a group of new (and many old), adoring fans so we'd make it to the next presentation on time. As we headed toward his home he seemed very satisfied with how things had gone on his first day, but he quickly turned his attention to more mundane matters. You see, Drink don't drive, and having access to wheels and a willing driver provided him with the opportunity to "get some things done." Before I knew it, I was wheeling all over Columbia so Drink could pay bills, pick up laundry, buy groceries and complete assorted other chores. When we were finally headed toward Drink's home I was just a bit put out at having been coerced to be his chauffer for the last several hours, especially since I still had a two hour drive home to Charleston ahead of me.

As we pulled in front of Drink's home I said my good-byes as pleasantly as I could given my current state of mind. "Where you goin'?" Drink asked. "You got to come on in and show me some of that blues you play." I made several attempts to explain that it was late, I was hungry, and I had a family to get back to, but Drink was having none of it. "Come on now," he said. "You got time to play me one song." After a few more attempts at making an exit, I finally relented, figuring that it would be take less time to play a song then to convince him I didn't have time to do it. We entered Drinks home and he motioned me to a chair while he sat across from me and reached behind himself for his guitar. As he handed it to me, I could see that this box was a real "beater." The rusty strings were raised so high off the fretboard that you could about fit your hand between them. "Here, boy," Drink challenged. "Play me something'." I looked at the guitar again, cradling it in my lap, as I attempted to fret a few notes. "I don't know, Drink," I said. "This guitar's in pretty rough shape." "Ain't nothin' wrong with that gitah," Drink retorted. "You go and play me somethin'. You do play, don't you?"

It probably had a lot to do with my being put out by hauling him all over creation, but there was something in Drinks tone now that really got under my skin. "All right you cranky old man," I thought to myself. "I'll show you some playing!" I decided that I'd whip my "showpiece tune" on ol' Drink and really show him what I had and launched into Mississippi John Hurt's "Candyman."

Now, for those of you not familiar with guitar playing or this particular tune. It begins with a sort of fancy fingerpicking lick way up the neck of the guitar by the twelfth fret. Remember how I said the action on this guitar was so high you could fit your hand between the strings? Well that was at the first fret. Way down at the twelfth fret you could practically turn your hand sideways without touching!

As you can imagine, playing my most challenging piece on this old plank (which also went completely out of tune when I tried to force the strings down), came across pretty badly. Being angry and mule headed, I forced myself through the tune and, despite the cool weather, broke into an frustrated sweat while I croaked out the raunchy lyrics and wrestled with that unruly guitar. When I finished the piece I was sweating and visibly frustrated. I handed the guitar back to Drink, and he nodded his head and said "Well, boy, that's some kinda playin'. But you ain't really playin' the blues now. You're usin' too many fingers."

I stared at Drink incredulously for a moment before I exploded. "What in the hell are you talkin' about, Drink! Nobody could make that guitar sound good, not even if they played it with twelve fingers!"

Drink chuckled softly and said "Now there ain't a thing wrong with this ol' guitah. All you got to do is know how to play it. You see," he said, holding up his right hand and wiggling his thumb and first three fingers, "You playin' with all this here. That ain't how you play the blues. That's how you play what they call the folk blues."

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked, voice cracking with anger at what I took to be an insult.

"Well now, ya see you play the blues with this here," Drink stated, holding up his right thumb and index finger. "This gives you the strength to play some blues on this ol' gitah."

"Drink, I don't know what your getting at," I protested. "But if you think you can play anything on that piece of junk, I'd like to see it!"

Drink chuckled to himself again and then he layed into that guitar. I immediately recognized the ragtime changes that flowed effortlessly and perfectly from beneath his fingers. Drink's mouth open and he shouted out his version of the Blind Boy Fuller tune "Rag, Mama, Rag." Even as I write this the hair on my arms is standing straight up as it did that day. This was the "real deal," I realized. Although I already knew it, Drink demonstrated that he had "the stuff." My jaw went slack and headed for the floor as Drink finished the tune. Grinning, Drink looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. "That's the way you do it, boy."

I was speechless. Shoulders stooped and head bowed I picked up my coat, mumbled a thank you, and headed for the door shaking my head. I'd been "had" and got myself a good spankin' to boot. Behind me I heard Drink begin a laugh. A chortle that eased into a loud guffaw. "Don't feel bad, boy," he enthused with a loud "hah, haw." "You keep workin' at it and come on back when you really know somethin'!" Speechless, I climbed into my car and headed south toward Charleston and home. I don't think I stopped shaking my head in disbelief at my own hubris and what I had witnessed until I pulled into my driveway.