One Sound, Two Worlds: The Blues in a Divided Germany, 1945-1990 9781789201949

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ONE SOUND, TWO WORLDS

One Sound, Two Worlds The Blues in a Divided Germany, 1945–1990

.> Michael Rauhut Translated by Jessica Ring

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

Published in 2019 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com English-language edition © 2019 Michael Rauhut German-language edition © 2016 transcript Verlag, Bielefeld Originally published in German as Ein Klang – zwei Welten: Blues im geteilten Deutschland, 1945 bis 1990 The translation of this work was funded by Geisteswissenschaften International—Translation Funding for Humanities and Social Sciences from Germany, a joint initiative of the Fritz Thyssen Foundation, the German Federal Foreign Office, the collecting society VG WORT, and the Börsenverein des Deutschen Buchhandels (German Publishers & Booksellers Association). All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Rauhut, Michael, 1963– author. Title: One Sound, Two Worlds: The Blues in a Divided Germany, 1945–1990 / Michael Rauhut; translated by Jessica Ring. Other titles: Ein Klang-zwei Welten, Blues im geteilten Deutschland, 1945 bis 1990. English Description: English-language edition. | New York: Berghahn Books, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019004253 (print) | LCCN 2019005520 (ebook) | ISBN 9781789201949 (ebook) | ISBN 9781789201932 (hardback: alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Blues (Music)—Germany (West)—History and criticism. | Blues (Music)—Germany (East)—History and criticism. Classification: LCC ML3521 (ebook) | LCC ML3521 .R3813 2019 (+English translation of German orig. expression of work) (print) | DDC 781.6430943/09045—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019004253 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-78920-193-2 hardback ISBN 978-1-78920-194-9 ebook

For my children, Lily and Markus

Contents

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List of Figures and Tables Acknowledgments Abbreviations Introduction. Just Turn That Noise Off . . .

viii xi xii 1

Chapter 1. Sense and Sensibility: How We Know What the Blues Is

10

Chapter 2. Early in the Morning: An Awakening

28

Chapter 3. Get off of My Cloud: Emancipation

82

Chapter 4. Standing at the Crossroads: Expansion

139

Chapter 5. I’m Drifting and Drifting: Daily Routines

199

Conclusion. . . . Just Turn It Up

263

References

266

Index

311

Figures and Tables

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Figures Figure 0.1. Transformation processes: blues scholar Walter Liniger (left) and Sonny Boy Nelson, Greenville, Mississippi, 1991 (photo by Axel Küstner).

7

Figure 1.1. Our image of the blues: Big Joe Williams, Crawford, Mississippi, 1978 (photo by Axel Küstner).

12

Figure 2.1. Record-playing session, in the second half of the 1940s, at the table (from the left): Johnny Vrotsos (with pipe), Olaf Hudtwalcker, the singer Dolly Anany, and Horst Lippmann (photo courtesy of JID).

32

Figure 2.2. Lore Boas, Sonny Boy Williamson, and Günter Boas (from the left), 1963 (photo courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung/Günter Boas Collection).

37

Figure 2.3. The Two Beat Stompers (Horst Lippmann on drums) accompanying Big Bill Broonzy, First German Jazz Festival, Frankfurt am Main, 1953 (photo by Wolfgang Otto Nischk, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

41

Figure 2.4. Günter Boas (right) and AFN anchor Johnny Vrotsos in the studio, Frankfurt am Main, around 1950 (photo courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung/Günter Boas Collection).

46

Figure 2.5. Joachim-Ernst Berendt, 1950s (photo courtesy of JID).

58

Figure 2.6. Horst Lippmann in his office, 1979 (photo by Mara Eggert, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

63

Figures and Tables

ix

Figure 3.1. John Lee Hooker (in front), Big Mama Thornton, and J. B. Lenoir during a television production for the American Folk Blues Festival, Baden-Baden, 1965 (photo by Stephanie Wiesand, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

84

Figure 3.2. Benno Walldorf (right) greets the 1962 American Folk Blues Festival participants at the Frankfurt Rhein-Main Airport (photo by Renate Dabrowski, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

92

Figure 3.3. Willie Dixon, Baden-Baden, 1964 (photo by Stephanie Wiesand, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

103

Figure 3.4. Horst Lippmann (left) and Fritz Rau, 1985 (photo by Mara Eggert, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

105

Figure 3.5. Bob Margolin, Muddy Waters, and Jerry Portnoy (left to right), Rockpalast, Grugahalle Essen, 1981 (photo by Manfred Becker).

108

Figure 4.1. Blues rock star Rory Gallagher at a spontaneous jam session in the bar of the Schwarzer Bock Hotel, Wiesbaden, 1979 (photo by Manfred Becker).

143

Figure 4.2. Alexis Korner and the rock band Percewood’s Onagram, ca. 1970, NDR studio in Hamburg (from the left): Eddy Muschketat, Wolfgang Michels, Alexis Korner, and Jojo “Ludi” Ludwig (photo by Rolf Denckert, courtesy of Archiv Wolfgang Michels).

147

Figure 4.3. Walter Ulbricht (right) awards Paul Robeson the Stern der Völkerfreundschaft [Star of People’s Friendship] on 5 October 1960 in the Deutsche Sporthalle in East Berlin (photo by Alfred Paszkowiak, courtesy of the Akademie der Künste, Paul-Robeson-Archiv).

153

Figure 4.4. Etta Cameron and the Hannes-Zerbe-Quintett, Zella St. Blasii, 1972 (photo by Foto-Halir Zella-Mehlis).

156

Figure 4.5. Stefan Diestelmann, 1980 (photo by Stefan Hessheimer).

171

Figure 4.6. Das Dritte Ohr: Udo Wolff (left) and Tom Schrader, Blue Note, Göttingen, 1980 (photo by Axel Küstner).

176

Figure 4.7. Louisiana Red, Blues & Boogie Festival, Cologne, 1983 (photo by Axel Küstner).

183

x

Figures and Tables

Figure 4.8. Champion Jack Dupree with an LP produced by Siegfried Christmann, Blues & Boogie Festival, Cologne, 1983 (photo by Axel Küstner).

185

Figure 5.1. GBC members on a trip to Kahla in Thuringia, June 1979 (from the left): Angelika Münnich, Hartmut M. Münnich, Steffi Freyer, Winfried Freyer, Manfred Blume, Fritz Marschall, Reinhard Lorenz, and the children Christian Otis and Odetta. A similar image was printed in GBCI 50/1980 (photo courtesy of Archiv Reinhard Lorenz).

221

Figure 5.2. Open-air event in Wandersleben, 1975 (photo by Bernd Hiepe).

234

Figure 5.3. Early 1980s blues mass (photo by Harald Hauswald).

255

Table Table 5.1. Blues masses: number of attendees.

254

Acknowledgments

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This book is the product of many years of work. Its cornerstone was laid by the project “Afroamerikanische Musik in Deutschland von 1945 bis 1990: Mediale Vermittlung und kultureller Gebrauch” [African American Music in Germany from 1945 to 1990: Media Presentation and Cultural Application], funded by the DFG and realized at the Forschungsstelle für Zeitgeschichte [Research Center for Contemporary History] in Hamburg. I am deeply indebted to both of its directors, Dorothee Wierling and Axel Schildt. To all my colleagues who facilitated access to archives and reference literature, including Reinhard Lorenz and Daniel Eckenfelder (IJAE), Doris Schröder and Wolfram Knauer (JID), Annette Müller (BStU), Solveig N estler and Holger Franke (SAPMO-BArch), Andreas Matschenz (LAB), as well as Annegret Marinowitz and Christina Apel (Humboldt University of Berlin), I am very thankful. My sincere appreciation also goes to Sylvia Lippmann, Helga Gotschlich, Peter Wicke, Detlef Siegfried, Jörg Stempel, Wolfgang Michels, Udo Wolff, Thomas Schmitt, Gerhard Engbarth, Patricia Simpson, Thomas Gutberlet, Rolf Schubert, Tor Dybo, Daniel Nordgård, and Are Skisland. My thanks to the translator, Jessica Ring, for her dedicated work, and to Christa Köbsch for her review of the manuscript. I am particularly beholden to Birgit, Lily, and Markus. Michael Rauhut Kristiansand, Norway

Abbreviations

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Archives AdK, PRA

Akademie der Künste, Paul-Robeson-Archiv [Academy of the Arts, Paul Robeson Archive]

BStU

Der Bundesbeauftragte für die Unterlagen des Staatssicherheitsdienstes der ehemaligen DDR [Federal Commissioner for the Records of the State Security Service of the GDR]

IJAE

International Archive for Jazz and Popular Music of the Lippmann+Rau Foundation Eisenach

JID

Jazzinstitut Darmstadt [Darmstadt Jazz Institute]

LAB

Landesarchiv Berlin [Berlin State Archive]

SAPMO-BArch Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der DDR im Bundesarchiv [Foundation Archives of Parties and Mass Organizations of the GDR in the Federal Archives] ThStA

Thüringisches Staatsarchiv [Thuringian State Archive]

ThürAZ

Thüringer Archiv für Zeitgeschichte [Thuringian Archive for Contemporary History]

General A

arrangement

AFBF

American Folk Blues Festival

AFN

American Forces Network

Abbreviations

AG

Arbeitsgemeinschaft [working group] or Aktiengesellschaft [incorporated company]

AO

Anordnung [decree]

b

bass

BBC

British Broadcasting Corporation

BFN

British Forces Network

bj

banjo

BRD

Bundesrepublik Deutschland [Federal Republic of Germany (West Germany)]

CBS

Columbia Broadcasting System

CIA

Central Intelligence Agency

cl

clarinet

Co.

Company

CPSU Cˇ SSR

Communist Party of the Soviet Union

xiii

Tschechoslowakische Sozialistische Republik [Czechoslovak Socialist Republic]

c/w

coupled with

DDR

Deutsche Demokratische Republik [German Democratic Republic (East Germany)]

DEFA

Deutsche Film AG [publicly-owned film studio in East Germany]

DFG

Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft [German Research Foundation]

DIN

Deutsche Industrie-Norm [German Industry Norm (for paper sizes)]

DJ

disc jockey

DJF

Deutsche Jazz-Föderation e. V. [German Jazz Federation]

DKP

Deutsche Kommunistische Partei [German Communist Party]

DLF

Deutschlandfunk [German Broadcasting]

DM

Deutsche Mark [German mark]

dr

drums

EMI

Electrical and Musical Industries Ltd.

xiv

Abbreviations

EP

extended player

e. V.

eingetragener Verein [registered association]

FDJ

Freie Deutsche Jugend [Free German Youth; East German communist youth organization]

g

guitar

GBC

German Blues Circle

GBCI

German Blues Circle Info

GBG

German Blues Guide

GEMA

Gesellschaft für musikalische Aufführungs- und mechanische Vervielfältigungsrechte [Society for Musical Performance and Mechanical Reproduction Rights]

Gestapo

Geheime Staatspolizei [secret state police in Nazi Germany]

GI

government issue [slang for American soldier]

GmbH

Gesellschaft mit beschränkter Haftung [limited liability company]

GYA

German Youth Activities [US armed forces program]

HA

Hauptabteilung [main department of the MfS, i.e., the Stasi]

harm

harmonica

HR

Hessischer Rundfunk [Hessian Broadcasting]

HVA

Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung [main Stasi directorate for reconnaissance]

IG

Interessengemeinschaft [interest group]

IM

Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter [unofficial collaborator with the Stasi]

K

Komposition [composition]

KG

Kommanditgesellschaft [limited partnership]

KPD

Kommunistische Partei Deutschlands [Communist Party of Germany]

KZ

Konzentrationslager [concentration camp]

L+R

Lippmann and Rau [concert agency and record company]

Abbreviations

MDR

Mitteldeutscher Rundfunk [Central German Broadcasting]

MfS

Ministerium für Staatssicherheit [Ministry for State Security]

NATO

North Atlantic Treaty Organization

NDR

Norddeutscher Rundfunk [North German Broadcasting]

N L

xv

N iederlande N[ etherlands]

NSDAP

Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei [National Socialist German Workers’ Party, i.e., the Nazi party]

NWDR

Nordwestdeutscher Rundfunk [Northwest German Broadcasting]

OPK

Operative Personenkontrolle [surveillance operation]

OV

Operativer Vorgang [operational procedure]

p

piano

perc

percussion

pp.

per procura [by proxy]

PR

public relations

R&B

rhythm and blues

RIAS

Rundfunk im amerikanischen Sektor [Radio in the American Sector]

SA

Sturmabteilung der NSDAP [paramilitary branch of the NSDAP]

SBZ

Sowjetische Besatzungszone [Soviet occupation zone]

SDR

Süddeutscher Rundfunk [Southern Germany Broadcasting]

SED

Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands [Socialist Unity Party of Germany]

SFB

Sender Freies Berlin [Radio Free Berlin]

SS

Schutzstaffel der NSDAP [paramilitary and security organization of the NSDAP]

Stasi

Staatssicherheitsdienst der DDR [East German state security service]

SWF

Südwestfunk [Southwest Broadcasting]

xvi

Abbreviations

T

Text [lyrics]

tb

trombone

tp

trumpet

tu

tuba

TV

television

UK

United Kingdom

US

United States

USA

United States of America

v

violin

VEB

Volkseigener Betrieb [nationally-owned enterprise]

VHS

Volkshochschule [continuing education school for adults]

voc

vocals

VW

Volkswagen

WDR

Westdeutscher Rundfunk [West German Broadcasting]

ZDF

Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen [Second German Television Channel]

ZK

Zentralkomitee [Central Committee]

INTRODUCTION

Just Turn That Noise Off . . .

.>

People who despise the blues and those opposed to globalization sing the same lament: it all just sounds the same somehow. Those twelve bars, that age-old motif, standardized and marketed worldwide as the moaning of oppressed souls, inflated with virtuosity and sentimentality. Listeners who remain unmoved by these “blue notes” say it is all just musical mass production, nothing but scattered, aggravating noise. And blues fans? They must belong to some strange species, they are barely competent, introverted outsiders—trendsetters should look different. For many people, the very mention of the blues invokes only fixed stereotypes. The qualities constituting the core of the blues’ identity formation are difficult to grasp from an external perspective—and any attempt to define them by technocratic means is doomed to failure. In order to reveal the varied and subtle ways in which this music is filled with meaning, we must look at its impact on society. Many diverse, symbolically charged and sensually adopted forms are hiding beneath that seemingly standardized surface. This book provides a descriptive comparison of the cultural practices observed in the different blues scenes in East and West Germany, as well as the ways in which the music was transmitted through the media. The comparative method is a “method often invoked, but far from exhausted” (Lindenberger 2014: 31). Since the fall of the Wall, more and more history scholars have been calling for a reciprocal contextualization of the postwar development of both German states.1 Even though this approach presents a clear opportunity to increase our knowledge about music’s social mechanisms of action, little interest has been demonstrated within the popular music research field.2 The following study examines the specific context of meaning that developed around the blues in the East and in the West. The sounds and images of the blues originated in the US and then traveled around the

2

One Sound, Two Worlds

world—how were they translated into the daily life of divergent social systems? What social processes were at work? How did blues fans share the blues? What were some of the formative, perception-structuring discourses? What was the influence of the official image created by propaganda and the popular media? More pointedly: did the blues truly sound “the same” across all borders? Or should we instead be speaking of sonic impulses eliciting a great variety of resonances, which find their particular form only through a process of cultural application? In East and West Germany, popular music developed within two general frameworks that could not have been more fundamentally disparate.3 After World War II, the country was divided into a socialist and a capitalist state. In West Germany [Bundesrepublik Deutschland or the Federal Republic of Germany, BRD], democratic conditions and a free-market economy prevailed. They looked to the United States for their mass cultural trends,4 but there was still enough room beyond big business for alternative initiatives and scenes. East Germany [Deutsche Demokratische Republik or the German Democratic Republic, DDR] was centrally organized and ruled by the primacy of ideology. The state greatly limited the scope of action for private actors and monopolized the production and distribution of popular music. It possessed exclusive decision-making power, which was manifested through a widely ramified network of institutions and legal directives.5 The entire media sphere and event sector was under its control. Government gazettes declared who was permitted to perform music publicly. Amateurs had to demonstrate both artistic ability and good political behavior to attain a permit, called a Spielerlaubnis [authorization to play], to perform. As a rule, professional musicians also had to complete a degree. Professionalism was therefore not defined by market value, but by the candidates’ training and disposition. An elaborate security apparatus monitored the day-to-day dynamics. Cultural movements that claimed their right to individuality and ran counter to socialist egalitarian principles were identified as political threats. The press, radio, and television were all forced into line. In contrast to Western pluralism, public opinion was censored and polished with party doctrine. Propaganda declared that the songs and records coming out of the nationally-owned recording studios were self-sufficient creations and the socialist answer to the manipulative industrial product of Western capitalism—just because they were written in their German mother tongue. In actuality, however, all of the musicians were trying to copy the sound patterns and standards set by the West.6

Introduction: Just Turn That Noise Off . . .

3

Even though the state went to great lengths to attain total control, it was repeatedly forced to admit to holes in the system. The monolithic unity suggested on paper was in reality subverted by conflicts of interest, pragmatism, corruption, and resistance—their goal of uniform behavior remained an illusion. And although they had intended to direct daily cultural processes by decree, that never came to be. This state of affairs was also reflected in the music world: even the state’s vast arsenal of repressive strategies could not stop fans from continuing to develop niche scenes. The Protestant Church provided a highly politically charged safe space, where the honest truth prevailed and every artist deprived of a license by the authorities found a platform. Those spaces of free expression are at the focus of my analysis. I would like to shed light on the microstructures that existed beyond the calculated state policy channels and big business, both in the East and in the West. Niches and biotopes played a long-lasting role in West Germany as well. “Blues evangelists” (Schwartz 2007b) and “cultural middlemen” (Filene 2000: 5) ensured the efficient dissemination of the music they idolized and affected ideological patterns. As in other places around the world, they had a decisive influence on the development of the blues. They generated indivisible networks and defined the discursive coordinates—all during a time in which today’s technological possibilities were a far-distant reality. One of my core questions is precisely how that communication functioned. “Identity” is the second category of analysis that guided my research. Popular music functions as a bridge between a reservoir of diverse symbols, behavior patterns, and attitudes that serve as markers of differentiation. Only the circle of initiates can decipher their codes. Their cultural context is a space of self-discovery and self-realization. As the British sociologist Simon Frith rightly claimed: The first reason, then, we enjoy popular music is because of its use in answering questions of identity: we use pop songs to create for ourselves a particular sort of self-definition, a particular place in society. The pleasure that pop music produces is a pleasure of identification—with the music we like, with the performers of that music, with the other people who like it. (Frith 1987: 140)

More generally speaking: “Identity is not a thing but a process—an experiential process which is most vividly grasped as music. Music seems to be a key to identity because it offers, so intensely, a sense of both self and others, of the subjective in the collective” (Frith 1996: 110). The following analysis will discuss the creation of a variety of

4

One Sound, Two Worlds

blues milieus and communities as acts of identity formation. It will also outline internal structures and outside effects and situate ideological benchmarks. This study focuses on the blues as one of the fundamental pillars of African American music.7 Ever since the blues was captured by the record industry in the early 1920s, it has had an enormous effect on the development of popular music. Still today, the blues functions as an idiom of popular music; its influence on contemporary R&B, soul, hip-hop, or rock8 cannot go unheard.9 And the blues itself has gone through quite a few metamorphoses, shedding its skin countless times. Adaptation is one of the laws of evolution. Even after almost one hundred years of existence in the public media, the blues retains its vitality—that magical quality—forever remaining an alternative to the breathless pace of modernity.10 Throughout most of that process, however, the genre has been relegated to the sidelines, failing to attain mass approval. Every now and then, the economic wave washes it back up to the top.11 In 2003, the blues genre was briefly put into the international spotlight when the US Senate declared a “Year of the Blues,” prominently sponsored by the automobile company Volkswagen. They issued an “Official Proclamation,” declaring the blues the “most influential form of American roots music,” and “a national historic treasure, which needs to be preserved, studied, and documented for future generations” (Year of the Blues). The year 2003 was the hundred-year anniversary of the supposed “discovery” of the blues by the African American band leader and composer William Christopher Handy, thought to be responsible for sharing the music with the rest of the world.12 The celebrations included many concerts, forms of entertainment, and media activities, one of which was the seven-part film series Martin Scorsese Presents the Blues: A Musical Journey. After that short season, however, the blues disappeared back into the netherworld, only visible and audible to a relatively small, committed community of fans. At this point, it is important to mention that I belong to that circle of insiders, as it will explain my motivations and perspective, in part. I discovered my love of the blues as a teenager. I was struck by the sounds and the messages, the idiosyncratic mixture of passion and detachment. Living in East Germany, I felt the special power of this music and was part of a youth culture who called themselves Blueser [Bluesers]. We shunned the mainstream and evaded both the system’s temptations and restrictions as much as possible. When the Wall fell, objectives and options changed—the framework was reset. Political tensions disappeared, edges were blurred. N o longer a scarce com-

Introduction: Just Turn That Noise Off . . .

5

modity, information and recording mediums were now available on an almost unlimited basis. And with the new freedom of movement, the world had opened up for concertgoers. I have remained faithful to the blues as a journalist, radio moderator, and scholar; but most of all as a fan, maintaining familiarity with the current German blues scene. Of course, my biographical background and expert knowledge have had a significant role in my choice of topic and critical approach. For me, translating my subjective experience into academic understanding, thereby bringing together two different competencies, is an opportunity and a challenge. Colleagues such as Paul Oliver, David Evans, and Elijah Wald have all impressively demonstrated that it is certainly a path worth taking. Their personal, emotional approach to the blues has refined research interest in the genre, not dulled it. My study is based on an abundance of sources: primarily on publicly available or privately-owned archive documents, in addition to academic literature, journalistic reflections, daily and specialized press contributions, television productions, audio recordings, emails, and oral communications.13 Most of these documents will be presented here for the first time, having been left to obscurity until now. Major differences emerge when comparing source materials from the East and the West. The release of the internal records from the SED [Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands or Socialist Unity Party of Germany] and the Stasi provided a vast trove of information. That collection’s research value can hardly be overestimated. Provided that the study is conducted in a sensitive and critical way, the reports and analyses put together by East Germany’s Ministry of State Security can grant unique insights into both the dictatorship and everyday life there. One cannot escape the irony that, in the end, the secret service and its unofficial collaborators turned out to be historical chroniclers. There is precious data on the character and context of the blues scene in East Germany in the state and security apparatus archives. They compiled mountains of files used to support the surveillance and the Zersetzung [corruption and disintegration] of countless nonconformists and dissidents. Today, those records can be seen as testimonies to a nation in decline. Analogous sources do not exist for West Germany. The fans there had their own ways of recording their daily cultural musical experiences. In contrast to East Germany, they were able to express themselves freely and establish alternative channels of communication, such as fanzines, newsletters, and independent newspapers, which did not function as the industry’s mouthpiece or pursue despicable profit interests. They worked tirelessly to create a minority fan group net-

6

One Sound, Two Worlds

work, fighting to demonstrate their power of interpretation and to attain a profit of distinction, as they received barely any media attention at that time. The German Blues Circle took up the cause most energetically. Founded in 1976 in Frankfurt am Main, it was officially registered as an Association for the Promotion of the Blues. Its newsletter, which would publish a total of 358 installments, refused any form of censure. It had a unique way of reflecting the worldview of a clientele with a desire for self-expression and dialogue. In the end, it dominated both internal discourses and the public perception of the West German blues community. The archived documents from the concert agency Lippmann + Rau are of immense historical value. This company brought the blues to the largest European stages and introduced groundbreaking independent productions, thereby increasing the kinds of records available on the market. As the two company managers had their offices in different cities, all important decisions were made by letter or the telex network—a stroke of luck for researchers. The opening of East Germany’s archive set off a real boom in the process of coming to terms with the past. Since then, quite a few areas of historiography have shown an increasingly clear imbalance between research conducted on the East versus on the West, including subjects concerned with the daily cultural and political dimensions of popular music. There has been a much more precise research effort into those aspects for socialist East Germany. Depending on which area is discussed, an examination of the blues tends to move in diverging directions. Its development east of the demarcation line has been analyzed as a multifaceted, youth culture phenomenon above all.14 The view to the west is focused on the media coverage, biographical and musical aspects, industrial forms of organization, structures of the live sphere, and regional specifics.15 Moreover, insights and the flow of information still remain in flux to this day, even though the 1945 and 1990 turning points are considered clearly defined terrain historically-speaking, and the separate development occurred during the era of two German states, something which is very much a thing of the past. Depending on the perspective, different aspects from the many diverse contexts either move into the foreground or recede into the background. The research discussed here approaches this complex context with the help of four case studies that look at the social relevance of the blues during different time periods and within different societal constellations. The goal of this book is not to deliver a seamless chronology or a sweeping encyclopedic examination; it is more interested in clarifying the relevant constitutive relationships. Some individual actors had a deep and lasting effect on the blues, and will therefore be portrayed in

Introduction: Just Turn That Noise Off . . .

7

more nuanced detail. All of the information provided here should not obscure the fact that multilayered realities can be represented only on a case-by-case, ideal-typical, and exemplary basis. There are limits to conducting a comparative analysis of the genesis of the blues in the East and in the West due to the differing dominant frameworks in the two states—disparities are unavoidable. In West Germany, economic relations were met with hegemonic urgency, while under socialist rule, it was the dissemination and reception of music that was more politically charged. The image we have of the blues—all of our associations, clichés, and expectations—has been historically developed. Chapter one will examine the source of that knowledge. It will highlight the first debates in the United States, pursue the transatlantic transfer of ideology to Europe, and observe the specific modes of reflection in East and West Germany. The second chapter situates early blues discourses in the jazz context. The internationally-networked Hot Club movement solidified longstanding interpretive frameworks and promoted the blues as an art form, bringing it to the concert stage after World War II. Bessie Smith was stylized as the standard for how to sing the blues. In West Germany in the 1950s, pioneers such as Günter Boas and Horst Lippmann cleared journalistic paths for the blues. In contrast, East

Figure 0.1. Transformation processes: blues scholar Walter Liniger (left) and Sonny Boy Nelson, Greenville, Mississippi, 1991 (photo by Axel Küstner).

8

One Sound, Two Worlds

German propaganda barely took it into consideration, concentrating instead on jazz as a supposed means of state sabotage. The third chapter is dedicated to the American Folk Blues Festival. Launched in 1962, with a last run in 1985, the concert series emancipated the blues throughout Europe as an independent genre. Lippmann + Rau followed their artistic and didactic vision in the promotion of that project while simultaneously developing a sound business model. They exported it to East Germany as well, where it was met with an exceptionally positive response. In the 1960s, the festival series functioned as a powerful ideological podium, delivering catchy marketing slogans for the political and sociological interpretation of the blues. Joachim-Ernst Berendt led the phalanx of opinion makers. The fourth chapter will investigate how a dichotomy between pop and protest developed within the blues at the beginning of the 1970s. Fueled by the myth of Woodstock and washed up to the top by the waves of rock music declared “progressive,” there was a surge in the popularity of the blues. It became more compatible to the masses in the form of “blues rock” and started gaining the interest of major companies. At the other end of the spectrum, counterculture movements in West Germany reclaimed the blues as a device of anti-capitalist subversion. The industrialists’ embrace of the blues was also criticized by orthodox fans. The East German media identified the blues as the voice of the “other America.” But at the same time, it mirrored the social conflicts in their own country. Songs and performances by the East Berlin musician Stefan Diestelmann demonstrated this in a particularly vivid way; and in West Germany, the band Das Dritte Ohr stood out. Many of their lyrics denounced the distortions of capitalism. In 1979, L+R Records went into business. The independent label dedicated itself to the “real” and aesthetically mature, fringe blues. Its collection includes recordings made during field trips to the US. Chapter five will discuss how West German fans organized themselves in the 1970s and 1980s. For instance, they began publishing the first German magazine in the field, Blues Forum, in 1980. As far as national communication and collaboration were concerned, the German Blues Circle took on that responsibility. Its monthly publication Info became a platform for the scene’s opinion wars. Discussions revolving around authenticity, race, and commerce relations went on for years. In East Germany, these kinds of battles of interpretation did not play much of a role. There, the blues was reassessed as the soundtrack of the silent resistance, as a cipher for non-conformist youth whose guiding principles, attitudes, and cultural style repertoire originated in the hippie era. Their objection to the “socialist personality” ideal put them

Introduction: Just Turn That Noise Off . . .

9

in the security agencies’ crosshairs. Protection was offered by private event organizers and the Protestant Church, which held Bluesmessen [blues masses] between 1979 and 1986. In the end, the blues faced radical consequences—but not because of the Stasi’s stranglehold—it was competitive pressure from emerging youth cultures that led to the blues’ loss of appeal and significance.

Notes 1. For example, see Kleßmann 1993; Bösch 2015. Dorothee Wierling (2015: 117) points to “popular culture” as an area of informational value. 2. For the exceptions, see Poiger 2000. 3. For comparative social analysis, see Burrichter, N akath, and Stephan 2006; Glaser 1997. 4. On the US’s influence on early West German youth cultures, see Maase 1992. 5. For more detail: Wicke and Müller 1996; Rauhut 2002: in particular 5–20. 6. For more detail: Rauhut 2002: in particular 5–20. 7. For terminology, history, and typology, see Hoffmann 1994; Wicke, W. Ziegenrücker, and K. Ziegenrücker 2007: 94–102; Wald 2010. 8. For the definition of terminology specific to popular music, see Wicke, W. Ziegenrücker, and K. Ziegenrücker 2007. 9. It is also possible to see the roots of the blues in punk music’s aesthetics and attitude, if you are looking for it. See Rapport 2014. 10. On blues as an expression of the modern, and on the dialectic of tradition and progress, see Grist 2007; Middleton 2007. 11. In parts of the American tourism industry, the blues maintains a significant role; for example, in historical places such as Chicago and Memphis or in the Mississippi Delta (see King 2011). 12. W. C. Handy (1873–1958) called himself the Father of the Blues. Handy’s friend and confidant, Abbe Niles, a younger, white wall street lawyer and blues expert played a decisive role in establishing that legend. See Hurwitt 2008. 13. Due to the already extensive number of sources, only the cited material will be listed in the bibliography. 14. See Rauhut and Kochan 2009. 15. See Rauhut and Lorenz 2008; Siebers and Zagratzki 2010.

C HAPTER 1

Sense and Sensibility How We Know What the Blues Is

.>

Every chord he hit was true, just as solid as a dollar. —David “Honeyboy” Edwards1

As soon as academics start dissecting the blues, it gets cast in an ambivalent light. The historical relevance of the blues may remain untouched—it is appreciated as one of the roots of popular music after all—but media-perpetuated stereotypes and some of the fans’ quasicultish behavior provide fodder for cynical commentary and fundamental criticism. All of the myths and clichés of the blues have long been inscribed into its genetic code; they are a part of its global genetic constitution, a perception-forming chromosome. They have become included as constitutive characteristics in the same way that musical specifics and core topics of pain and loss are.2 Our current knowledge of the blues is sourced from a mixture of hard facts, speculation, and the enduring glow of that beautiful illusion. There is direct correlation between an individual’s level of appreciation for the blues and their perceptions, opinions, and explanatory approaches around it, which shatter into disparate and, often enough, irreconcilable “truths.” While for one person the music may simply be the embodiment of cleverly disguised entertainment, sentimentality, or egocentric self-pity, another will hear nothing less than the fundamental echoes of humanity, the sounding out of the human condition.3 The director Wim Wenders4 affirmed that, “There is no manifest, constitution, or declaration of independence in the twentieth century that has created more freedom and identity than the blues” (Wenders 2008: 12). It is not consensus art; it is art that polarizes. The blues is not listened to casually. Disentangling the competing lines of interpreta-

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tion while simultaneously understanding all of the listeners’ different motivations and interests is anything but easy. There is much too often a kind of sterile distancing, a misunderstanding of objectivity, and a blind belief in progress that only considers today’s perspective and fails to include any earlier viewpoints. And yet that which we think we know has developed throughout history. In fact, today’s clichés and interpretations of the blues can all be traced back to the advent of its media distribution roughly a century ago.5 In its land of origin, the US, record company marketing and journalistic, literary, and academic reflections had an effect on the image circling the globe. The interpretive models of white musicologists and folklorists proved to be particularly influential and persistent. They became aware of the blues as an object of study at the beginning of the twentieth century. This interest automatically enhanced its status, turning the spotlight on a genre that had been ignored and vilified as a primitive form of music.6 The researchers’ political positions covered the whole spectrum—from ultraconservative to liberal to Marxist—but they did not budge on the principle of power: they approached a foreign culture from a privileged social position, “from the outside,” and proceeded to judge it based on their own values. All of the schools of blues historiography immersed their research subject in a romantic, glorified light with only nuanced shades of difference.7 It did not matter if the blues were identified as the window into the foreign “black” soul, as an answer to the social contradictions of the US, or even as the hymn of the revolution—whichever forecast you chose, the view remained cloudy. Critics blame that romantic attitude on an ineradicable racism,8 detecting the arrogance of those in power in their radical pamphlets as well as other maudlin depictions.9 Other deliberative voices say there is another side to consider: it was precisely that dazzling, shiny patina that instigated transnational interest in the blues in the first place (see Hamilton 2008: 243). A considerable amount of the fascination is indeed based on its oral existence, on the “translation” of sonic material into verbal images.10 From the very beginning, the romantic element was accompanied by a particular understanding of authenticity (for more detail, see Wicke 2008). The white scholars never saw the blues as mere entertainment. Elevating the music to a direct expression of human existence, they claimed it rang out with cries from the heart, that through it, pure suffering and longing were expressed—as well as a note of latent resistance. The engineers of this blues ideology adhered closely to a one-dimensional developmental logic. They presented their object of desire as part of a “black” culture that had emerged out of the mis-

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ery of slavery and exerted a massive influence on the swamps of the Mississippi Delta—eventually taking over the cities—now amplified, but still pure and uncorrupted. That stance still shapes public perception today, regardless of the fact that academic research suggests much more complex causal relations. According to the latter, the blues is an interethnic product representing the merging of African and European traditions, which established itself in the urban South and then spread out to the rural areas (see, for example, Hamilton 2008; Middleton 2007). The American music ethnologist and anthropologist Charles Keil went one step further: in 1985 he wrote a provocative essay—one not completely free of speculation—claiming that our concept of the blues was mere fantasy, a concept that the whites got from the blacks. Putting it bluntly, he said, “I strongly suspect that eventually we can call the blues a white ‘heart disease,’ to which blacks had no immunity, and which only truly black music could cure” (Keil 1985: 120). According to Keil, the initial commercial dissemination of the blues lay in white hands and lasted around fifteen years until it was taken on by African Americans as their own mark of identity in the second half of the 1920s (see Keil 1985: 120–21, citation: 120). Parallel to that, a wave of ideologization set in claiming that this music deserved folklore status. These belief systems dissociated the blues from its industrial conditions of existence and stylized it as folk

Figure 1.1. Our image of the blues: Big Joe Williams, Crawford, Mississippi, 1978 (photo by Axel Küstner).

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music. In an effort to rescue it from obscurity and “flattening,” field researchers scoured the South for valuable evidence of an allegedly “untouched” culture in the process of a slow demise. John A. Lomax (1867–1948) and his son Alan (1915–2002) possessed immense authority in this regard, which resonates up until today. By order of the Washington Library of Congress, they began traveling around the South in 1933 to document blues music. They preferred to set up their mobile recording equipment in prisons, presuming that it was there they would find the archetypal black blues man, isolated from the diluting influence of modern mass communications and superficial pop culture. They found the perfect role model in Leadbelly, an African American singer and guitarist.11 He had been convicted of murder and was serving a long sentence when he was released early in 1934 for good behavior. In Lomax’ view, Leadbelly preserved the sound of a bygone era and functioned as a living link to the roots; a diamond in the raw who personified the idea of the “real.” And that was how he was presented and marketed to the public: as a valuable anachronism, “the folk song find of the century” (Filene 2000: 58), a wild, untamed creature that lets his emotions run free. Upon announcing a career-boosting move to the main hub of entertainment in 1935, John Lomax fed the tabloids some lurid commentary: Leadbelly is a nigger to the core of his being. In addition he is a killer. He tells the truth only accidentally. . . . He is as sensual as a goat, and when he sings to me my spine tingles and sometimes tears come. Penitentiary wardens all tell me that I set no value on my life in using him as a traveling companion. I am thinking of bringing him to New York in January. (As cited in Filene 2000: 59)

In accordance with Leadbelly’s own monetary interests, the Lomaxes not only manipulated his image, they also controlled his repertoire, music, and performance. Measured against their ideal of illuminating the essence of the blues without prejudice, the legacy of John and Alan Lomax remains decidedly problematic and ambivalent: the researchers’ untiring collection of work and accompanying publications did manage to break through the elite mindset of their time and bring focus to African American songs and their creators as a central component of the folk song canon. For that, however, they paid a dubious price. They “created a ‘cult of authenticity,’ a thicket of expectations and valuations” (Filene 2000: 49); and based on their decisions regarding marketing models and selection criteria, they generated a form of the blues corresponding to their own particular romantic concept of “realness.”12 To breathe life into it, they drew attention to the artist as

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well as to the music, thereby bringing the act of creation into the discussion as well. This application of an iconic dimension to the level of sound would have far-reaching consequences. For a long time in Europe, insiders were the only ones aware of the definition of “authentic” blues set in stone by the Lomax dynasty, along with their implicit instructions for the music’s reception.13 Starting in the 1950s, their approach was spread throughout Europe by media and with sporadic performances in concert halls by American blues singers. They eventually found a powerful podium when the folk revival wave reached Germany in the early 1960s.14 In its wake, “black originals” traveled across the Atlantic and were welcomed by young intellectuals and leftists as ambassadors of an endangered species.15 The seed planted by John and Alan Lomax now emerged in Europe: as the festivals and large events (where the aging blues bards suddenly found themselves) and the accompanying advertising and media campaigns indulged in their “cult of authenticity.” The music—celebrated in that context as “original” and “pure” and supposedly just waiting to be discovered out of the rubble of the modern era—never existed in that form. It was constructed out of fragments and clichés by the architects of the revival, redefined according to their worldview (see Titon 1993: esp. 222–23; Feintuch 1993). Labeled as “folk blues,”16 it was inscribed with a “white” understanding of art; it sounded smooth and cultivated.17 The Country Blues by Samuel B. Charters was one book that had an enormous effect at the start of the folk revival. The study was the result of several field trips and discographic research work. It was published in 1959 along with a record of the same name.18 Charters (1929–2015), a young American jazz enthusiast and aspiring beat poet was looking to “achieve as high a degree of objectivity as possible” (Charters 1975b: xviii), which is why his artist portraits concentrated on the most commercially successful musicians. His reflections on the blues may tend toward the poetic, but they also betray a missionary zeal. In retrospect, Charters acknowledged that his passionate propaganda for the sound of the “other America” was a political “cry for help,” a manifesto, and his “own private revolution” (Charters 1975a: xii and ix). He wanted young white people to open up their eyes to social alternatives, of which the blues was an exemplary symbol. In his opinion, racism and hypocrisy were infused throughout “white” culture and had brought the country to the edge of an abyss. Charters saw the “openness” and “immediacy” of the “black expression” (ibid.: ix) as a chance for a consciousness shift and new direction. Having learned the lessons of anticommunism and McCarthy’s witch hunts, Charters avoided using open criticism and combative slogans.

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He instead dressed up his visions in romantic images. In time, however, he did recognize that some of it sounded a bit “strident” (ibid.: x), even for him. “But I was trying to get people to listen, and this seemed to be the most direct way to get through” (ibid.: x–xi). The poetry and powerful eloquence of Charters’ writing did indeed make the book into a bestseller and standard reference work. The author travels with the reader to a secret world, in which reality and fantasy are intermingled. He portrays the sadness of the American South as the blues’ primary state of being: “poor farm country” with “unpainted board cabins,” “thin grass” and “littered yards” (ibid.: 30). “And across the fields at night, the yellow light from an oil lamp brightening a rain-streaked window, there is sometimes the lonely sound of the blues” (ibid.: 31). It is difficult to escape Charters’ imagery, as in his following discussion of “Come on in My Kitchen,” in which he demonstrates his mastery of allegory: “The notes from the guitar suddenly seem to evoke the smell of a summer rainstorm, and the water streaming down a shadowed window pane. The finest of Robert Johnson’s blues have a brooding sense of torment and despair. The blues has become a personified figure of despondency” (ibid.: 210). In 1962, The Country Blues was already published in West Germany as Die Story vom Blues [The Story of the Blues] and was in print until the 1990s. It had a large and engaged audience and contemporary critics praised Charters for his “unusual feel for the profound aspects of the blues” and his “in-depth knowledge.” Here he had “paid suitable tribute to an art form that was the only truly real folk music of America to be spoken of” (all citations: Rehnberg 1960a). Reviewers claimed that Charters told “true stories,” and that his reportage “was both enthralling and informative” (Zimmerle 1962b). Over the course of time, however, doubts began to grow. Although The Country Blues was still considered a “pioneering work” (Pehl 1982), Charters’ political pathos and puristic, exaggerated tone came under increasing scrutiny. The new generation of blues fans could not accept that he praised Muddy Waters’ recordings for the Library of Congress to the skies but disqualified those produced by Chess Records (see Wolff 1980b: 4) because “the music itself had become secondary to the din and the dancing” (Charters 1959: 251).19 The works of Paul Oliver (1927–2017) have also been widely read and discussed. The British blues scholar began in-depth research of his beloved music in the early 1950s, eventually becoming the most capable representative of his field.20 He saw the blues as an independent and living art form and sought to bring it back out of the museum. In the spring of 1960, Oliver published the groundbreaking study Blues

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Fell This Morning, which examines 350 songs in its search for The Meaning of the Blues.21 The famous African American writer Richard Wright contributed the foreword, praising Paul Oliver’s dedication and precise methodology. In reality, the British man had at that point never actually visited the homeland of the blues—he observed the music from afar and substantiated his findings through extensive research.22 Wright considered the geographical and emotional distance an advantage, as according to him they sharpened perception. His reverence for Oliver’s work, demonstrated in the following citation, enhanced its value: As a Southern-born American N egro, I can testify that Paul Oliver is drenched in his subject; his frame of reference is as accurate and concrete as though he himself had been born in the environment of the blues. Can an alien, who has never visited the milieu from which a family of songs has sprung, write about them? In the instance of such a highly charged realm as the blues, I answer a categoric and emphatic Yes. (Wright 1994: xvi)

Blues Fell This Morning was highly praised as a milestone by West German connoisseurs.23 They called the voluminous work “definitely worth reading” (Henning 1992) and said that it “suggests many new aspects to the readers, imparting them with an even deeper understanding of the oppression and suffering of the N egro” (Rehnberg 1960b). Paul Oliver’s profound and richly illustrated social history The Story of the Blues was no less positively reviewed. Published in 1969, it appeared on the West German market in 1978. “I find it impossible to fault this book,” wrote his colleague Ernest Borneman. “I cannot imagine a better book to explain to the beginner what the blues is all about, and I cannot imagine a better man to write it than Paul Oliver” (Borneman 1971). While the supporters of “St. Paul” (Doering 1971b) were in awe of his exemplary meticulousness and integrity, his critics accused him of an austere style, a lack of rigor, and of engaging in random fact collection. The journalist Manfred Miller even claimed that The Story of the Blues was “like a gigantic puzzle abandoned by the bored or overwhelmed player (cited in: “Auswahl von Büchern” 1985: 36). In the end, Paul Oliver did not dispute those objections: his multidimensional, analytical research approach, which was always supported sociohistorically,24 had cleared a path forward. Charters’ and Oliver’s books lent a new quality to the blues debate in West Germany. Not only did they lead to great gains in knowledge, they adjusted the focus of the discussion. For decades, the blues had been either categorized as a form of African American music or as the root of jazz.25 Now it was moving out of the sidelines and emancipat-

Sense and Sensibility: How We Know What the Blues Is

17

ing itself as a genre. The number of licensed editions focusing on the blues, or at least granting it a prominent place, increased in West Germany, as observed in the monographs by Giles Oakley, Arnold Shaw, Tony Palmer, Greil Marcus, Charlie Gillett, and Michael Bloomfield.26 Specialized marketing channels facilitated the procurement of leading British and American magazines; an increasingly expansive spectrum of informational sources was now available to the blues fan. An important note to make here is that polemical and nonconformist writings had a more limited appeal. They disturbed the ideal—and so the provocative ideas of people such as Charles Keil were left to fade away in the ivory towers of academia. Any treatises interwoven with the ethos of black power met a similar fate. Those works recognized that the “white” appropriation of the blues and the predominance of a “white” perspective on the blues constituted a modern form of colonialism—and were thus barely even discussed outside of radical leftist circles. At the beginning of the 1970s, the renowned German musicologist and ethnologist Alfons Michael Dauer harshly and excessively criticized the African American writer and political activist LeRoi Jones, warning that he should be “distrusted to the greatest extent when he starts theorizing” (Dauer 1971: 283). The “narrow-minded little Jones” was accused of “stereotyped thinking” and of walking around “with a stiff corset so as to hold up his fanaticism, which sometimes has the bitter taste of fatalism” (ibid.: 284 and 283). Dauer criticized Jones for his continuous repetition of the worn-out thesis that “non-Negroes could never comprehend jazz because it—and the blues even more so—was the music of the Negro.” The globally respected author27 continued to be accused of wearing ideological blinders and of building “himself his own black wall” (all citations: ibid.: 283 and 284). Alongside the increasingly accessible international specialist literature, German authors also began participating in the discussion toward the end of the 1950s. The socio- and cultural-historical, biographical, and textual analysis works by Joachim-Ernst Berendt and Theo Lehmann were very well received. They, too, maintained that aura of the beautiful illusion, to which so many blues fans were susceptible. The ethnographic and musicological pieces by Janheinz Jahn, Alfons Michael Dauer, Carl Gregor Herzog zu Mecklenburg, and Waldemar Scheck reached a select public. Filled with academic ambition, they tended to stray away from a literary style. Ernest Borneman, a German “Renaissance man,” who lived in Britain, Canada, and France as an emigrant until 1960, strove for scientific authority in his essays. By the mid 1940s, he was considered one of the “leading jazz critics and researchers in the world” (cited in Siegfried 2015: 43). His

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studies—several of which were devoted to the blues—covered a wide spectrum,28 examining the origins and racial coordinates of African American music (see, for example, Borneman 1959; Borneman 1946: in particular 37–40; Borneman 1957). Ernest Borneman remained a well-kept secret in Germany, even though he went down in history as “a figure at the vanguard of blues proselytism” (Schwartz 2007b: 147) and Paul Oliver, a person of authority, referred to him as “significant and groundbreaking” (Oliver 2012: 27). And yet he is known only by a small group of experts. The young German blues enthusiasts who traveled to the US in search of the most direct access to their object of study suffered a similar fate.29 In a way, the first to follow in Samuel B. Charters and Paul Oliver’s tracks must have been Karl Gert zur Heide. He met the musician Little Brother Montgomery in Chicago in 1968 and published Deep South Piano two years later. The book tells the life story of a key witness to that era while also providing valuable insights into the history of the piano blues in the American South. It was released by a London publishing company and included in a blues series edited by Paul Oliver. In the 1970s, some West German musicians looking for inspiration and ways to refine their own skills began to travel to the US seeking close physical contact with the “real” blues. They were joined by avid collectors so animated by the idea of conserving such a special sound that they traveled to the remotest corners of the country to set up their recording devices. Their archaeological zeal was encouraging them to follow a vision that had seen its ups and downs since John and Alan Lomax’s early field trips. A novel, consequential initiative came into being in the early 1960s, supported by orthodox fans who spurned the rising blues boom. In their opinion, the movement was taking the wrong direction—and Charters’ bestseller The Country Blues was an unfortunate indication of that. They criticized his usage of commercial success as the main guiding framework for the historical review. Quality, not salability, constituted the main performance indicator for these fans. As far as they were concerned, the only valuable recordings were those that fulfilled the axiom of “primitive purity.” The more obscure an artist or recording, the higher the ranking. A New York clique of record collectors calling itself the “blues mafia” were the main disseminators of that credo. Starting in the 1960s, they were responsible for the re-release of rare shellac recordings, which were then praised as unrivaled, as the non-plus ultra, first by influential journalists and then by the rest of the blues world (for a more detailed discussion, see: Hamilton 2008: 201–46). With good media networks, they and other arbiters of “good

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taste” claimed the aesthetic power of interpretation, even establishing new categories in the process, such as “Texas blues” or “Delta blues” based on their areas of sample collection (see Oliver 2007: 30). Historically, the blues mafia can be seen in a similar light as the blues evangelists (see Schwartz 2007b) and “cultural middlemen” (Filene 2000: 5), whose particular moral values and conceptions of history had a decisive impact on the development and the perception of this music. If a concept showed the promise of turning a profit, it would be shaped based on the rules of the market. Robert Johnson and the cult that rose up around him constitutes a prime example. The guitarist and singer had been almost forgotten for over two decades—until his resurrection in 1961 as a myth larger than life. Following the blues renaissance, Columbia Records released an LP crowning Johnson as the King of the Delta Blues Singers,30 and with it a new era was born. Its merchandising scheme gave the blues an image that was meant to have mass impact, overshadowing the music itself (for more detail, see Wald 2004). It declared Johnson the norm, solidifying that visual conception of the “authentic” blues man. Everything about him was “real”: his songs, which sprang out of a bleeding heart; that restless, excessive Dasein; an untimely death by a rival’s hand. Fantastic tales blossomed, but little was known about his life. Missing facts were replaced with fiction. The story of the Faustian bargain, in which Johnson is said to have sold his soul to the Devil in return for perfect artistic ability, is a good illustration of this inclination toward poetic narrative. That aura of mystery was fascinating to a young public and met with a gratifying response in the rock business, as it corresponded perfectly to its concentration on the cult of the star. For many rock fans, Robert Johnson represented their ticket to the blues world; he softened the boundaries between target audiences.31 However, one of the consequences of the interest in Johnson was that the focus shifted unilaterally to the Mississippi Delta (see for example, Palmer 1981). The majority of fans and scholars internalized the idea that the birthplace of the blues was there, in the “heartland”—all other regions faded into the background.32 The enigma of Robert Johnson carried a lot more power in West Germany than in East Germany,33 one of the main reasons being the unequal availability of material and information. If you could afford it in West Germany, almost every wish was fulfillable, while a state of permanent scarcity reigned in East Germany. Concerts with international blues musicians were just as rare as records and literature, which were only attainable on the black market, as they were usually not sold in stores. The blues scene there was more focused on musical events than

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on consumption; and it was far less prone to disintegrating into competing factions. That which was possessed was shared communally, deprivation raised their consciousness and bonded them together. The opinion wars observed in the more fanatical blues circles only played a minor role in this part of the country. Unity was more important than matters of taste. That being said, East German aficionados remained barred from certain basic experiences and deprived of a cosmopolitan horizon. Their blues practice was closely linked to the social conflicts of East Germany; they barely participated in global discourse. In the West, however, there was ardent dispute34 and people enjoyed the privilege of unlimited freedom of movement and access to the “original.” Moreover, the big American names did not live somewhere far off on a foreign planet, they were simply part of daily life.35 While in East Germany private media was illegal and all publications required a governmental printing license, in the West people communicated through fanzines and self-published periodicals. International schools of thought were disseminated, and they compared them to their own worldview. Irreconcilable camps emerged out of the endless debates about the meaning of the blues. The most dominant camp belonged to the connoisseurs upholding conservative values in the style of the blues mafia, those who were fighting for absolute purity laws. Although they represented only a relatively small percentage of the blues scene, their hold on the power of definition permanently affected the public’s perception of the genre. Anyone who just listened to the blues as entertainment was held in suspicion. The following apodictic judgment made by an “insider” against an alleged “outsider” while reminiscing about a tour with African American musicians in the early 1970s is very illuminating: We were sitting at the hotel bar after a concert when a few members of the blues- and whatever social jet set (. . . they’re wearing blues again— blues is in . . .) sits down with us: High achievers (academics) in their mid-thirties with women (academics who are now fully devoted to keeping house and playing tennis) in their late twenties. They tried to start a conversation with the musicians. Their tone was fatherly, chummy; they wanted to imply commonality where there were no commonalities. They approached the musicians from a careful distance—which is typical for the educated when dealing with a man of the people. “So, the blues, I just think it’s great. That you can just sit down like that and sing about your oppression and improvise so cool. It’s really captivating, it really grabs you sometimes.” (Engbarth 1983: 26–28)

Blues fans clearly staked their claims, and every person defended his or her preferences. They were all legitimate. In fact, even a seem-

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ingly narrow-minded affront such as the one above could be understood as an unconditional music lover’s territorial behavior, if one puts oneself in the position of the person conducting the attack. Tolerance was not an option for those more conservative fans—identity requires differentiation. All too quickly, a sober observer can forget that music is a form of media and serves social purposes.36 The forms of appropriation are diverse. Something that, from a distance, may appear like a construct, that follows ideological patterns, could just as easily be a perfectly functioning organism driven by emotions. The phenomena appear in a different light depending on the point of view and level of participation. The romantic flavor of the blues could be interpreted as a deformation—but it could also be seen as an aesthetic ingredient or literary multiplication, or a congenial dissolution of artistic boundaries. The blues is used as a means of communication by its adepts. They have various ways of codifying it and creating sign systems accessible to only a particular circle of initiates.37 An Eric Clapton fan speaks a different “language” than an advocate of the archaic canon. There are also many different concepts of “authenticity,” one of the main factors in the evaluation of blues music. They depend on ideological and social factors, including ethnicity and gender, and vary over the course of time.38 The same “object” can spark contrary associations. In his study Escaping the Delta, which is dedicated to the Invention of the Blues,39 the American musician and author Elijah Wald describes the contrasting access that blacks and whites had to the mysterious figure of Robert Johnson. Appraising Johnson’s qualities as a medium, he describes him as a “unique bridge between two very different worlds”; he showed his contemporary black fans the way to new shores, out of the provincial desolation of the rural South, because he assimilated the sounds of the radio stations and jukeboxes. As far as the white admirers were concerned, they saw Johnson’s songs as genuine and considered them to be bridges in the other direction, deep into the area of “origin,” the Mississippi Delta. “In both cases, Johnson has served as a screen on which each group of fans projected its own dream movie of the blues life” (Wald 2004: xv–xvi). The concepts of authenticity still affecting the image of the blues today have a long history. Permeated with complex motives and different economic, political, and aesthetic interests, they take on many diverse forms.40 Once the record industry began marketing the blues as “authentic” in the 1920s, that started a domino effect.41 In a clever move, they launched a model of originality that saw itself as the antithesis to their own commercial mechanisms. This paradox was no secret to those conducting sober and objective analysis, which is why they

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dismissed the entire debate around authenticity as a scam. But they overlooked the very crux of the matter: during the process of appropriation, the images and arguments had been dynamically stretched, situating them within new contexts of meaning. Blues fans developed a different notion of “authenticity,” comprehending it as an ideal of communication founded on the same social experiences (see WisemanTrowse 2008: 32–61). For them, it is self-evident that art exists based on projections, that it is not a photographic reflection of reality. Paul Oliver—a blues scholar with two souls housed in his chest, that of the academic and that of the fan—was aware of the ambivalence of things and the difficulty in verbalizing it. His defense sounded no less emotional and biased than the flowery sales jingles put out by public relations strategists, but it did manage to get closer to the heart of it: “For those who had the blues, for those who lived the blues, for those who lived with the blues, the blues had meaning. But for those who lived outside the blues the meaning of the blues was elusive” (Oliver 1994: 283). As demonstrated by popular music research, “authenticity” is a very differentiated issue.42 There are many theories surrounding this topic (for an overview, see Jacke 2013). There is broad consensus within academia that “authenticity” is not an object attribute, but rather an ascription, a construct. Ray Pratt’s concept of what could be called determined listening (see Pratt 1986: 59), which confers prospective uses onto the musical material, has remained an outsider position. Allan Moore’s article “Authenticity as Authentication” provides an effective approach. The British musicologist consequentially identifies musicians and listeners as actors, thereby canceling out the manipulation thesis. Moore’s theory will be briefly outlined here as it allows for a productive assessment of the various controversies (all following citations and arguments: Moore 2002). According to Allan Moore, “authenticity” is not only a product of construction—in the first place, it is a product of appropriation. He differentiates between three kinds of “authenticity,” which overlap in practice: first, second, and third person authenticity. While first person authenticity and third person authenticity target the artist’s positioning, second person authenticity or “authenticity of experience” brings audience members into the equation as actors. The listeners see their experiences reflected in “authentic” music—however that may be accomplished. That is why it is logical to ask who rather than what when examining the process of authentication during the performance. In that case, whether the music happens to be basic country blues, disco music with a polished sound, or sophisticated electronica plays no role:

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Every form of music can be understood as “authentic” by pre-disposed “users.” According to Allan Moore, the ascription of “authenticity” is always interconnected with the construction of subjectivity. Moore’s theory is certainly worth discussion, if only because it attempts to define contested categories, such as “authenticity,” using no less disputable terminologies, such as “truth.”43 Nevertheless, his approach does seem feasible, as he makes a mockery of the argument of total industrial control—which characterizes listeners as mere puppets, inhibiting deeper debate. He also questions the determinism of space, time, and race. From Moore’s perspective, blues music performed by a white German person is no less “authentic” per se than the crackling sound of a pre-war record categorized as “race music” or the singing of a black man in a juke joint somewhere on the Mississippi. Rather, the aura of the “authentic” forms the point of intersection between artistic articulation and social experience. Seen in that way, the blues fans who are ridiculed by their opponents as hopeless cases are neither prisoners of circumstance nor the blind victims of intricate marketing strategies. They are privileged actors equipped with the social soundboard for a sonic world that remains closed to others. The outsider likes to fixate on the “formal boundedness” and “monotony” of the blues. They consider it proof of its inferiority. People who appreciate the blues, on the other hand, view these qualities in reverse. In their opinion, standardizations create necessary, stabilizing frameworks. The principle of “repetition” occupies an anthropological dimension, as emphasized by Richard Middleton (2004). It is not just a negative characteristic of mass culture, or a means of profit maximization and domination in the Adorno sense, and thus an expression of political and economic interests. It is instead a dictate of human conditioning, a fundamental orientation guide. That context goes a long way to explaining the fact that the most standardized style of playing the blues is what has been evaluated as “authentic.” If the recordings of the representatives of classical blues of the 1920s and 1930s are compared, for instance Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey, it seems as though they all sound “the same.” We hear emphatic female voices accompanied by a jazz combo. The songs are mostly composed based on the twelve-bar blues formula and have a duration of about three minutes. They were created “on the drawing board” but are still identified as direct, timeless expressions of emotion. Standardization and “authenticity” are not in opposition to each other in the blues world; they have a constitutive relation to one another. Standardizations define the coordinates within which “authenticity” can be discursively negotiated. They are indispensable for the

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evaluative comparison of musical forms discredited as “synthetic” or “commercial” but also as a basis of communication on an internalstructural level that the members of the blues community can use to separate the “real” from the “unreal.” “Insiders” do not perceive these standardizations as “repetitions,” but as the foundation of an art experience renewed daily. Only an “outsider” who moves outside the emotional range of the blues could hear this music as an eternally revolving, hollow cliché.

Notes 1. The blues musician David “Honeyboy” Edwards, about an encounter with the guitarist Sam Chatmon (Edwards 1997: 209). 2. On the role of loss and nostalgia in the blues, see Middleton 2007. 3. On the relationship between the context and the meaning of African American music, see Gilroy 1991. 4. In 2003, Wim Wenders released The Soul of a Man. The film is part of the internationally acclaimed, seven-part documentary series Martin Scorsese Presents the Blues: A Musical Journey. 5. Based on the study of source materials, the blues first appeared as a distinct genre with printed music and record releases at the beginning of the twentieth century. However, musical elements and instrumental techniques later identified as typical to the blues were circulating much earlier (see Middleton 2006: 44 and 41). 6. An early departure from this was the article “Folk-Song and Folk-Poetry as Found in the Secular Songs of the Southern Negroes,” published by the sociologist Howard Washington Odum in 1911 in the distinguished Journal of American Folklore (Odum 1911). 7. See Garabedian 2014. Evans (1982) provides an evaluative overview of twentieth century blues literature. 8. Following the historian George Fredrickson, Steven P. Garabedian describes this as “romantic racialism” (Garabedian 2014: 476–77). 9. It should not go unmentioned that many black authors also fostered a romantic view of the blues. The self-appointed father of the blues, the African American composer and band leader William Christopher Handy, is one example. He took his supposedly first encounter with the music in 1903 and packaged it into marketable, commercially-minded slogans, writing about a “lean, loose-jointed” slide guitarist: “His clothes were rags; his feet peeped out of his shoes. His face had on it some of the sadness of the ages” (Handy 1941: 74). Advertising campaigns used similar clichés for their record productions, which were released under the category “race records” starting in the 1920s. 10. With the blossoming of African American art in the 1920s, known as the “Harlem Renaissance,” the blues was promoted to a literary object and stylistic element. Its diction, phraseology, and typical subject matter were

Sense and Sensibility: How We Know What the Blues Is

11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

17.

18. 19.

20.

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recognized for their poetic power. Critics reproached leading representatives of the movement such as Langston Hughes and Carl Van Vechten of distorting the blues into something intellectual and grotesque, claiming they understood nothing of the blues. One of the people who shared that opinion was Alfons Michael Dauer. In the context of the 1960 Newport Jazz Festival, he commented on audio clips of an event devoted to the blues, where Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker performed, and Langston Hughes held a talk. Dauer’s judgment of the “black establishment member” was damning: “The poet has a stereotypical image of the blues that depends on the vocabulary of journalistic jazz literature and the late romantic, exotic ideologies of the Harlem Renaissance; it has no relation to the reality of the blues or to the history of the blues” (Dauer 1984: 180). Huddie William Ledbetter (1888–1949) was his birth name. He was recorded for the first time in 1933 by John and Alan Lomax during one of their field trips. On Leadbelly and the Lomaxes, see Filene 2000: in particular: 47–75. They both continued to show a tendency to romanticize, even though Alan Lomax later adopted a leftist standpoint, thereby clearly distancing himself from his father’s conservatism (see Garabedian 2014: 481). They could be found in fanzines, periodicals, and niche radio programs. West German jazz magazines highlighted the role of the Lomaxes at a relatively early point, printing portraits of Leadbelly and reviewing his records (see for example Clayton 1948; Rehnberg 1957; Hudtwalcker 1960a). On the cyclical return of the folk revival in the twentieth century, see Filene 2000. Over the course of the 1960s, counterculture and radical circles in West Germany stylized the blues as a protest symbol. They saw it as a civil rights movement weapon that was also relevant for their own country (see Siegfried 2008). On the history of the category “folk blues,” which was established by Howard Washington Odum and experienced an intense popularization following the folk revival at the end of the 1950s, see Wicke 2008: 244. On the concepts “folk blues” and “popular blues,” see Evans 1982. With all this criticism, it is crucial to remember the positive effects of the folk revival and the ensuing blues boom: they provoked a search for cultural alternatives, directly linking the past of the blues to the future, bringing the music to a mass audience (see Narváez 1993: 244–46; Groom 1971: 109). Various Artists: The Country Blues, edited by Samuel B. Charters, Folkways Records RF 1, USA 1959. Samuel B. Charters later distanced himself from these statements, deleting them from new editions (see Charters 1975a: xv and 250). The Germanlanguage edition continued to be printed in its original form (see Charters 1994: 202). Oliver describes his relationship to the blues and the beginning of his systematic research efforts in the article “Taking the Measure of the Blues” (2007). On the concepts and influence of Paul Oliver’s work in the 1950s, see O’Connell 2012.

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21. Subtitle of the original English edition. 22. In the summer of 1960, Paul Oliver set off on his first extended field trip through the Southern states, where he met, interviewed, and recorded numerous musicians. He was accompanied by his wife Valerie and Chris Strachwitz. 23. They were referring to the English edition, as the book was only translated into German three decades after its appearance in English. 24. See Paul Oliver’s own positioning in Horn 2007: 10. 25. On the reception of African American music in Germany between the end of the nineteenth century and World War II, see for example Lotz 1997; Lotz 2007; Hoffmann 2003. Nederveen Pieterse (1992) examines the larger context, namely the traditional image of “black” in Western pop culture. After 1945, books went into circulation that discussed the blues as the foundation of jazz (see for example Blesh 1946; Finkelstein 1948; Ulanov 1955). 26. Many specialist bookstores stocked relevant English-language titles alongside the German editions. 27. In 1963, LeRoi Jones, later named Amiri Baraka, published Blues People: The Negro Experience in White America and the Music That Developed from It. This book is still seen as an epic, controversial manifesto and considered the first published critical discussion of the blues by an African American. It was translated more than once into German. On the background and effect of Blues People, see Woodard 2014. 28. A detailed summary is provided by Siegfried 2015: 43–140. 29. Starting in the 1960s, West German fans and journalists began to explore the local centers of the American blues scene as well. Their reports were printed in fanzines and journals. Joachim-Ernst Berendt provided one of the earliest documentations when he traveled to the South for the first time in the fall of 1950 (see Berendt 1951). 30. Robert Johnson: King of the Delta Blues Singers, Columbia Records CL 1654, USA 1961. The album was released as part of the series Thesaurus of Classic Jazz. 31. The jazz press also gave it high praise. The West German Jazz Podium reviewed the European release of King of the Delta Blues Singers. Philips Records included it in their series Classic Jazz Masters in 1962. A critic recommended the “eternal recordings,” advising music fans that they would not “want to miss out on such phenomenal contributions” (“Robert Johnson” 1964). Seven years later, the legend that turned Johnson into an “idol for pop fans and a demigod for blues fans” was challenged in a comprehensive, nuanced article published by Jazz Podium (Doering 1971a: 165). 32. Among others, Paul Oliver repeatedly pointed out this distortion of the facts (see, for example, Horn 2007: 6–7 and 10). 33. Specialist media responsible for reporting on music in East Germany published an article on Robert Johnson every now and then. The journal Profil, dedicated to the “methodology of dance music,” shifted focus to the blues in their edition 5/1985, which also profiled the legendary musician (see Blumenstein 1985).

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34. The most devoted core of blues enthusiasts discussed standard international works and maintained relationships with the authors. Prominent researchers occasionally held talks in West Germany: in January 1981, Paul Oliver gave a lecture at the Frankfurt University on “Blues Origins—Form and Function.” The event was open to the public and attended mostly by fans. Afterwards, one of them wrote: “All in all, Paul Oliver introduced nothing new” (Marschall 1981b). 35. Fans and musicians frequently reported life-changing experiences meeting and working with artists from the US. See, for example, Gerhard Engbarth’s report on his time as Roosevelt Sykes’ roadie or the accounts of Swiss harmonica player and blues scholar Walter Liniger, who appeared on stage with James “Son” Thomas for years (Engbarth 1983; Liniger 2008). 36. On the daily experience of music in modern societies, see Hesmondhalgh 2012. 37. Peter Narváez (1993) illustrates this using the story of the American magazine Living Blues, which underwent a transformation from demonstrating an elite understanding of folk music to exhibiting a mainstream orientation. He references John Fiske’s theory of “broadcast codes” and “narrowcast codes” (see Fiske 1990: 73–77). 38. Using Muddy Waters’ career as an example, Benjamin Filene (2000: 76– 132) demonstrates the flexibility of these ascriptions of authenticity: Waters changed his style many times but was always considered “real.” 39. Robert Johnson and the Invention of the Blues is the subtitle. 40. On the systematization of categories of authenticity, see Weisethaunet and Lindberg 2010. 41. The images in Charters (1959), Oliver (1969), and Race Records and the Posters of the Era 1900–1927 (2011) provide an impression of the advertisement strategies used to sell “race records.” 42. On the concept of “authenticity” in popular music culture, see Middleton 2006: 199–246. 43. For instance, Middleton (2006: 205–6) criticizes Moore’s emphasis on “authentication,” claiming it takes too much focus from the music.

CHAPTER 2

Early in the Morning An Awakening

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The chorus stopped singing and the music changed. The orchestra began a blues. —Erich Maria Remarque, Arch of Triumph, 19451

Under the Influence of the Hot Club Movement Despite being considered the source of jazz, the blues was treated as a side note in Germany until well after World War II. It was known in fan circles modeled on the Hot Club de France, established in 1932.2 Long before the press took any notice of the genre, those spaces provided an institutional framework, with the music appearing in programs and internal records. Jazz enthusiasts joined up to exchange records and inside information; they organized presentations, jam sessions, and concerts. Hot Clubs were founded in Berlin and Königsberg as early as 1934; and fans were already establishing networks in other cities such as Munich, Münster, Leipzig, Magdeburg, and Eisenach. They were increasingly pressured, criminalized, and terrorized by the Nazis, forcing them into illegality.3 After the end of the war, a new and vibrant Hot Club Movement was born. It began to take shape around 1947. Public events were held, fanzines organized, and licensing was provided by the military governments. There were twenty registered Hot Clubs in West Germany in 1950; their membership fluctuated between a handful and several dozen participants.4 They were an unprecedented, devoted community—no other fan culture had committed itself to the music with such abandon. Enormous energy was invested in the development of in-

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ternational contacts and the painstaking collection of preciously rare information and recordings. The Deutsche Jazz-Föderation [DJF, the German Jazz Federation] was founded in October 1951 for the consolidation of regional groups to more effectively represent their mission to authorities and the press.5 In its early days, the umbrella organization— officially recognized as a “registered association” by the state—saw itself as a “bulwark against defamation” (“DJF: Bollwerk gegen Diffamierung” 1953). It courted social recognition for the jazz genre, which continued to encounter aesthetic and moral resistance even after the fall of the Third Reich. That opposition originated in part from a presumption based on a bourgeois comprehension of art, namely that jazz was inferior or even lewd, and that was why jazz barely scraped out a niche existence in the public media. The DJF declared itself by statute to be an advocacy association for all clubs, “whose goal is to represent authentic jazz as artistically valuable music to be taken seriously, and which devotes itself altruistically to that duty by engaging in informative, educational activities” (Deutsche Jazz-Föderation e. V. 1952: 1). Its board included Horst Lippmann (concert promoter) and Joachim-Ernst Berendt6 (press relations officer), two prominent actors in the postwar jazz scene who quickly gained immense influence in the media and day-to-day event activities—and who would end up having a decisive effect on the promotion and interpretation of the blues in Germany.7 The Hot Clubs represented by the DJF all had similar interests and structures. They were highly organized and extremely active: newsletters and informational bulletins were published regularly, they established their own libraries and sound archives, and came together for lectures, concerts, and excursions. Club management usually fell to its “president,” who was assisted by a volunteer cashier, secretary, artistic director, press officer, etc. (see Hoffmann 1999: 68–70). At the beginning, the group was dominated by older jazz fans bound to the aesthetic canon of the pre-war era who held an elite understanding of “authenticity.” To their ears, the danceable, Schlager-oriented variations sounded like betrayal. In January 1948, the Darmstadt Hot Circle declared their agenda to be “real jazz”: “We are interested in the original kind of jazz music, which has been almost completely displaced by the overwhelming dominance of the commercial stuff. So, none of those ‘Swing-Heinis’ [swing dudes] should come into our club, only people who can differentiate between Fletcher Henderson and Harry James!” (cited in Hoffmann 1999: 68). Those narrow-minded principles contradicted their idea of freedom. In January 1950, the Düsseldorf Hot Club praised the power of jazz:

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We can learn something from it: Tolerance and the synthesis of individualism and collectivism, as expressed in a solo performance; improvisation on the one hand and on the other the rhythm that binds it all together and organizes it. For us, however, jazz is not a mode, a passing phase, the expression of unbridledness, of repressed erotic complexes, or a backdrop, a carte blanche for oafish behavior. (Cited in Hoffmann 1999: 71)

As the followers of the new stylistic tendencies increasingly came into conflict with traditionalists, the Hot Club Movement split up. Before that occurred, however, they focused on the so-called “Golden Age”—the “first heyday of jazz”8 in the 1920s that ended with the Great Depression and swing’s commercial triumph. According to apologists, the music of this era was “simple and uncomplicated, the style pure and untouched” (Hot Circle Bergen 1951: 1). That perspective followed the credo of Hugues Panassié or Rudi Blesh, who were also familiar to “people in the know” in Germany.9 The Frankfurt Jazz-Club News published a translation of one of Charles Delaunay’s controversial papers in 1945. Delaunay enjoyed global authority as an assiduous jazz discographer and leading figure of the Hot Club de France; his word carried weight. He evoked the “Golden Age,” the “glorious years of New Orleans and Chicago” and passed apodictical judgment: “The jazz music of yesterday, let’s just say the music of the great jazz masters—the only one that should ever interest us—was very deep, while the music of today is very superficial.” According to him, commercialization had “killed jazz.” (Delaunay 1945: 2)10 The romantic conceptions of German purists sounded similar: King Oliver, Louis Armstrong, and Jelly Roll Morton were in their opinion, “. . . idealists. They did not make much money, but rather played for joy, without regard for sleepless nights or their health. They put their heart into their music!” (Boas 02.16.1948: 3). In the end, it was “the whites who flattened jazz. They made it white, they made a business out of it” (Boas 08.29.1948: 2). The blues was back in the spotlight, as it provided “Golden Age” advocates with “the greatest inspiration for improvisation” (Boas 06.14.1954: 1). Recordings by artists who had begun their career during that glorious phase were included in the standard repertoire. The club’s fanzines and lectures sanctified the “classical,” urban blues of the early twentieth century and rural country playing styles; whilst contemporary R&B and the capital city’s electrical sound were penalized with negative aesthetic judgments or willful ignorance. For the guardians of the pure doctrine, they were, artistically-speaking, cheap goods, the result of commercial deformation.

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Hot Club pioneers classified the blues as the folk-musical root of jazz, historically-speaking. It was said to have asserted itself over time as “the foundation” (Boas 07.14.1959: 1); it was called “a leitmotif” and the “fundamental melody of jazz” (Boas 03.07.1960). This interpretive model, which remained dominant until the late 1950s blues revival, followed a global trend. The blues had awoken the curiosity of many jazz aficionados in other countries as well (see, for example, Schwartz 2007a: in particular 17–28 and 63–88). Certain influential authors’ conceptions of history provided fuel for their opinions. Some of these writings were translated by German publishers and released as licensed editions. The fundamental principles of Sidney Finkelstein, Barry Ulanov, and Marshall W. Stearns were thus able to reach a large audience—and were, in any case, certainly familiar to die-hard jazz fans.11 The authors situated the blues within the context of jazz, extolling it as the origin of folk music, a never-failing source of creativity. Or as Ernest Borneman dramatically expressed it: “The blues is the heart of jazz. Jazz lives as long as the pulse of the blues beats in its veins. Jazz dies when it says farewell to the blues” (Borneman 1959: 91). That kind of interpretation enhanced the value of the blues, putting an end to its dark confinement—it also reduced it to a functional element, to just one part of a higher organism. The blues was only relevant to jazz exegetes due to that quality. The Hot Club’s programming reflects its causal developmental logic. At their meetings, they played Ma Rainey, Mamie Smith, Memphis Minnie, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Lonnie Johnson, Ida Cox, Leadbelly, Blind Blake, Ethel Waters, Big Bill Broonzy, Champion Jack Dupree, Sippie Wallace, Bertha “Chippie” Hill, and Alberta Hunter on the gramophone, as well as sound documents by obscure musicians about whom often nothing was known but their name. The speaker at a Frankfurt Hot Club blues event could not present a biography of Blind Mamie Forehand, as “Neither Bill Russell, the jazz scholar, nor Rudi Blesh were able to provide me with further details about the blind folk singer” (Boas 10.02.1950: 1). The events and discussion evenings held titles such as, “Golden Age Blues,” “Blues Mood,” “Post Classic Blues,” and “Blues the World Forgot.” A recurring theme was the “bluesy” aspects of prominent jazz musicians: Louis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, Kid Ory, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, and Billie Holiday, for example. They were considered sonorous evidence of the evolutionary link between the blues and jazz. Well-disposed listeners were presented with recordings procured by tireless collectors from Great Britain, France, or overseas—precious

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“78s” that were unavailable for purchase locally. The selection of blues records for sale in West Germany was extremely limited until well into the 1950s; fans in East Germany relied completely on the black market and private recordings. Discographical and biographical information, as well as knowledge about music history, were also in short supply. Arduous research was conducted with international assistance and passed on at Hot Club meetings. Newsletters and program notes were also useful for disseminating information: they included printed portraits of pioneering blues musicians with their records’ catalog numbers, lists of band members, and recording details. Bessie Smith enjoyed above-average levels of attention. Her musical and personal proximity to the kings and queens of the “Golden Age” predestined her for just this kind of special status of artistic greatness, and a destiny enshrouded in myth. Her admirers state clearly: “To this day, she is the uncontested mother of jazz, the Empress of the Blues, and will remain so for all time” (Boas 10.02.1950: 1). According to them, she had a unique, truly unsurpassable quality. “Her personality, her vitality, her unaffected and earthy naturalness that always spoke the truth were what made Bessie into the greatest folk singer of all

Figure 2.1. Record-playing session, in the second half of the 1940s, at the table (from the left): Johnny Vrotsos (with pipe), Olaf Hudtwalcker, the singer Dolly Anany, and Horst Lippmann (photo courtesy of JID).

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time” (The Two Beat Friends 1949: 1). And these eulogies did not only resound with infatuation for the singer, they also rang out in theoretical consensus. Bessie Smith biographer Paul Oliver placed the singer in a similarly luminous spotlight and in the same musical history context. The British expert also insinuated the existence of a hierarchy in which jazz surpassed the blues; expressed in comments such as: “her artistry remains, with all the changes of fashion and style, the epitome of jazz music” (Oliver 1959: x). Her popularity and value were thus not only due to artistic genius—they were also based on a biography with the potential to be molded to the blues’ image norms: The origins in poverty, the rise to the heights of her profession, the years of success, the search for an elusive happiness, the fall from fame, the final years of hope and disappointment working in squalid shows, the sudden brutal end at the moment when recovery seemed possible: the life and death of Bessie Smith has all the elements of high drama and of great tragedy. (Oliver 1959: 71)

Bessie Smith had a place of honor in the early commercial jazz magazines and in the Hot Clubs’ newsletters. They reviewed her records and the historical short film St. Louis Blues, examined particular biographical stages, and printed literary contemplations and the memories of her companions. On the tenth anniversary of Smith’s death, the Frankfurt Hot Club published a special edition of its news bulletin. The association paid their respects through a selection of profound and reverential essays, citing such authorities as Charles Delaunay, Bill Coleman, and Langston Hughes. The foreword provided the reader with the following instructions on how to proceed, heralding the idea that engaging in the remembrance of Bessie Smith, just two years after the end of the war, was an act of essential self-reflection: Hopefully, it is already dusk outside and time to put on the lights? No, please, turn that glaring light back off and switch on that small lamp, back in the reading corner—or even better, avoid any electrical light tonight. Go and get that last remaining candle out of the air-raid pack “from back then” lying in a corner somewhere, and read this edition of the news by candlelight. (“Vorwort” 1947: 2)

Bessie Smith was inflated into an icon, a timeless artist about whom even the purists could agree. She was the first female blues singer to grace the cover of the most renowned German jazz journal, Jazz Podium.12 It was possible to buy select records of her music—long before the blues went into series production. By 1952, eight Bessie Smith songs released by Odeon and Columbia were available in German stores. The

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Bessie Smith Story, a four-LP series released by Philips,13 was chosen as the “record of the month” (Brown 1954a) by the magazine Jazz-Echo and received the Großer Deutscher Jazzplatten-Preis 1953/54 [Grand German Jazz Record Prize 1953/54] from the DJF (“Großer Deutscher Jazzplatten-Preis 1953/54”: 3). Paul Oliver’s biography of Bessie Smith was released in West Germany in 1959 (Oliver 1959), immediately after the first British edition was published.14 Upon hearing of her life of tragedy, the tabloid press also took notice of the singer. In 1956, the widely-circulated Bild paper wrote that she had distilled “music out of black tears” and portrayed the last hours of her life in the following way: “In a soft blues rhythm, the stocky Negress sways back and forth, sitting amidst a bunch of white people on the bus to Clarksdale, 24 September 1937.15 Clarksdale in the state of Mississippi.” Her days of success were long past, her life eaten away by alcohol. N evertheless, John Hammond, the famous record producer, had wanted to try one more time and had booked a studio. “It is the last chance for Bessie Smith” (all citations: Hallenberg 1956: 8). But as she was daydreaming on the bus, tragedy struck. The vehicle collided with a truck; Smith was badly injured and the paramedics left the unconscious woman on the side of the road: “Whites first. . . Bessie is all alone.” A film was rolling in her head. “Isn’t that Louis Armstrong, lifting up his trombone? The St. Louis blues sounds out, but Bessie can’t find the beginning . . .” The ambulance came back. “The litter bearers, themselves Negros, don’t even recognize their ‘Empress.’” She was driven to the hospital. “But the doorman won’t open the door. Can’t you read, you idiots? ‘Whites Only!’” Precious time trickled away. “The dark red spot on Bessie’s dress is getting larger.” By the time she was seen, it was too late. According to the doctor, “‘Twenty minutes earlier, she could have been saved with a blood transfusion.’ Because it was just due to a loss of blood. . . ” (all citations: ibid.: 9). While the yellow press was twisting the story of her death into a thriller, jazz fans and anti-capitalists were holding it up as a symbol of the unrelenting racism that had dogged African American music from the very beginning. This version, circulated by the Bild paper, was in line with numerous publications and represents one of the most enduring legends of pop history, whose power of suggestion has remained unbroken. To this day, that myth persists and drowns out any contradictory research findings. John Hammond, talent scout and producer, had already declared as early as 1938 that Bessie Smith was “an example of the cruelties Negro musicians share with their fourteen million brothers in America” (Dugan and Hammond 1999: 4). He held an ambitious concert dedicated to the singer at New York’s venerable Carnegie Hall,

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From Spirituals to Swing, and the event was used to disseminate that particular version of the story around the world.16 Therefore, that interpretation persisted, even though the leading international jazz magazine Down Beat initiated comprehensive investigations in 1957, and seriously contested the view that “white” inhumanity had left Bessie Smith to bleed to death (see Hoefer 1957). The story was favored by fanzines17 and expert literature;18 it was even included in East German school books,19 in which the musician was presented as “a victim of racial fanaticism” (Pezold and Herberger 1973: 172). Jens Gerlach’s poem entitled “Bessie Smith” was part of the literature department’s curriculum. The poet describes the life of a woman whose art was born from suffering, who exposed her heart to the whites and ended up in the gutter. In the last verse, she raises her voice up in bitter accusation: “I died in front of a hospital, before its white door / They stared at me like a piece of meat, as I lost my blood / It was a white hospital, and I died black in front of it” (Lesebuch 1972: 301–2, citation: 302).20

B.O.A.S.: Blues Overseas American Service Without a doubt, Günter Boas21 was the most devoted worshiper of the “Empress of the Blues” in German Hot Club circles. His admiration bordered on obsession. “Finding any and all possible information on Bessie was something of a life mission for me,” he later admitted (Boas 1973: 17). N ot only did Günter Boas own all of her original record pressings, he went on a mission to share her music wherever he could, which got him the nickname “Bessie.” Through the organization of annual Hot Club memorials, numerous newspaper articles, and radio programs, Boas created a shrine to her. As he said himself, she “is, for me, the epitome of greatness, of the colossal, she is almost like a goddess appearing from another world.” He studied all of her recordings over the years, many times over, and was never able to discover even a single point of weakness. “Her voice resembles a church organ, announcing truth and a yearning for peace” (Boas 1954: I). He transformed his limitless veneration into a poem entitled “Bessie Smith,”22 dedicated to the great singer on the tenth anniversary of her death: Long was the road you walked / As just a child by the blues you were caught / Your youth as hard as your whole life / Gave you a feel for the blues // When you sang, it was your heart speaking / Of painful trials and melancholy and humiliation / Strong, vast, and raw was your voice / Only sympathizers truly understood you // You became rich and the “Empress of the Blues” / Great was your success, but so was your indulgence /

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Thrust into a bustling life / The world was your oyster // You loved the blues, the night, and gin / But bitterness was always in your mind / To poverty and sorrow you returned / Loneliness within and without you // You were right as you so loudly sang: / “Nobody knows you when you’re down and out” / Forgotten until the day / Bleeding on the road your body lay / God took you—we were left with your song / On your grave a flower blooming anew (Boas 1951a)

The blues would follow Günter Boas throughout his entire life. It went straight to his heart and struck an elementary chord of humanity within him. During a Hot Club meeting in October 1948, he invoked the power of pure sentiment: As I present this blues program to you tonight, I would like to note that I am revealing my innermost experience to you. Something like that is hard to put into words! Should I tell you where and how the blues originated, where it first appeared and was played? I think almost too much has already been written about that. For me, the blues is a religious obligation, a refuge, something upon which I set my whole heart! Oh blues— you, revelation of my soul! (Boas 10.18.1948: 1)

Even though performers of the 1920s-jazz-infected “classic blues” clearly numbered among his favorites, Günter Boas was still open to other trends. For him, the blues was quite simply “the most honest and pure music” (Boas 11.14.1949: 2) and “a great gift to the Western world” (Boas 04.03.1950). By the 1940s, he had already earned a reputation as the “leading German blues expert” (Hot Club Frankfurt 12.27.1948) due to his encyclopedic knowledge and insatiable passion for collecting. Günter Boas was a connoisseur and a missionary, a rousing torchbearer—and yet he remains one of the virtually unsung “blues evangelists”23 of Germany;24 he “never got the recognition he deserved” (“Im Licht und Schatten der Jazz-Szene” 1975: 7). Boas clearly lacked the temperament and spirit for big business and had no interest in joining “the competition for first place” (“Theorie und Praxis” 1956). Boas was “a soft-footed enthusiast” (Lorenz 2008: 257). He fought right at the front but soon disappeared from the scene, remaining “the blues’ shadow man” (Heidkamp 2007). The Jazz Podium wisely noted, “that which functions in silence often has the most lasting repercussions” (“Günter Boas” 1962). Günter Boas was born 15 February 1920 in Dessau and grew up in comfortable circumstances.25 Even as a child, he was inflamed with a deep passion for music. He took classical piano lessons and received his first record as a gift: Basin Street Blues (recorded by Louis Armstrong in 1928 for the OKeh label). For him, that small, fragile disc

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Figure 2.2. Lore Boas, Sonny Boy Williamson, and Günter Boas (from the left), 1963 (photo courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung/Günter Boas Collection).

harbored a transcendental insight that would determine his path forward: the message “of individualism and humanity, of power and of life” (Liniger 2006: 12). That record accompanied him like a talisman through good and bad times—through war, imprisonment, and those magical moments in clubs, when the music defied all laws of gravity. The next formative turning point in his life would be the 1937 Paris World’s Fair. Günter Boas met with Django Reinhardt and got to know Hugues Panassié, with whom he had already corresponded. These encounters and the city’s liberal flair, such a deep contrast to Nazi terror and racial fanaticism, must have opened his eyes even wider. Günter Boas grew into a man with diverse philosophical and cultural interests. He had a weakness for visual arts, read Erich Mühsam, Egon Erwin Kisch, and Klabund, and corresponded with Martin Buber and Lion Feuchtwanger. The sound film revolution captivated him and he started collecting records. With great effort, and in defiance of the penalties issued by the Third Reich, Boas had purchased two thousand exemplars by the start of the war. His collection included jazz and blues, as well as German entertainment music. He later lost them in an air raid—except for a few favorites he carried with him in a small brown case (see Liniger 2006: 15; “Jazzbummel mit Günter Boas durch die Zeiten hüben und drüben” 1979: 16).

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After completing his secondary education, Günter Boas’ life became very eventful. He traveled to London for two months to see the big English jazz bands, enrolled in medical school in Leipzig, was drafted into the war, and ended up continuing his studies in Berlin and Jena. In September 1944, he found himself in prison. His landlady had denounced him to the Gestapo for listening to jazz and the BBC, the enemy broadcaster. Boas was taken to an aircraft factory prison camp, one of the outposts of the Buchenwald concentration camp. He was able to survive that time of depression, infirmity, and violence because of fortunate circumstances. He moved 1 July 1945 to Frankfurt am Main, a city emerging out of Germany’s ruins as the jazz metropolis. It was not just the location of the US military’s European headquarters; it was also home to the continent’s most important military airport. More GIs were stationed in Frankfurt and the surrounding areas than anywhere else. This led to the blossoming of an entertainment culture in which jazz and blues were highly significant. There were twenty-five different army clubs just in the city alone (see Schwab 2005: 62). Günter Boas met like-minded people in Frankfurt: Horst Lippmann, Olaf Hudtwalcker, Hans Otto Jung, Carlo Bohländer, Heiner Merkel, and Emil and Albert Mangelsdorff. They formed the phalanx of a scene that cleared the way for jazz—against resistance based on a restorative understanding of culture and art, underlying racism, and the narrowmindedness of bourgeois morality. Günter Boas once again began zealously collecting records. In 1953, he had amassed 3,800 records, which ended “quasi with swing” and included “a mere 1,600 blues recordings” (Boas 11.16.1953c: 1). This ever-growing inventory formed the basis of the countless public presentations he held after the end of the war. Parallel to his activities in the Frankfurt Hot Club, he also founded the Bergen Hot Circle in 1949.26 The small, informal group of purists met Saturday afternoons at Peter Severin’s27 parents’ house for so-called Platten-Programme [record programs], which Boas himself led for the most part.28 Boas was also responsible for putting out one of the first postwar German jazz magazines. After being granted a “special authorization for publication” by the US military government’s publications control officer in Hessen, he released five editions of a hectograph periodical entitled Jazz Home in A4 format starting in April 1949 (see Military Government for Hesse 1949).29 In August 1952, Boas took over the direction of the German section of “The Thomas ‘Fats’ Waller Appreciation Society,” a globally active group. The “Friends of Fats” gathered in Bergen every Sunday for talks and record-playing sessions exclusively dedicated to that style-defining jazz musician. There were some illustrious names on its membership list, such as

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Hugues Panassié, Rudi Blesh, the singer Lizzie Miles, and the pianists Ralph Sutton and Joe Turner. Günter Boas moved to Dortmund in 1958, where he was elected president of the Hot Club. He began managing the Hot Club in nearby Iserlohn in 1963.30 His love for the blues carried through into this new activity sphere as well: he held a variety of events, presentations, and jam sessions, as he had in Frankfurt am Main and in Bergen. In Iserlohn, he organized a benefit concert for Mamie Smith in N ovember 1963. Boas had heard that no gravestone marked the last resting place of the “Queen of the Vaudeville Blues” (Boas 10.06.1959: 1). She had died destitute, lost to posterity, buried in an anonymous pauper’s grave.31 He got together with his friend Leonard Kunstadt, the publisher of the US paper Record Research, and organized her memorialization. Kunstadt arranged for her to be reburied with her own gravesite and organized a benefit concert in New York (see Kunstadt 1963). In the meantime, they were collecting funds in Iserlohn for the gravestone, which would be shipped by boat on 7 December 1963. Its inscription read: “Mamie Smith, 1883–1946, First Lady of the Blues. Dedicated from the Hot Club and the City of Iserlohn/Germany.” The real odyssey began after it had crossed the Atlantic. Boas wanted to travel to New York for the ceremony, but, thinking him a communist, the US authorities denied him a visa. Even more depressing was the fact that the gravestone could not be mounted, as it did not comply with the Frederick Douglass Cemetery’s required specifications. It thus ended up disappearing for years into Leonard Kunstadt’s garden shed, until it finally found its rightful place. There has occasionally been some speculation about the deeper reasons behind Boas’ passion for the blues. Perhaps it was connected to his experience of being an outsider, something which had haunted him from an early age. When he was eight years old, he suffered from nerve paralysis with rapidly advancing bone atrophy. The left side of his face was disfigured and his sight impaired. Maybe he heard an echo of his own pain when listening to Bessie sing “N obody knows you when you’re down and out.” And his continuous interest in topics of “alienation” and “emigration” may have been due to his own fate, his “struggle for hope and personal strength” (Liniger 2006: 14). The number of books found in his private library addressing these phenomena is striking (ibid.). Boas embodied “the story of the inner exile of a German adolescent who thought that hope could only be found in the blues of black people, in the jazz of the USA; and who had bid a lifelong farewell to German high culture and its collaboration with the German National Socialist mass murderers” (Heidkamp 2007). He

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also had an inquiring, critical spirit in regards to political questions. The ideals of justice and pacifism, which he believed to be embodied in communism, fascinated him. In January 1947, Boas became a member of the Communist Party of Germany. Quickly realizing his mistake, however, he cancelled his membership just a few months later. His image of the world, influenced by steadfast support for the uprooted and the suppressed, remained unaffected by that decision.32 In spite of his great sensitivity and introspection, Boas was an extremely communicative person. Even as a teenager, he networked all around the world to learn more about the music he loved. After the war, he increased his efforts and managed extensive correspondence while also traveling to the places that were the sources of his longing. His exceptionally dense network included musicians, concert organizers, media people, record industry representatives, and collectors like him. He established a lifelong friendship with many of them. By 1947, he had already met Louis Armstrong through the mail, who appreciated his loyalty, promising him, “Your kindness shall never be forgotten” (Armstrong, n.d.).33 Referring to his own girth and past as a boxer, Willie Dixon joked in a letter, “Take care of my sweetheart for me and kiss all the pretty girls for me. I am still jealous, so if you make my weight or I make your weight we will fight.” Dixon’s humorous greeting was directed at Boas’ wife Lore and at the photographer Stephanie Wiesand, who he mentioned as well. The following lines, written in April 1964, demonstrate his affection for Boas, “I think of you very often, so keep your chin up and remember that I will be there pretty soon as it is only a short while from now to September” (all citations: Dixon 04.08.1964). Beryl Bryden, the British “Queen of the Washboard,” wrote in the Boas family’s guestbook in 1965, “To Günter and Lore, two of ‘the most’ Jazz people I know, with hearts as big as their love for Jazz and Blues” (Bryden 11.14.1965). Irene Scruggs,34 Sonny Boy Williamson, J. B. Lenoir, Memphis Slim, Howlin’ Wolf, Brownie McGhee, Koko Taylor, Sam Wooding, Eddie Boyd, and Fred Below also sent Günter Boas their words of thanks and of solidarity, or requests to arrange a performance.35 Victoria Spivey the singer and her life partner Leonard Kunstadt were among his special acquaintances. Spivey had first-hand information about Bessie Smith. When she was a young girl, she had worked in one of the shows of the “Empress of the Blues” and was thus an important witness. Boas flew to New York specially to learn more about his idol. He also had close ties to prominent authors and scholars, amongst them Hugues Panassié, Ernest Borneman, Rudi Blesh, Alfons Michael Dauer, and Karl Gert zur Heide. All of these connections expanded his horizons;

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Figure 2.3. The Two Beat Stompers (Horst Lippmann on drums) accompanying Big Bill Broonzy, First German Jazz Festival, Frankfurt am Main, 1953 (photo by Wolfgang Otto Nischk, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

they fed his love of the blues and allowed him to develop into an expert. He worked tirelessly to increase his insider knowledge, sharing it with those interested, exchanging printed materials, photos, and records. His meeting with Big Bill Broonzy may have had the greatest consequences. Boas had met him in 1951 in Frankfurt on the sidelines of his first guest performance in Germany. Two years later, he got him to come once again to the Main metropolis. He knew that Broonzy was staying in Paris and asked Hugues Panassié for his hotel address (see Panassié 03.03.1952). And so, the singer ended up standing on the stage of Frankfurt’s Franz-Althoff-Bau on 3 May 1953, accompanied by Günter Boas’ own band, the Two Beat Stompers. This time Big Bill Broonzy was hosted privately in the Boas’ home, where they threw a rollicking party after the performance. Curious neighbors packed themselves into the attic. Their famous guest took up the guitar and sang; they drank, laughed, and listened to music until the early hours of the morning. Back in the USA, Big Bill Broonzy recounted stories about “my old pal,”36 the German blues fan with his heart in the right place. As a result, Boas was already well-known to many musicians before they even met him. Broonzy’s high regard for him had opened up doors. Over the following years, Boas became friends with some of the pioneers of the blues. Whether it be Big Joe Williams, Lonnie Johnson, Walter Horton, or Big Mama Thornton—they all saw the lanky white

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man with a face full of sorrow as a kindred spirit. There was a great closeness between them, forged through the power of the music, and perhaps also “due to the mutual respect for their individual suffering” (Liniger 2006: 20). Big Bill Broonzy remained an important contact for Boas. He saw him as the second most central figure of the blues, after Bessie Smith. One logical consequence of that was Broonzy’s election as the “President of Honor” of the Bergen Hot Circle, which was led by Boas. When news spread across the Atlantic of Big Bill’s cancer of the larynx in 1958, Boas initiated a large-scale charity campaign. All revenue and donations were supposed to finance an operation by a renowned specialist in Cologne. With appeals and advertisements, the trade press petitioned “the German jazz community” to support “this good work based on your financial ability” (“Big Bill Broonzy” 1958). On 28 June 1958, a benefit concert was held in Boas’ hometown of Dortmund, organized by the local Hot Club. Old time jazz, swing, and the blues were on the agenda, performed by the Oimel Jazz Youngsters from Hamburg, the Spree City Stompers out of Berlin, Siggi Gerhard Swingtett from Dortmund, Beryl Bryden, The Feetwarmers from Düsseldorf, and the Günter Boas Benefiz Blues Combo.37 In the program booklet, Boas promoted the blues as “something purely human,” an art “that speaks from the depths of the singer’s soul.” He told of the “many hours,” he had been able to spend with Broonzy, portrayed him as a person, “free from stardom, full of vitality, humanity, and the spirit of friendship” (all citations: Boas 1958a). His music was described as a life manifesto, as the sound of authenticity. “He slowly pulled out his guitar and began to talk, accompanying his stories with blues chords, then he would suddenly cry out . . . that’s how his blues began. . . . We had tears in our eyes; we watched his masterful guitar playing in awe. His vocals are completely interwoven with the instrument” (ibid.). The net proceeds from that evening, exactly 1,181.40 DM,38 were immediately wired to Chicago. But it was too late: on 15 August 1958, Big Bill Broonzy succumbed to his illness. The tremendous reputation enjoyed by Günter Boas in the blues world was in large part due to the fact that he was not just a fan, collector, and apostle, he was also a respected practitioner. He remained suspicious of cold analyses that blocked out all emotion, once emotionally lamenting in the Bergen Hot Circle programming booklet: “Oh cruel theory, which permits you to forget the heart and soul!” (Boas 10.31.1950: 1). Boas knew what he was talking about: he had also practiced music his entire life. His career began just after the end of the war, when he first performed in Frankfurt in a British officers’ club, and then for the American troops. His association with the troops would

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last for years, spreading out to the surrounding areas and all the way to Mannheim. Boas toured the clubs alone or with his own combos and would occasionally have a black female dancer in the line-up. Heating up the dance floor, he played for GIs and high officers, and provided stylish background music for dinners or barbecues. The McNair’s Officers’ Club in Frankfurt advertised a “candlelight dance” on 16 October 1954 with the following text: “Burn the week up to a brilliant finish at the club tonight. Dance to the music of the Boas Combo” (McNair Officers’ Club 1954). Boas jammed repeatedly with African American musicians in exuberant after-hour sessions—both in the casinos, which were initially still sealed-off and barely accessible to German visitors, and in the Frankfurt Hot Club venue, the Domicile du Jazz, which had been located in a house basement (at the address Kleine Bockenheimer Straße 18a) since 1951.39 Sometimes he even slept the night in the barracks. In Mannheim, Boas stayed in a “colored unit” for four months in 1946; he merged his trio and the army band together, and, without further ado, quartered with his colleagues. He later rhapsodized: “It is hardly possible to describe the atmosphere in which we lived. Friendly warmth and kindness were the rule, we felt at home” (Boas 1962a). The years in the American soldier clubs were an important learning period for Boas. They sharpened his world view—which had no place for prejudice or stereotypical depictions of race—and they imbued jazz and the blues with an even deeper meaning for him. That culture, which he had so honored, was filled with fresh life for him during those transatlantic encounters; it took on a new quality. He developed friendships as well as useful business contacts and honed his piano and singing abilities. The clubs—most of which were segregated based on skin color until 1949—usually featured live music between 7 and 11 p.m., divided into four 45-minute sets (see Knauer 2002: 82). Knowledge of the repertoire, improvisational skills, and stamina were all essential. In exchange, they followed the call of a lifestyle that was, in a way, privileged—close to their beloved music, far from everyday routine, not to mention relatively well paid. While he was playing regularly in the GI clubs, Boas was also performing in the Frankfurt jazz scene’s main bars and hubs. In 1949, he formed the Two Beat Stompers, who played their first concert to celebrate the establishment of the Bergen Hot Circle. The band played old time jazz in medium- to large-sized ensembles,40 including their own songs as well as covers of classics by King Oliver, Tommy Ladnier, Kid Ory, Jelly Roll Morton, and Johnny Dodds. But if at any point the audience threatened to sink too deeply into the delirium of the offbeat, it was time for a blues. Then Boas would bring the party back down

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to Earth, playing the music to which he had devoted himself body and soul. “The eight young men were playing their jazz again wholeheartedly, the way they feel it,” reported the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. “But then sometimes the dancing would end abruptly. That was when the blues would sound out and carry us off to New Orleans in the Mississippi Delta. The blues, which according to Jean-Paul Sartre leads us ad absurdum towards disgust for human existence.”41 Now and again, the band accompanied distinguished, sometimes even famous soloists, such as Big Bill Broonzy in 1953. The Two Beat Stompers performed nationally and enjoyed great popularity. They held amateur status; their payment did not amount to much more than a bit of extra on the side. Their contract for a performance on 5 November 1949 at the Bergen gymnasium lists their payment as 120 DM for eight musicians “in addition to an evening meal and beverages.” For that, they had to play for eight hours, from 7 p.m. to 3 a.m. (Contract for a Two Beat Stompers performance on 05.11.1949 at the Bergen gymnasium). Boas left the Two Beat Stompers after a relatively short time, explaining that “as a professional musician, he could no longer devote so much time to that band” (“Die Two Beat Stompers” 1951). Until the end of his days, he would play as a soloist. He often combined his performances with talks, captivating his audience in a multitude of ways both as a passionate speaker and as an artist. The press praised him, “When it comes to interpreting the blues in a classical style, there is no equal to Boas in Germany. His strength on the piano: the lowdown blues. As a singer, he favors the dramatic shout style” (“Günter Boas sang den Blues” 1958). In addition to his “one man shows,” Boas was always involved in band projects. They all had their roots in the blues, even when he was still playing traditional jazz. In Dortmund in 1958, he founded the Günter Boas Blues Combo, which, after his election as president, served as the official formation of the Hot Club. At the same time, he withdrew from his professional musical career to work as the manager of the jazz section of Dortmund’s record store Die Schallplatte, and later in the municipal administration of Lünen.42 Boas experienced a comeback in 1970 when he stood in for Champion Jack Dupree, who had cancelled his engagement at the Dortmund rock club Fantasio on short notice. Boas got up on stage and jammed with the young krautrock band Epitaph—discovering to his amazement a new generation that was thrilled by his music. Epitaph proceeded to accompany him on his LP Happy Piano-Blues-Party,43 which one reviewer said captured “the soul of Boas blues,” claiming that he sounded “like one of the authentic blues people from old New Orleans” (Panke 1972).

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Between 1974 and 1979, Günter Boas traveled throughout Europe as a member of Oscar Klein’s Bluesmen. For a while, their concert program was titled “History of the Blues,” offering up a combination of “Chicago style, blues, boogie, swing, and Harlem jump” (Günter Boas & Oscar Klein’s Bluesmen [flyer], n.d.). Boas also performed in a duo called the Blues Brothers with the Austrian Oscar Klein, a notable trumpeter, guitarist, and harmonica player who called Boas an “absolute favorite” of his (“Im Licht und Schatten der Jazz-Szene” 1975: 7). Then in 1979, he started his own group, the Günter Boas Bluesicians. Regardless of the lineup, Boas left his listeners enraptured. The press called him a “master musician” (Gschwendner 1977), and attested to his “drive” and “unbridled vitality,” declaring to Alexis Korner and John Mayall’s followers that “he was actually the father of white blues” (Günter Boas Bluesicians [flyer], n.d.).44 Boas also stood up for the blues on the radio. In addition to producing scores of songs for that medium, he was also active as a journalist. Over the decades, he created shows or entire series for a variety of broadcasting institutions, such as: Südwestfunk, the Hessischer and the N ordwestdeutscher Rundfunk, Sender Freies Berlin, the Westdeutscher Rundfunk and the Deutsche Welle. In the beginning, he repeatedly presented specials on “classical blues” and the music of the “Golden Age” (see, for example, Boas 06.22.1952; Boas 11.16.1953a). The Gunter Boas’ series that left the deepest mark was the one broadcast by the American Forces Network (AFN). The AFN was established to provide cultural support to the US troops stationed globally.45 It maintained several studios in Germany, including one in Frankfurt am Main.46 The fact that Boas was working for an extraterritorial US mass medium was a relatively logical consequence of his work thus far. After all, influential multiplicators and insiders knew him as the ambassador of African American music. For Trummy Young, the trombonist from Louis Armstrong and His All Stars, he was the “Blues Overseas American Service,” a play on the letters of his last name (cited in Lorenz 2008: 257). In Frankfurt’s hothouse atmosphere, it was inevitable that Boas would experience encounters with far-reaching consequences. He talked about “the people from AFN” coming to the Hot Club’s record-playing sessions, saying that they “belonged there.”47 Their broadcasting station gave him the unrivaled opportunity to bring the blues to the people in an effective way. Now the music could finally escape its niche—and even though the show lasted only fifteen minutes, it ran with decisive regularity and started a domino effect. Between February 1951 and 1957,48 Blues for Monday was transmitted weekly.49 The theme song was “Blues Downstairs” by Woody Her-

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Figure 2.4. Günter Boas (right) and AFN anchor Johnny Vrotsos in the studio, Frankfurt am Main, around 1950 (photo courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung/ Günter Boas Collection).

man and the concept was simple and therefore revolutionary. Every show had a theme and records were played that were otherwise only known to a particular circle of devoted fans. At first, the radio show only used Boas’ private holdings. He acted as editor, author, and producer.50 Johnny Vrotsos, program advisor and chief announcer of the Frankfurt AFN, took on the position of presenter. Boas’ collection consisted of all the music in the canon, ranging from New Orleans jazz royalty to the “classical” singers of the 1920s and 1930s, to the pioneers of country blues and the heroes of boogie-woogie, to the crossover artists of early R&B. King Oliver, Louis Armstrong, Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, Josh White, Meade “Lux” Lewis, and Champion Jack Dupree, as well as Jimmy Rushing, and Big Joe Turner numbered among his icons.51 Although Boas did maintain some aesthetic principles and clear preferences, he was not narrow-minded. Over the years, he became more tolerant, even taking a shine to modern playing styles. After the end of the war, however, he numbered among the purists bemoaning the decline in the quality and value of the music. The Bergen Hot Circle,

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which he had founded, printed “Society for the Care of Traditional Jazz” (see IJAE, Günter Boas Collection) unapologetically on his membership card. At the time, Boas had taken to the field in opposition to swing and bebop, which was being played throughout the region by “unbearable orchestras,” “which permit and instigate young pseudo fans to scream, make dumb grimacing faces and childlike noises, and to wear the clothes to match. What wretched creatures!” (Boas 09.28.1949: 1). Alongside Dizzy Gillespie and Woody Herman, Benny Goodman was named in these reviews. However, Boas would soon rescind those harsh judgments: he eventually put “the great Charlie Parker” (Boas 1951b) on the playlist; and even Benny Goodman—the once maligned “King of Swing”—found a spot on the Blues for Monday program.52 Within a short period of time, the program had gained tremendous prestige that reached beyond West Germany.53 It was not just about the impressive and exquisite music selection: the moderation style was setting a new standard, with Johnny Vrotsos’ intimate (although never inappropriate) tone. He spoke to his listeners as if he knew them personally, greeting them with “good afternoon friends” (see, for example, Boas 03.05.1951), and throwing out a “so long everybody” (see, for example, Boas 10.22.1951) to the blues community at the end. He also never forgot to thank Günter Boas “of the Hot Club of Frankfurt” (see, for example, Boas 03.19.1951) for his work behind the scenes. Vrotsos enjoyed sprinkling slogans throughout his show, such as: “This is the program that brings you the blues—as you like ’em” (see, for example, Boas 03.26.1951). The public was supposed to be entertained in a relaxing, but still challenging, way. “If you’re in a bluesy mood and need a medium to share those feelings with, join us for the next fifteen as AFN presents Blues for Monday” (Boas 03.29.1954). Just as in the Hot Clubs’ newsletters, all information was shared in a concise and factual manner—the focus remained on the sound product. The audience heard about biographical details and key points of musical-historical context. Günter Boas advocated for a rapidly expanding concept of the blues, which opened itself up to modern playing styles, leaving room for young artists such as Jimmy Witherspoon and “the hale and hearty Big City Blues style of Jimmy Rushing” (Boas 04.27.1953).

The Perception of Jazz and Blues in East Germany The AFN program also had a lot of fans in East Germany. Before he had even made his first official visit, Boas’ almost legendary reputation had preceded him. A brochure for a five-day festival organized by the

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Halle Arbeitsgemeinschaft Jazz in December 1956, remarked laconically that the West German was known as the “author of the program Blues for Monday”—without expressly naming the AFN. That side-note amounted to a political faux pas, as the broadcasting station had been deemed a “hostile” medium. It further read, “He is currently negotiating with DEFA about the making of a jazz film dealing with the life of the blues singer Bessie Smith, as well as with an East German publishing company about releasing a jazz book” (Arbeitsgemeinschaft Jazz Halle in der FDJ-Organisation der Martin-Luther-Universität 1956). Boas was announced as holding a talk entitled: “Really the blues: the blues, sung and played—Negro54 lyrics and blues poetry.” And, as summed up by Jazz Podium, his appearance was considered one of the high points of the festival. In a two-hour “record program,” Boas “reinvigorated the entire world of the blues with simple but touching words, telling about personal experiences.” After that, he sat down at the piano to sing and play his music, accompanied by a Halle rhythm section. This part of the concert “was not interrupted by theoretical explanations, but with poetry readings by Langston Hughes and James Weldon Johnson, in addition to adaptations of some blues texts.” Amidst “frenetic applause,” he was only permitted to leave the stage after three encores (all citations: “Jazzfreunde aus Ost und West in Halle” 1957: 9). He also enjoyed similar acclaim in Dresden and Berlin’s jazz clubs. The East German press praised him,55 honoring him as a pioneer who “was the most important jazz scholar alongside Joachim-Ernst Berendt” (Nicky 1956). Boas continued to travel to East Germany up until his death on 14 December 1993. On 2 and 3 February 1978, he even performed with Oscar Klein’s Bluesmen in the great hall of Berlin’s Palace of the Republic, together with Ken Colyer’s All Star Jazzmen. One year later, in April 1979, the band toured through the region of Thuringia. They also stayed in Eisenach on invitation from the Arbeitsgemeinschaft Jazz. Manfred Blume, their chairperson, had a particular connection to the Bluesmen: his brother Roland who lived in the West played alto saxophone and clarinet in the group. Roland Blume soon returned to East Germany—but this time as a member of the newly formed Günter Boas Bluesicians, having playing together in Gotha and Erfurt. A few weeks before the announcement of the German monetary union, there was a final guest performance: in May 1990, the Günter Boas Quartet performed in Leipzig and Eisenach—after that, divided Germany became history. In addition to his official events, over the decades Boas cultivated private contacts with people in East Germany, partly as a result of

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his own biography. He had grown up in East Germany, supported the Leipzig Jazz Club before the war, and shared an important path with Hot Club pioneers in Berlin, Dessau, and Halle. Moreover, jazz and blues fans from East Germany were constantly initiating new connections. They knew him through the media and admired him as a specialist who had never lost his grip on reality, who was quasi one of them. Boas corresponded with collectors, journalists, musicians, and scene activists—including Kurt Michaelis alias “Hot-Geyer,” Gerhard Rückert, Herbert Flügge, Karlheinz Drechsel, Wolfgang Muth, Hans Georg Korn, Manfred Blume, and Reinhard Lorenz.56 Of course, their main interest was often in obtaining records and information from him, as those things were extremely limited in East Germany. This continuous communication laid the foundation for the establishment of mutual interests, friendship bonds, and for the experience of a cultural niche, regardless of the social system in which a particular individual might be living. Boas often traveled to East Germany for pleasure. He was invited to family celebrations, informal jam sessions, joint excursions, and would also travel to meet correspondents near Prague in the Czech city of Slaný, which held an annual international jazz festival. In return for the regular packages sent to the East by Boas, he would receive recordings still missing from his collection. His friends would comb through antique stores and flea markets for him, searching for records and rare vinyl of jazz and folklore produced in the Eastern Bloc. Pictures, illustrated books, and fiction also went over the border. Karlheinz Drechsel, who worked at the East German broadcasting institution and as an emcee, promised to copy old archive tapes and take care of arranging performances (see Drechsel 03.04.1978; Drechsel 06.05.1978). It was a give-and-take relationship. Alongside the obligatory shoptalk and sharing of expert knowledge, their intense, warm-hearted correspondence also sharpened Boas’ sensitivity for the other Germany; their communication gave him the opportunity to see behind the scenes. There is a certain logic to the fact that his estate later ended up in Eisenach in Thuringia, forming the basis for the International Jazz Archive in 1999, instead of being donated to any of the relevant West German institutes. Günter Boas’ links to the socialist part of the country were evidence that at all times—even under the direst of circumstances—stable networks of jazz and blues fans existed throughout the East and the West. For the most part, contact was initiated by individual enthusiasts in East Germany, as they suffered from a permanent shortage of records and solid information. The first generation was also linked by biographical ties: they had established a permanent bond based on their

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shared illegal activities in the pre-war period and they did not lose sight of each other after Germany’s political division. All of the Hot Clubs, which existed in all sectors, engaged in cross-border exchange: the staff visited one another and ideas and publications were circulated. Early magazines and “gray literature” looked beyond their own horizons and reported news from other cities. With a wink, the Bergen Hot Circle devoted its event on 19 September 1950 to the “circle of purists in Leipzig.” The introduction announced that: “Our record playing session today is meant as a salutation to our ‘hot brothers’ in Leipzig. A young friend from Lipsia is with us today. He should breathe in our local fare with pleasure, and breathe it back out again ‘over there’ or ‘down in Lipsia’ with Geyer, Kuli, and Hot Pudding” (Boas 09.19.1950: 1). In addition to the traditionalists, the 1950s saw a new guard of jazz fans who put bebop and other modern playing styles on the agenda. Those new sounds led to some changes to the scenes in Leipzig, Dresden, Berlin, and Karl-Marx-Stadt (once again known as Chemnitz today), as well as in Jena, Plauen, Görlitz, Zwickau, Jüterbog, Gotha, Gera, Frankfurt (Oder), Magdeburg, Greifswald, and Rostock. Clubs opening up in those cities were usually officially controlled by the Freie Deutsche Jugend [FDJ, the socialist youth organization], as they were the department in charge of youth recreational activities. Others made connections with cultural or educational institutions. They were not allowed to found private associations as people did in West Germany, as any such activity would have been seen as an attack on the state’s monopoly of power and control. Over the years, more and more local Arbeitsgemeinschaften [or AG, working groups] or Interessengemeinschaften [interest groups] for jazz were established at universities in East Germany. After all, jazz fans were increasingly recruited from an educational, intellectual milieu.57 Starting in 1955, the AG Jazz in Halle/Saale became one of the pioneers of this development, under the direction of Siegfried Schmidt, Alfons Zschockelt,58 and Günter Herbsleb. The association was connected to Martin Luther University and organized appealing and groundbreaking events. They also published their own newsletter, the Jazz-Journal. The AG Jazz founded in Eisenach on 27 January 1959 and led by Manfred Blume enjoyed nationwide recognition. Officially speaking, the association was affiliated with the municipal automotive factory’s FDJ group, but it was able to carve out a significant amount of freedom for itself. The Down Beat Stompers, with Blume playing trombone, almost acted as the house band. His instrument was the source of the name of the handcrafted club bulletin Posaune, which began appearing

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at irregular intervals in April 1959. The thin booklet resembled Western magazines—in addition to news from the jazz world, it published essays, reviews, biographies, and discographic information. As early as in the third edition, the Posaune focused on the blues. A section called “ABC des Jazz” delivered a definition centered on artistic parameters, which divided the blues into “three not precisely differentiable types”: the “rural (or folksy),” the “classical,” and the “modern,” with the last style no longer necessarily adhering “to the slow performance method, and only partly to the blues harmony that had originally been strictly observed” (“ABC des Jazz” 1959). In the same issue, there was a halfpage profile of the guitarist and singer Lonnie Johnson that provided an expert, but also romantic, perspective: “Lonnie remains a piece of ‘colored tradition,’ a sincere, always friendly person, who lives completely for his family, with whom he shares a small house outside of Chicago” (“Unser Porträt” 1959). Up until the early 1960s in East Germany, the people paying attention to the blues were also those in the jazz circles; they did so based on narrow aesthetic and historical premises. To a significant degree, that was due to the sources that possessed interpretational sovereignty on both sides of the border. People in East Germany obtained international, opinion-forming literature on the black market, and books by Hugues Panassié, Rudi Blesh, and Sidney Finkelstein passed from hand to hand as testimonies of a “free spirit.” So, it was hardly surprising that Lonnie Johnson was introduced by the people from Eisenach as “not just a blues guitarist,” but as an artist who had worked “with the most significant musicians of the ‘Golden Age’” (ibid.). The following edition of Posaune categorized Big Bill Broonzy as one of the “Jazz Soloist Pioneers” (“Pioniere unter den Jazzsolisten” 1960). Even if those kinds of publications left the reader with a biased understanding of the blues, it was suddenly being given a new form of attention. The blues were playing an insignificant role in state media at that point, only showing up as musical garnish or in political slogans. It was the jazz fans who finally made it heard. Just as in the West, the keenest among them traveled throughout the country holding record-playing sessions and talks. Karlheinz Drechsel, Dieter Wagner, and Werner Sellhorn’s programs always paid tribute to the blues. The dominant interpretation—that blues constituted the root of jazz—was also used as a pragmatic political argument against political foes. To a certain extent, jazz aficionados held up “archaic,” country blues, or in a sense its genetic material, as a protective fig leaf in front of the music they loved. Because it was considered inviolable. Even in political ice ages, propaganda found in country blues was heard as

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the outcry of a black proletariat, the voice of the oppressed. In contrast, the valuation of “commercialized” secondary blues products was subject to significant fluctuation. Like a sine wave, official opinion oscillated between those for and against. As jazz was the most popular form of African American music at that time, it became the focus of the debates, remaining the object of serious ideological hostility until the end of the 1950s. Dictated by the Soviets, the Eastern Bloc’s political climate advanced those controversies. However, de-Stalinization under the head of the CPSU [Communist Party of the Soviet Union], N ikita S. Khrushchev, introduced a period of thawing.59 The media began covering jazz, clubs were founded, concerts were held. But in times of crisis, the tide turned. In conjunction with the 1950s popular revolts in Hungary, Poland, and East Germany,60 as well as during the heights of the Cold War, jazz came under fire, condemned as the West’s baited lure, as the siren song of the counterrevolution (see Poiger 2000: in particular 150–67).61 Musicians and fans felt criminalized and disappeared into the underground. The anti-jazz campaign has left us with the few existing official statements about the blues. Before finally being understood as an individual phenomenon, the blues wandered about aimlessly in the footnotes of American studies and musicology journals. They provided the SED [Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands, Socialist Unity Party of Germany] with the necessary munition for a supposedly theoretically-founded battle against this Western “diversion.” After a period of initial recognition, the jazz of that time ended up caught in the crosshairs of cultural politics,62 defamed as the outgrowth of “decadence” and “corruption,” (Knepler 1955: 6) as “primitive, dishonest” and “obscenely erotic,” (Rudorf 1954: 13) as “monkey culture” (Müller 1955: 5) and a “symptom of decline” (Rosenberger 1955: 20). Jazz was “an instrument of war preparation” (Knepler 1951: 24) skillfully launched by the “class enemy” to “morally vulgarize” (Rudorf 1952: 7) the youth of East Germany.63 Their condemnation was doubly motivated, with bitter insults demonstrating both the SED’s policy of dissociation from “Westernization” and “Americanization” as well as their aesthetic resentment. Jazz was identified as the bastion of the “opponent” as a Trojan horse meant to introduce bad habits and instigate a collapse. The state was most concerned about the music’s social power, its community-creating effect—which is why they dealt so harshly with its leading figures. Some had to pay for their commitment to jazz with persecution or even imprisonment.64 At the end of 1961, the Ministry for Culture was still positioning itself “decidedly against any form of

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organization of the jazz movement, as it does not correspond to any social need” (Diller 1961). Only “original jazz,” the offspring of “Negro folklore,” received absolution in the pamphlets. Widespread after World War I, it had fulfilled “the genuine needs of workers.” N evertheless, it was said the music had been “seized by the American industry at a very early stage to be used exclusively for profit” (Meyer 1952: 162), which robbed it of its progressive character. They further claimed that the monopolies had begun pulling strings, misusing jazz as a mode of infiltration. This development, which “had nothing to do with music or culture,” was called “unhealthy and repulsive” (Knepler 1950: 38). Interpretations such as those latched right onto the purist standpoint and invoked the appropriate Western literature. A line was drawn separating the music into two categories, with early jazz, country blues, and spirituals on one side, and swing, modern jazz, R&B, and rock ‘n’ roll on the other. The renowned musicologist and rector of the Deutsche Hochschule für Musik in East Berlin, Georg Knepler, set this quixotic value determinant in stone: “There is no ‘more genuine’ N egro music than the blues or the spirituals, neither of which fall under the ‘hot’ category in any way . . . every bar sung by Paul Robeson enriches us. One cannot listen to the records of the incomparable Bessie Smith and Marian Anderson enough” (Knepler 1955: 6 and 7). People claimed the latter constituted the artistic counterpart to the industrial flattening of the music. Ernst Bartsch, a philologist, summed it up: “When popular music and record producers on Broadway embraced the blues in order to get the most capital possible out of those beloved N egro songs, it happened quickly. The melancholic-sounding N egro song was recast as sentimental ‘sweetness’ to make it more palatable to the white, undiscerning public” (Bartsch 1956: 248). Ernst Hermann Meyer,65 a composer, musicologist, and SED official, sensed a note of political calculation in this “dilution” of the music. His influential book Musik im Zeitgeschehen condemned any dance methods inspired by jazz or the blues: Today’s boogie-woogie is the channel through which the debasing poison of Americanism infiltrates, threatening to numb the workers’ minds. This threat is just as dangerous as a military assault with poison gas—who would not want to protect themselves from a lewisite attack? The American entertainment industry is killing several birds with one stone: It conquers the countries’ music markets, thereby assisting in the undermining of their cultural independence with boogie-woogie cosmopolitism; it propagates the degenerative ideology of American monopoly capitalism

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with its lack of culture, its films about psychopaths and crime, its empty sensationalism, and, above all, its lust for war and destruction. (Meyer 1952: 162)

That vague terminology alone, with plenty of Nazi rhetoric mixed in, revealed how they would use all means to insinuate the existence of a flaming inferno. The modern, rhythmic movements of African American music were completely subsumed under the dramatic, onomatopoeic “boogie-woogie” label—and although that contradicted reality stylistically-speaking, it fit perfectly into the propagandistic concept. Even the urban blues varieties, which started taking over the dance floors in the 1930s, had to function as cliché cyphers filled with associations. Ernst Hermann Meyer grumbled about “reactionary, escapist, and egoistic forces and attitudes” in the music, and declared that: For example, today’s blues, which has led modern people to believe in opium dreams of moon castles, provides that kind of pseudo solution. There are active, fighting impulses that are dormant in those working listeners—and it is only using those impulses that they, the workers, will truly be able to solve social problems. Unfortunately, the music is only being used toward social regression. (Meyer 1952: 109 and 110)

In the 1960s, a fundamental change occurred in the state’s relationship to the blues and jazz. N ow, beat music and the twist were drawing the politicians’ attention, becoming the focus of sweeping ideological attacks. Little by little, jazz attained official recognition. The smaller musical ensemble, the combo, which was suitable to a dance floor and very popular at the time, was praised by the media as an alternative to the Western beat wave. “Jazz” as a subject matter was introduced into the polytechnic secondary schools’ curriculum in 1967 (see Ministerrat der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik 1967: 14 and 49–50).66 In the tenth year, two hours were dedicated to the topic in music class. The first hour was to instruct “the student in work songs, spirituals, the blues, ragtime, and New Orleans jazz” as well as music theory. The second hour drew a connection to the present: “The further development or deterioration of this music style due to its commercialization and current reshaping will be demonstrated with the use of typical examples available to the respective teacher” (ibid.: 49 and 50). After having received blanket condemnation in the past, jazz was now considered “an expression of protest against exploitation and racial oppression” (Pezold and Herberger 1973: 167). The propagandistic stereotype was gradually phased out and reversed, as was later declared, “Jazz is a part of East Germany’s socialist mu-

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sic culture. It contributes to the development of socialist ways of life and meets the requirements of workers in East Germany for high level entertainment and socializing, as well as for musical education” (Kulturbund der DDR 1986: 1). Clubs, artists, and organized events received grants and considerable publicity. The scene gained international reputation and there was a great variety of concepts and individual artistic styles. Even with all of its artistic variations, the blues was still seen as a benchmark within jazz’ broad stylistic spectrum up until the fall of the Wall. As was usual all over the world, however, no large mainstream jazz festival in East Germany failed to pay tribute to this African American musical tradition.

Conquering the Media’s Gray Zone There are a number of analogies between the jazz debates of the 1940s and 1950s in East and West Germany. In both countries, conservative and avant-garde positions chafed against one another, with disagreements over aesthetic and moral norms and values. However, instead of being conducted on a political level, discussions in West Germany were held by jazz fans within their inner circles. Split apart by obstinate “intolerance,” they were biting the hand that fed them, as described in the following self-critical observation: “Five hundred fleas could graze peacefully together on one area of a dog’s back without disputing over territory, before a purist and a progressive fan could go half an hour without having a difference of opinion!” (Kunst 1952: 28). The individual fractions engaged in a tough “style war,” (see Berendt 1952) they argued about “real jazz,” the “most authentic, original, artistically valuable” (Ebel 1951: 7) form. While on the one side, they believed in the absolute triumph of progress—and that went for music as well— the other side was already speaking of the “twilight of jazz” in the mid 1940s, claiming that the new sound was nothing but “croaking and squeaking,” (Höffer 1947: 7) a “pseudo jazz” with which the listener “is inundated due to some airheads on the radio” (Panassié 1954). It was written that the “Americanization of morality,” had provoked people to “a degrading lowering of standards,” (Heinrich 1954: III) that “show business” had taken over command, and that jazz was standing “at the crossroads” (Gerloff 1959: 239). Flashy headlines dramatized the controversies and asked if “jazz is dying” (Smith 1954), or “is there a future” (Brown 1954b: 38), or is it a “symptom of decay” (“Für und wider den Jazz in Darmstadt” 1953), an “academic pseudo science” (Berenbrok 1954)?

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The traditionalists and the hardliners’ core arguments could be found word for word in the early propaganda of the socialist party (SED)—they were simply copied from the press in the West. For instance, the publisher Rudolf Ebel’s decree in the Kassel monthly magazine Jazz Tempo sounded exactly the same as the verdicts laid down by their neighbors in the East. For him, the “New Orleans style” represented “jazz’ original form,” a “real work of art,” which would forever be the applicable standard; and according to Ebel, many other styles fell flat. “Dixieland jazz and other related styles, such as swing, bebop, ‘cool jazz,’ and whatever all those other different forms of jazz are called, are all internally imbalanced, or they are just sound effects; they have no artistic value” (Ebel 1951: 7). Aestheticist judgments such as these, which defined the front lines of the debate, provided East German demagogues with fodder for their ideological battles. They heated up the political debate around African American music in East Germany. The 1958 October edition of the NATO periodical Revue Militaire Générale 67 was widely cited. In it, they published a chapter of Charles Montirian’s book La Paix Révolutionnaire Riposte à la Subversion,68 entitled “Tension psychologique.”69 Montirian discussed popular music’s relevance for foreign policy and called for more dexterity in that area. He made clear that, “a coarse, McCarthy style anti-Communistic action is not the way to victory in the battle for men’s mind. More productive techniques are needed.” The opponents’ “conditioned reflexes” must be addressed and he must be moved to “escape from his ideological shackles” (all citations: Montirian 1958: 403 and 404). In the following passage, Montirian refers to the power of sound: Jazz music could make a particular contribution; the music is a universal mode of communication and Soviet youth understand this form of escape above all others. This distraction could easily be provided by a few radio stations located along the borders to the Communist world, and would lead to a form of escape, engendering reactions as yet unknown. Moreover, a bit of ideological detoxification could take place if there is also a fascination with the music. Soviet leaders have understood this threat so well that they have forbidden all forms of barbaric music across their territory . . . Every time a rock ‘n’ roll or calypso song makes its mark on a communist consciousness, it tends to erase something else; and that something always has to do with ideology. (Ibid.: 400)

Official announcements and activities by Western powers directly affected the way British and N orth American music was politically classified by the East German government. On 6 N ovember 1955, a New York Times headline announced, “United States Has Secret Sonic

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Weapon—Jazz” (Belair Jr. 1955: 1). Shortly thereafter, the West German press reported that the US State Department had authorized a substantial sum to be used toward the global deployment of “cultural ambassadors.” Theodore Streibert, the head of the United States Information Agency was cited as saying he was “excited about the idea of using jazz music as a weapon in the Cold War” (see “Leonard Feather berichtet aus USA” 1956). Popular music, above all that with African American influence, was held up as a banner for democracy and international understanding. For more than two decades, the US State Department financed tours for prominent jazz, blues, and rock bands throughout Africa, Asia, and Eastern Europe, while secretly running CIA operations on the side.70 The socialist state reacted with particular sensitivity to West German military pronouncements, as criticism of the capitalist state’s social system was a fundamental aspect of East Germany’s own selfportrayal. An interview with West Germany’s Defense Minister Franz Josef Strauß in the summer of 1958 created huge waves as it went through the media. Strauß emphasized that he was less interested in the music and more in the “psychological factors.” He attacked “totalitarian state systems,” which saw “a hostile, destructive element in jazz,” and compared them to the Third Reich. The minister claimed that “jazz ‘at its finest’” had the inherent power “to create like-minded communities,” which he emphatically welcomed, saying he “would truly like to create a ‘leading jazz band’ soon, which would do groundbreaking work” in the Federal Armed Forces (all citations: “Minister Strauß hält Jazz bei der Bundeswehr für absolut förderungswürdig” 1958). Joachim-Ernst Berendt, the German Jazz Federation’s press secretary, conducted the interview.71 At that time, Berendt was also fighting for the recognition of jazz in the ecclesiastical sphere. He held numerous talks between 1954 and 1958 at Protestant educational institutions in West Germany, touting the ecstatic body and soul experience that he deemed “authentic” (see Hurley 2009: 42–43). In his earlier publications, he had already emphasized the religious roots of jazz and its healing powers (see, for example, Berendt 1947). A report about a seminar on the Church and jazz, organized by the Protestant Academy of Baden in early 1955, gave the following summary: Joachim E. Berendt pointed out that the forms of worship, as practiced today in the churches of Harlem or other American Negro cities, correspond in every detail to the traditions of the original Christians . . . The swinging jazz rhythm, as heard everywhere today in Negro churches, is thus part of a world closer to the truly ideal form of Christianity—the

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Figure 2.5. Joachim-Ernst Berendt, 1950s (photo courtesy of JID).

original Christians—than the modern Western European one. (“Kirche und Jazz” 1955)

Those kinds of statements were closely watched by the atheist SED government and furthered the politicization of African American music, becoming the foil against which the blues would be judged up until the late 1980s in East Germany. The fact that Joachim-Ernst Berendt and fellow campaigners missed no opportunity to proselytize for jazz72 could be seen as an indication of the ambivalent social sentiment regarding the conflict between the traditional and the modern in postwar West Germany. US influence on their culture and way of life had evoked skepticism there as well. “America was both dream and nightmare, a symbol for a desired or feared

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future, an expression of mechanization, rationalization, and progress, or an example of soullessness in the technological age” (Wolfrum 2006: 183). The rapid transformation of society, economic growth, and the “eruption into a consumer society” contrasted with the “long-existing cultural and psychological continuities” (ibid.: 75). Critical intellectuals characterized “the Republic of the Adenauer period as Westernprovincial,” they “opposed the limp atmosphere and ambiguous morality” (ibid.: 168). The “post-war culture” definitely had a “stuffy,” “conservative” (ibid.: 165) flavor, clearly represented through the renaissance of the Heimatfilm, and “the conventional, narrow-minded sentimentality and phoniness of the schlager world” (ibid.: 164). Jazz fans cherished their luck, living on the “right” side of Germany’s inner border, but they still complained about the restorative trends in the cultural sector, feeling “resentment.”73 Their music had at times faced conservative prejudice and latent racism. It was bemoaned by educators, the clergy, and the bourgeois as the gateway to moral decline. Crepe soles, “striped socks, flood pants, and colorful ties,” (Zenetti 1953: 6) the “fashionable, off-the-rails mixture of a short coat with a longer jacket” as well as the “wonky, crazy music of the ‘SwingHeinis’ [swing dudes]” (Düsing 1948) was met with the same resistance as was the overly cerebral “coolness” of the black-clad existentialists. Some examples of their open declarations of war were detailed by the jazz press. Westjazz wrote about a situation at the Dortmund Hot Club in October 1957 under the headline “Degenerate Art?” The club had asked the authorities to waive the entertainment tax for a concert “in a small Hessian town.” Denying the request, the “district president in Cassel” explained that “jazz as an artistic element of musical life is an experiment. Its negative and destructive influence on the German musical life are obvious. For that reason, the artistic value of such events is disputed” (cited in “Entartete Kunst?” 1957). There was a report out of Iserlohn in the spring of 1956, that “the Ministry of Education and Cultural Affairs of the State of N orth Rhine-Westphalia” and the “senior executive officer for public schools” threatened to start a disciplinary inquiry against a teacher at a public vocational school because he had purchased the book Jazz—optisch by Joachim-Ernst Berendt for the library. The illustrated book, which had been praised both inside and outside of jazz circles, was described as “totally inappropriate for a school library,” and they declared that a “moral inquiry was imperative” (cited in: “Ein skandalöses Ereignis” 1956). The magazine Schlagzeug conducted a survey that also provoked a sense of disillusionment. In 1959, the states’ ministers of education and cultural affairs were asked to take a position on government subsi-

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dies. The response was mixed but tended toward the negative. According to their response, state funding for concerts with less commercial success was “neither appropriate nor justified.” For, if jazz “does not take off on its own, does not strike a chord for young people, then it has already distanced itself from its original nature” (cited in Jazzpress 1959). An article in Jazz Podium discussed the financial situation for self-employed artists, describing it as anything but rosy. The “large majority of our jazz musicians” are doing “miserably economicallyspeaking.” They wrote they were “a sad chapter in social policy” and “not part of the German economic miracle” (“Am deutschen Wirtschaftswunder unbeteiligt” 1956: 15). For a long time, jazz only carved out a marginal existence in the media. As the Hot Clubs’ parent organization, the DJF decided to take a stand. In 1952, they composed an “open letter” to the public broadcasting organizations. “We are well aware,” the association explained, “that jazz music is very controversial in Germany right now.” Claiming that the particular time slot given to jazz reflected the limited esteem accorded to it, the letter continued, “Due to the fact that German radio stations broadcast their jazz programs late at night, literally an entire generation of younger and adolescent jazz enthusiasts is induced to sacrifice its night’s sleep. To us, this practice appears to blatantly contradict the educational concerns of the broadcasting service” (“Offener Brief der Deutschen Jazz-Föderation an die deutschen Rundfunkgesellschaften” 1952). The DJF closed the letter calling for justice for jazz fans, who were particularly ardent listeners. It was signed by the representatives of a dozen Hot Clubs, many of whom were active as freelance journalists. Horst Lippmann was among the first campaigners for jazz and the blues on the radio. He was born on 17 March 1927 in Eisenach but moved to Frankfurt am Main a year later and spent the rest of his life there.74 He discovered his love of music as a teenager. In 1940, he started the “creation of a jazz library” (Horst Lippmann [autobiographical outline], n.d.),75 which, thanks to more prosperous relations, grew to about five thousand exemplars within the decade (see Lippmann 1952). Even at the deepest point of the war, he set up his gramophone at his parents’ restaurant and played those records. The establishment, not far from Frankfurt’s main train station, became one of the scene’s meeting places. N ot only were the regular guests able to eat at a discount there, they could hear jazz at all hours (see Rieth 2010: 26). In 1941, Lippmann joined the Frankfurt Hot Club right after its founding. Starting in 1943, he would regularly send Mitteilungen für die Freunde moderner Tanzmusik [Announcements for the

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Friends of Modern Dance Music] to the front for any of his pals drafted into the war. Behind that innocuous title was concealed a typewritten newsletter reproduced by carbon copy, which informed people about news in the jazz world, exchanged theories, and mentioned the “hostile” British and American radio stations—“which the Gestapo was not happy to see,” as Lippmann would later comment laconically. He had attracted the attention of the secret service and was imprisoned for a short period.76 During the war, Lippmann came to know important representatives of the “‘old guard’ of jazz in Germany,” namely Dietrich Schulz-Köhn, Carlo Bohländer, Hans Blüthner, Günter Boas, Hans Podehl, Emil Mangelsdorff, Hans Otto Jung, and Gerd Peter Pick. He also conquered some practical territory by joining illegal jam sessions as a drummer and becoming a member of various amateur bands. In May 1945, Lippmann was part of the line-up of the “first post-war, US licensed jazz band” (all citations: Horst Lippmann [autobiographical outline], n.d.). In the same year, the Hot Club sextet went into the studio for Radio Frankfurt, an American military government station (ibid.). He enjoyed equally formative experiences during his performances at the GI clubs, which he would tour with his friend Günter Boas. Lippmann went on to be a part of the Modern Jazz Trio and the Two Beat Stompers, where he first played bass and then later the drums. Together with Günter Boas and Olaf Hudtwalcker, Lippmann organized the new construction of the Frankfurt Hot Club in 1945. They received support from the American occupying forces. Nevertheless, it took many attempts before the formal establishment of the club was approved. Günter Boas drafted one application in the name of the activists, which listed their motives:77 they wanted “to teach young people, who are already undoubtedly excited about the music, about the true idealism and true soul of jazz.” Boas left no room for doubt about the seriousness of the project: “As a matter of principle, there will be no dancing in the club.” It was also emphasized that the members “had never been in the Nazi party or any of its affiliates such as the SA or SS.” Instead, they claimed to be cosmopolitan and solidarity-minded, and that knowledge was shared, not monopolized. Boas referred to his time in Leipzig, where they had gathered together a collection of “1,820 American jazz records, which would be discussed by everyone in the club” (all citations: Boas, n.d.). Their stubbornness paid off. In 1947, the Frankfurt jazz enthusiasts were successful after a number of failed attempts “at making their way through a legion of German officials and up through to the senior American staff” (Lippmann, n.d.).78 The Hot Club received a provisional license that would be converted

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into a permanent license in January of the following year (see Lippy 1948). US authorities were also helpful in a practical way, permitting the America House to function as the club’s residence in the Frankfurt am Main metropolis from 1951 to spring 1954. That cooperation solved their intolerable space issues, while simultaneously providing various infrastructural and logistical advantages. Twenty-seven America Houses were established to share democratic values and cultural achievements in West Germany (see Pells 1997: 50). They contained libraries, record archives, and event rooms. It seemed obvious there should be substantive collaboration, after all, “jazz was a form of music that had evolved in America,” so that kind of partnership became the national norm (see “Amerika-Häuser als Domizile der Jazzkreise” 1953). In Frankfurt, it was particularly special. The first German Jazz Festival was held in the local America House there on 3 May 1953. Lippmann was the puppet master of this groundbreaking event, which was originally conceived of as an all-German performance show and still takes place annually. He also managed numerous local bands, was the German Jazz Federation’s concert organizer and Hot Club president.79 Within a few years, he had not only risen to become the most important man in the “German jazz capital,”80 but had also established himself as the leading promoter for the entire scene nationwide.81 Alongside his organizational skills, Lippmann harbored journalistic ambitions. He was a subtle and profound author whose writing had a captivating effect, based on his “precisely detailed powers of musical observation and the resulting sound judgment” (Schwab 2005: 79). Purist presumption was foreign to him, and he enjoyed ironically calling himself and his companions the “old Hot bucks” (see Rieth 2010: 59). Lippmann was fascinated by all that was new; he had already started raving about bebop while his Hot Club friends were still holding onto the “Golden Age” (see Boas 1962a). In his view, tradition and the avant-garde were not mutually exclusive. For him, jazz was a “way of life” (Lippmann 1947: 16) and not a question of taste. That drive was reflected in the Frankfurt Hot Club’s profile. According to Lippmann, he led ninety percent of the weekly record-playing sessions (see Lippmann 1952), which covered a broad spectrum, and which he often used to indulge in his literary, comedic tendencies. In the following citation, Günter Boas remembers those glorious days: “Our record listening evenings always ended in heated debate, and usually lasted until 3 o’clock in the morning” (Boas 1962a). Horst Lippmann also took on responsibility for the Jazz-Club News as its editor and principal author. They reinstated the fanzine Mittei-

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lungen für die Freunde moderner Tanzmusik, releasing it for the first time on 30 August 1945 and then every two months thereafter with a total circulation of fourteen exemplars (see Schwab 2005: 54 and 58). The number of printed copies had risen to fifty by the July/August 1947 edition, and it had been renamed Hot-Club News (see Schwab 2005: 73).82 It was hand-typed, first on carbon paper and then later using the photographic method.83 By the time the paper was cancelled in 1948 after twenty-eight editions, it had accomplished groundbreaking work. In spite of the limited copies printed, knowledge-based periodicals such as the Hot-Club News circulated throughout the entire Republic, throughout the West and the East. They acted as a network for the regional scenes, affecting perspectives and laying down the groundwork for a systematic review of jazz and the blues, paving the way for its inclusion on feature pages.

Figure 2.6. Horst Lippmann in his office, 1979 (photo by Mara Eggert, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

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Lippmann also opened up new roads in broadcasting. Together with Olaf Hudtwalcker, he started managing Radio Frankfurt’s jazz programs in 1947.84 While Lippmann chose the music and wrote the scripts, Hudtwalcker’s sonorous moderating voice became their brand. In the beginning, their programs were described as contributions from the Frankfurt Hot Club.85 They were called Swing Party, Jazz Club, and Jazz aus Frankfurt,86 and some ran for many years. Lippmann continuously accorded the blues a prominent position in the lineup. Expanding on the conventional interpretation, he saw the “beginning and end of jazz music” in the blues. On 5 November 1954, the Jazz Club devoted itself to profound “contemplations on the blues.” It aired at 10:20 p.m. and provided a mixture of expert knowledge and thoughtful reflection. Lippmann used his sharp wit and deep emotionality to philosophize about the nature of the blues, never forgetting it was the character of each individual listener that would decide which chord would be struck in the end. He described the blues as a vessel defined by sound and history, which had to be continuously filled anew with meaning. “It is always improvisation, never pre-arranged; it is a reflection of our lives, our thoughts, our feelings, and our surroundings.” Even though it is “small and delicate, banal and simple,” the blues is “the point of origin for some of the greatest artistic works of the 20th century.” It “is more than a folk song,” it is a “music of harmonious intensity and consistent development, comparable to the abstract creations in our art galleries, the surreal depictions of impressions by our poets, and the experiments of contemporary composers” (all citations: Lippmann 11.05.1954: 2 and 8). And the fact that it possesses a poetic dimension on top of it all, is underscored by Lippmann’s use of citations by Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, and Duke Ellington. The motif of sorrow ran throughout the show as a common thread. Lippmann paraphrased Duke Ellington’s suite Black, Brown and Beige saying that “the blues is nothing but a cold, gray day—and it stays that way night after night.” “They play the blues when thinking about the dead, or the homeland they never knew.” However, it was also “the lust for life converted into music,” and expression of the “power and vitality of a people coming to life after three hundred years of slavery.” The blues had burst through the “centuries-old chains.” Its story began “when the first slave ships crossed the Atlantic and the groaning from the hot, befouled bellies of the ships was turned into gruesome melody” (all citations: ibid.: 1, 2, 3, and 7). Lippmann played with parts of a critique of modernization, skeptical about the postwar economic boom. Without once using the term “authentic,” he sang the praises of an “unfalsified” life. “The blues, it is the ability to dream . . . the ability

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to lie in a cottonfield in the middle of a cold, materialized world, and to breathe in the sweet scent of magnolias. Or to stroll through the bustling big cities dreaming of a big future, when your clothes are in shreds and you’ve got only five cents in your pocket.” Despite all of his flowery clichés, Lippmann’s words were a manifestation of both musical and humane liberalism. “The moods of the blues are limitless, as limitless as its melodies, which are created by the moment. The blues: it is everything and nothing, laughing and crying, friend and enemy, life and death. What is the blues?” (all citations: ibid.: 4 and 5). He selected music that dared the listener to answer that question. You could hear artists such as Art Tatum, Charlie Christian, Lester Young, Louis Armstrong, and Dizzy Gillespie, as well as Blind Lemon Jefferson, Bessie Smith, and Tiny Bradshaw.

Archetypes: Blues on Stage As in the media, even a live blues performance was considered secondary to the main jazz presentation. Every old-time combo had standards such as “Trouble in Mind” or “St. James Infirmary” on the program. The blues gave modern composers raw material for improvisation; and it was familiar in dance halls as well, where a subdued twelve-bar blues would ring in the start of the “slow rounds.” However, it was decidedly rare for artists or bands to display a real weakness for the blues or to give themselves body and soul to this musical idiom—barely a dozen performers were capable of stepping outside of the music media’s gray zone: Günter Boas, the saxophonist Benno Walldorf, the boogie-woogie pianists Manfred Frenz, Rafi Lüderitz, Leopold von Knobelsdorff, and Manfred Roth, as well as the singers Wolfgang Sauer, Toby Fichelscher, and Bill Ramsey, and later, around the start of the 1960s, Joy Fleming and Knut Kiesewetter. Although they all lived in the West, they had been active in East Germany before the construction of the Wall. William McCreery Ramsey, born in 1931 in Cincinnati, Ohio, arrived in Germany as a GI in the summer of 1952. He was promoted to executive producer at the Frankfurt AFN just one year later, while working on the side as an entertainer in American soldiers’ clubs. He made friends at the Hot Club and was soon counted amongst the regulars of the Domicile du Jazz venue, the scene’s El Dorado. “Big Bill,” as he called himself back then, sang “the blues, modern and old.” Contemporary reports celebrated him as a special attraction. The Abendpost newspaper drew a vivid picture in the summer of 1955:

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When Big Bill Ramsey sings, roars, sobs, and shouts—his audience raves. Even Ella Fitzgerald, the queen of the blues, was impressed by him during her visit to Frankfurt when he sang for her in Jimmy’s Bar; she said, “You just have to close your eyes to know that a black man is singing.” He plays music so longingly, so grotesquely, and so elementally. (“Ein Amerikaner in Frankfurt” 1955)

In addition to the blues, which initially dominated his work, Bill Ramsey was also at home in other styles. Like a chameleon, he moved himself confidently between the two poles of jazz and Schlager. In 1956, Lippmann dedicated a show to “our ‘American in Frankfurt,’” in which he illuminated the lesser known facets of his work. “He is not going to sing the blues today, as he usually does,” declared Lippmann straight away. Instead, he would perform spirituals and American and Scottish folk songs (see Lippmann 02.08.1956: 2–3). For a long time, Wolfgang Sauer was the undisputed top performer as far as experts, fans, and people in the media were concerned. Sauer was born in 1928 in Elberfeld in the Bergisch region and was already performing in British and American clubs right out of secondary school. He was twenty-one when he founded the N o N ame Band, a group that played swing and Dixieland. “There are better German bands,” was the judgment of one reviewer. But then the pianist began to play the blues; a young blond man, blind from an early age, who captivated every last listener “with his enormous, dark voice.” “Like a big, soft cloud envelops sorrow” (Düdder 1953). Even if Sauer’s bass sounded “a bit too cultivated perhaps, too ‘European,’” when “measured against the black bards who were his role models,” he would nonetheless be “described in expert circles as the most important blues singer of Europe today.” “There is no known white singer even in the US who has grasped the nature of the blues so intuitively” (Düdder 1954: XII and XI). Therefore, when the versatile artist shifted his focus to the industry’s more lucrative branches, there was some irritation: in 1953, he signed an exclusive contract as a Schlager singer with the major label Decca. However, Sauer did remain faithful to the blues, jazz, and gospel music, enjoying undivided recognition amongst insiders. The German Jazz Federation’s critics’ opinion poll named him Best German Singer at the end of 1953 (see “Kritiker-Jazz-Poll der Deutschen Jazz-Föderation” 1954), as did the results of a survey by Jazz-Echo, the monthly supplement to the magazine Gondel.87 Sauer was once again far in the lead the following year. He received 2,108 reader votes; while second place went to Toby Fichelscher with 489 votes (see “Deutscher Jazz-Poll 1954/55” 1955: 43). Slowly, however, the tide seemed to turn.

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While Sauer’s “pioneering work” would remain uncontested, Tobias “Toby” Fichelscher (1927–1992), a West Berlin pianist, drummer, and singer, was praised as “the most authentic blues vocalist” (Lippmann 11.04.1956: 4) in the mid 1950s. He had already fallen for boogiewoogie as a teenager—for him, his lust for life was perfectly reflected in the rhythm of those hot keys. In the GYA clubs88 of the bombed out frontline city, he met Rafi Lüderitz and Manfred “Many” Frenz, both three years his junior. Together, they followed in Albert Ammons and Jimmy Yancey’s footsteps; they joined the Berlin Hot Club, which presented them to the public in 1948 as the Many and Toby Duo playing four-hand duets on the piano, “in colorful Hawaiian shirts with crew cuts and a totally American style overall” (Schneider 1985: 73). In 1949/50, they were part of the AFN series, “Blues in the N ight.” They also had gigs as a filler band, booked to perform live alongside swing and Dixieland bands. Fichelscher quit his job as an interpreter in March 1953 and became the singer of the Spree City Stompers, while also leading his own band, Toby’s Blues Combo (see “Berlin-Jazz stellt vor” 1958). He earned nationwide fame when he appeared with the Spree City Stompers at the third German Jazz Festival in 1955. The promoter Lippmann gave a hopeful summary, saying that even though Fichelscher “couldn’t himself compete with Wolfgang Sauer in concert, his recordings prove that he may without a doubt be counted among the better European blues singers” (Lippmann 05.02.1956: 2–3). The socialist side of Germany was also convinced of that. Fichelscher performed repeatedly in the East in the late 1950s, mostly with Manfred Frenz (see Sellhorn 1999: 8), but also as a guest player for local groups.89 In 1957, he produced two titles in March, and another two in April for the national entertainment label Amiga, accompanied by Gustav Brom’s Czechoslovakian Dixieland band and by his own combo.90 “Blues on Amiga” was specifically composed by him for the recording session on 18 April 1957.91 Toby Fichelscher was described by his contemporaries as being a “strong character,” an “escapist type,” (Schneider 1985: 73 and 74) and unerring musician.92 The Berlin Jazz Club’s newsletter published the following at the end of 1957: He had “staunchly defied all of the enticements of the Schlager industry. Since one cannot generally assert such a thing of a jazz singer, we wish him success with all our heart, even if it is ‘just’ with jazz!” (“Berlin-Jazz stellt vor” 1958). Like many other admirers, the well-known critic Joachim-Ernst Berendt was convinced it was impossible to overestimate Fichelscher’s accomplishments, saying he had “the real black blues feeling” (Berendt 1987: 211) and that:

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He had earned the same status in the German scene as that held by Alexis Korner in England. He was an authentic blues man during a time in which there were barely any white musicians who could play the real blues. If the German scene had been as lively as the English one, Toby would have been able to grow and develop in the same way as Alexis Korner had in England.93

The sparse scattering of guest performances by foreign bands and soloists is a clear demonstration of the fact that, up until the early 1960s, the blues led a shadow existence in Germany. African American musicians dedicated to the blues were seen in GI clubs and at informal sessions. Upon leaving the security of that cocoon, however, those blues shouters would often be stared at like some exotic creature, or even mocked. Al Fats Edwards, who was stationed in Munich and toured the concert and dance halls after his discharge, was coddled by the press as the “singing teddy bear.” There was a sense of reverence in their depictions, but also one of distance: Two-hundred and thirty pounds in weight, thirty-three years old, black as night, with a breath as long as an express train and a voice as deep as a mine: that is Al Fats Edwards the blues singer, and we can predict that he will soon be marching, or rather singing at the peak of living jazz prominence.94

Artists of international standing were not often seen on local stages. While it took until 1964 for the ice to break in East Germany, a select West German audience got a taste as early as 1951. In September, the DJF presented two concerts with Graeme Bell and His Australian Jazz Band in Düsseldorf and Frankfurt am Main hosted by the respective Hot Clubs.95 The eight-person band was announced as “one of the current most famous” groups, “that contributed extensively to the so-called ‘Dixieland Revival’ of recent years.” They played traditional jazz and ragtime, including several perennial standards by Jelly Roll Morton and classics such as “High Society,” “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing),” and “Snake Rag.” With Big Bill Broonzy as the star of the tour, they had “one of the last authentic blues singers” (Deutsche Jazz-Föderation präsentiert 1951). In alignment with Broonzy’s own self-marketing, they published unctuous ads stylizing him as the relict of a bygone era.96 He was said to embody “primitive” blues, “which was the most original and richest part of American Negro folklore, and from which jazz and especially the New Orleans style arose” (ibid.). Big Bill had never bowed down to the laws of the marketplace. As a DJF representative wrote, he “had only recorded one commercial record,” the “boards of the musical cabaret” (Böhm 10.06.1952: 1) were foreign to him.

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German fantasizers had not simply invented Broonzy’s legendary status out of thin air, there was global consensus. It was the jazz critic, talent scout, and producer John Hammond who started the ball rolling. He was in charge of the epochal gala From Spirituals to Swing on 23 December 1938. With the subheading “An Evening of American Negro Music,” the concert offered a historical overview, from early religious forms to modern jazz. The fourth section was dedicated to the blues. Alongside other artists, Big Bill was presented as an archetype: the man and his guitar. Broonzy, who had lived in Chicago for almost twenty years and whose repertoire reached well beyond mere country blues, was reduced to a country bumpkin. The playbill explained that he “hails from an Arkansas plantation” and that he hired himself out as a “farm hand” between studio sessions for the “race records.” It continued by saying, “This December night at Carnegie Hall will be his first appearance before a white audience” (“Something About the Artists” 1999: 11). In the 1959 recording’s liner notes, John Hammond went one step further: “Robert Johnson, Vocalion’s blues singer and guitarist, was signed, and then was promptly murdered in a Mississippi barroom brawl, whereupon Big Bill Broonzy was prevailed upon to leave his Arkansas farm and mule and make his very first trek to the big city” (Hammond 1999: 8). Hammond’s claims were by no means the result of ignorance or delusion. In fact, it was pure calculation: his intention was publicity. Thinking these African American torchbearers should receive their due, he wanted to set the stage, to overstate things and get people excited about spreading the news. Based on his logic, the positive effects of that suggestive, attention-demanding story outweighed any negative consequences of the romantic distortion, which would soon gain its own fatal momentum.97 John Hammond was a free spirit and visionary. “I heard no color line in the music,” he said, thinking back on his motivations. “To bring recognition to the N egro’s supremacy in jazz was the most effective and constructive form of social protest I could think of” (From Spirituals to Swing [booklet]; 1999: 1). The choice of sponsors for the From Spirituals to Swing concerts made it clear the events were meant to be about more than just a sense of artistic purpose. Selecting the Marxist magazine New Masses98 and The Theater Arts Committee, “which was an openly Left-wing organization,” (ibid.: 3) as their financial backers demonstrated a decidedly political sense of mission. In that context, Big Bill Broonzy represented much more than just a piece of “folk music” that deserved protection. He became a symbol of a better world— and his songs always contained a note of social criticism, no matter what he played.99

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This skewed perception of Broonzy persisted in Germany as well. But the critique of racism, which they situated in the US alone, was drowned out by their anti-modernist speeches and aesthetic nitpicking. In Düsseldorf and Frankfurt, Broonzy did not present himself as a one-dimensional, maudlin blues bard. He instead showed himself to be a versatile songster and even struck up a boppy “When the Saints Go Marching Home” with Graeme Bell’s Band. N evertheless, the public perceived him as the representative of a dying species, as an interpreter “full of archaic simplicity and staggering power” (“Personalien” 1958). The performance itself and the abundance of stylistic variety demonstrated by the musician was summarily suppressed by the press. Upon his debut in Germany, one daily paper reported that, “The tall, black Big Bill,” had gotten on stage “very discreetly” and was the “highlight of the evening.” The audience, which gave him a “raucous welcome,” would not be disappointed: “with sound and persuasive elocution, he, a real folk singer, set out American folklore in front of us.”100 That tendentious perspective definitely served the promoter’s interests. The DJF wanted to use that concert to clear the way for jazz, as it continued to face a lack of acceptance, to be dismissed as “noisy din” or a cheap trend. In the application for guest approval required by the government, the Frankfurt organizers included a supplement presenting a series of artistic and moralistic arguments. The following citation originates from the two type-written pages sent to the Hessian Ministry of Culture and Education: “Real jazz music has been accorded recognition by almost all non-Communist countries as a branch of modern, contemporary art” (An das Kultusministerium des Landes Hessen 1951).101 Jean Cocteau, Maurice Ravel, and Arthur Honegger were listed as references, and they did not forget to mention that the Pope had recently accorded Louis Armstrong a private audience. The Düsseldorf Hot Club also claimed their right to high culture and received permission to book the venerable Robert-Schumann-Saal with seating for 1,200 on 15 September 1951. Before Graeme Bell and Big Bill Broonzy’s performance began, the master of ceremonies Olaf Hudtwalcker asked the audience to respect the holy hall by refraining from whistling and shouting, and by limiting their applause to light reverent clapping. Broonzy broke that spirit of reverent contemplation, stoically droning out “Thank you, thank you, thank you”102 after every song. The blues singer would grace Germany with his presence two more times after that. He valued the German appreciation of art, as was reported by Jazz Podium, “In the states, he can’t develop his skills in most of the shows he performs, shows which aren’t at all on a par with

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his particular qualifications” (“News” 1954). On 3 May 1953, Big Bill Broonzy participated in the first German jazz festival in Frankfurt am Main. In addition to his solo performances, he was also accompanied by the Two Beat Stompers. Three years later, in April 1956, he could be seen in West Berlin and Hamburg as part of a tour. Both concerts were doomed from the start. As noted in a review, the performance in Hamburg was overshadowed by the “shortcomings of the German audience, . . . which did not understand this kind of jazz well enough.” Hot-headed youngsters interrupted Big Bill’s statements and “recitative lyrics” “with hooting and disruptive clapping.” They wanted to feel the rhythm and were bored by the contemplative atmosphere. “Lil Armstrong was received completely differently, singing her rags and boogies, squeaking into the microphone and hopping around on her chair” (Kobelt 1956: 11). That instigated a roaring wave of excitement. The show at the Berlin Sport Palace was also filled with dissonance; and it ended in disaster. The advance ticket sales did not go well, leading to the suggestion that the evening’s headliner, Max Greger and his big band, “withdraw from the contract.” While the audience listened to Big Bill Broonzy’s set “very quietly and mannerly,” the news of Greger’s cancellation aroused the “displeasure of the people” (Schneider 1956), which led to substantial rioting. Sister Rosetta Tharpe’s 1958 Stuttgart concert also received mixed reactions. The blues and gospel singer had long ago made a name for herself in jazz circles. Hot Club presentations and fanzine articles were dedicated to the accomplishments of the flamboyant artist, her single Use Me Lord c/w The Lord Followed Me103 received the “Grand German Jazz Record Prize 1953/54” from the DJF in the “folklore” category (see “Großer Deutscher Jazzplatten-Preis 1953/54” 1954: 3). Tharpe performed live for the first time on 13 February 1958, and opinions varied as to her success. Jazz Podium had favorable things to say. “Nobody could have escaped her exceptional power of expression,” they wrote euphorically. There was also no parallel to her “visual effect, . . . [E]very movement, every expression underscores the strong emotional content of the music, and who is not familiar with the inherent talent for facial play particular to Negroes” (“Jubel um Sister Rosetta Tharpe” 1958). In contrast, many spectators were disappointed. They got the impression that the electric-guitar-playing entertainer wanted to wrap them around her little finger in a “cheap” way, “with her dress, with her hip-wiggling and other visual tricks” (Nake 1958). Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, however, managed to strike the right nerve. Big Bill Broonzy had helped the duo get to Europe and they toured with Chris Barber. In 1958, the “two ambassadors of the

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old, traditional jazz” went to Germany where they would get the “attention” (“Sonny Terry und Brownie McGhee kamen mit Chris Barber” 1958) they deserved. Günter Boas, who invited both of them to an autograph signing session in Dortmund, saw the guitarist and harmonica player as the personification of the blues. “Two great artists come onto the stage, a blind man led by a man with trouble walking. And yet their art is inspired by such immediate expressive power that the spectators are immediately bewitched” (Boas 1958b). Champion Jack Dupree’s concerts were also highly praised. In 1960, he traveled all throughout West Germany in a series of trips, more extensively than any artist before him. The jazz critic saw originality in the “old barrelhouse troubadour,” who knew how to satisfy the public with his “coarse piano playing.” “Dupree touches on the essence of all great art,” wrote Olaf Hudtwalcker, “He draws water from the roots, and his message carries weight and experienced substance” (Hudtwalcker 1960b). At the Essen Jazz Days festival, “the athletic volcano of a guy” (Nass 1960: 102) practically drove the audience to ecstasy. Nobody could tear themselves away from his energy: With Jack, form is nothing and expression is everything. Who cares if he hits the wrong key, if he jumps up, gets carried away while carrying us along with him, if he bangs on those black and whites because his finger tips are just too weak to stand the violence that seems to be exploding out of him. . . . And whatever the Champion does, whether he whispers, calls out, speaks, or sings: he is always recounting something, always testifying. The audience did not want to let him leave the stage. The audience was right. (Ibid.: 102 and 103)

In early summer of 1960, people could go see the New Orleans master perform on large open-air stages, together with his British, American, and French colleagues. In the fall of the same year, the Danish Papa Bue’s Viking Jazzband accompanied him in almost two dozen West German cities. It was the most extensive tour of a prominent African American blues musician in West Germany up until that time. Big Bill Broonzy, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, and Champion Jack Dupree—the total remained manageable, all the big names could be counted on one hand. The same was true in other West European countries. Only Great Britain and France stood out. In addition to those named above, other artists were caught in the spotlight, such as Leadbelly, Josh White, Memphis Slim, Little Brother Montgomery, Sonny Boy Williamson, Bo Diddley, Blind John Davis, and Muddy Waters. Alberta Hunter and Lonnie Johnson had already given guest performances in London, Paris, and N ice before

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World War II. British and French music lovers had built a bridge to the N ew World; they had paved the way, bringing the blues over to Europe. In France, Hot Club activists had already begun researching the “sources of jazz” in the early 1930s. Hugues Panassié, Charles Delaunay, and Jacques Demêtre were in charge of importing and disseminating blues records; they also composed passionate essays about the genre. Panassié was invited by his friend John Hammond to be an honored guest at Carnegie Hall in 1938, where he would experience that Big Bang event, namely the From Spirituals to Swing concerts, which acted as confirmation of his view of the blues, serving to inspire it further. Jacques Demêtre and Marcel Chauvard, two diligent collectors and authors, conducted local research as well. In the fall of 1959, they traveled to the US where they interviewed several blues heroes and documented the state of affairs in Chicago, Detroit, and New York. Their report, published in six pieces by the magazine Jazz Hot and translated into several languages, caused quite a sensation. It refuted all those pessimists who had already declared the death of the blues (see Springer 2007: 243). There was just as much inspiration coming out of Great Britain. It was predominately Chris Barber who organized some very consequential contacts and started bringing African American musicians across the Atlantic in 1954. The trombonist and band leader had dedicated himself to old time jazz, so he effectively already had one foot in the blues. As the British trade union greatly limited performances by American jazz musicians, Barber billed his guests as “variety artists” or had them play in a low-profile way between advertised sets. He fostered and supported numerous artists, including Big Bill Broonzy, Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Muddy Waters, Otis Spann, Champion Jack Dupree, Memphis Slim, Little Brother Montgomery, and Sonny Boy Williamson. Chris Barber’s guitarist and banjo player Lonnie Donegan also enjoyed filling the intermissions with blues and folk. His cover of Leadbelly’s classic “Rock Island Line” stormed the charts in 1956 and unleashed a real skiffle revival. Behind this phenomenon was the return to the “traditional” origins of jazz and the desire to free it from professional and commercial forces. Young fans, who came from student milieus for the most part, took up instruments themselves and formed an amateur musician movement on an unprecedented scale. Their repertoire was a mixture of American folk music and country blues with traditional jazz. This skiffle enthusiasm released a wave that would act as a catalyst for the success of beat and rock, while also shining a new light on the blues. It was no longer a museum artifact, governed by purists—it was a living art.

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France and Great Britain functioned as early European trading centers for the blues. Influential and ambitious personalities such as Hugues Panassié and Chris Barber prepared the way, setting off far-reaching chain reactions. The message spread through international networks across the East and the West. In 1962, the balance of power shifted and began to turn—two German concert promoters would present a concept to the public that would determine the value of the blues in an unusual way, leading to a lasting change in its perception.

Notes 1. Remarque 1946: 233. 2. See Fry 2014 for the history of the Hot Club de France, its activities and protagonists. 3. See, for example, Kater 1992; Kurz 1995. 4. See Hoffmann 1999: 67–68. No statistics available for East Germany. 5. Several months before the formal foundation of the association, the Hot Clubs of Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, and Stuttgart had banded together to create the “German Jazz Federation” “on a democratic basis” “without centralization, without higher management or president.” In a sense, this alliance constituted the beginning of the DJF. See Lippmann 1951. 6. In earlier printed forms, the first name did not have a hyphen. The later version, Joachim-Ernst Berendt, will be used here and throughout the text for the sake of simplicity. 7. Dieter Zimmerle was the president of the DJF. He managed the Stuttgart editorial office of the German-Austrian magazine Jazz Podium, which was founded in 1952 and distinguished itself as the authoritative trade journal. Over the first two years, the magazine’s title changed several times. The cover originally read: Das internationale Podium. Mit den offiziellen Mitteilungen der Deutschen Jazz-Föderation [The International Platform. With Official German Jazz Federation News]. For convenience, it will be referred to by its current name, Jazz Podium, throughout this text. 8. From the definition of “Golden Age” (“Das ABC des Jazz” 1960). 9. Hugues Panassié founded the Hot Club de France together with other fans in 1932, publishing the book, Le Jazz Hot, which was both influential and extremely controversial, two years later. In 1946, the standard work Shining Trumpets: A History of Jazz by American jazz critic Rudi Blesh was released. He was honored as the “Father of Purists” in Hot Club circles. “His work is so first-class and professional that it is more important for young jazz enthusiasts to study Rudi Blesh than jeb [Joachim-Ernst Berendt, M. R.]” (Hot Club Dortmund 1960: 1). Hugues Panassié experienced similar appreciation. It was said that as the passionate advocate of the “Golden Age,” he had “brought the entire jazz world back to its senses,” “for which we cannot be thankful enough to him” (Boas 08.29.1948: 1 and 2).

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10. Original text dated 1943. 11. The monographs by Finkelstein (1948/1951), Ulanov (1955/1958), and Stearns (1956/1959) are named here as examples. 12. Jazz Podium 11/1953. 13. The Bessie Smith Story in Four Volumes, Philips B 07002 L. 14. The relevant databases list different years of publication for the German edition; there is no information on the book’s copyright page. The publishing company confirmed upon request that both the original and the translation came out in 1959. See email from the Hatje Cantz publishing company to the author, 12 May 2014. 15. It was actually 26 September 1937. 16. John Hammond had also spread the rumor in the 1937 November edition of the US American magazine Down Beat (see Hoefer 1957). 17. Günter Boas was one of its champions. He wrote: “what happened is still like a stab in the heart for every jazz fan, indeed for every democratically thinking person” (Boas 1954: XII). 18. See, for example, Berendt 1953: 43. Berendt later revised “this story” based on new insights (see Berendt 1991: 102–3, citation: 102). 19. Theo Lehmann had already highlighted Down Beat’s objections in his book Blues and Trouble in 1966, so they were also known in East Germany. See Lehmann 1966: 60. 20. Poem originally printed in Gerlach 1966: 16. 21. Earlier sources often printed his name as Günter H. Boas. The shorter version will be used throughout the text for the sake of convenience. 22. An earlier version of the poem can be found in Boas 09.26.1950: 1. Poem by Günter Boas, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung. 23. With reference to Schwartz 2007b. 24. The city of Lünen, where he worked as an administration employee for many years, dedicated a street to him after his death: “Günter-Boas-Straße.” 25. Walter Liniger, the Swiss-American blues scholar, wrote a sensitive, but somewhat inaccurate, biography of Boas. Quite a lot of information originates from his work (see Liniger 2006). Important particulars can also be found in Kater 1988; Tandel 1988. There are additional profiles and interviews, which were printed by the “official” media. They will be cited in excerpts in the following. 26. Bergen lay just ten kilometers northeast of the center of Frankfurt am Main; it possessed municipal rights and was later incorporated. 27. Peter Severin functioned as the secretary of the Hot Circle Bergen. 28. The first record-playing session took place on 28 September 1949 with the programming title: “Shining Trumpets of New Orleans: Dedicated to My Dear Friend Rudi Blesh” (see Boas 09.28.1949). 29. Jazz Home was discontinued as early as August 1949. 30. It was founded in the summer of 1952 and was officially called Hot Club Iserlohn 52 e. V. 31. Today, Mamie Smith is honored as the first African American “classical” blues singer who recorded albums. She started going into the studio for OKeh Records in February of 1920 and landed a smash hit with “Crazy Blues,” produced in August of the same year.

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32. Scholars have repeatedly pointed out an affinity for jazz and blues on the part of those on the political left in the US and in Europe. See, for example, Cohen 2012; Filene 2000; Wynn 2007. The example of Günter Boas could be discussed as an ideal-typical link between ideological positioning and musical taste. 33. They had their first in-person meeting in 1952 in the context of Armstrong’s Germany premiere, more followed. 34. At the start of 1953, Günter Boas met the singer in London. She had recorded songs for OKeh Records in the 1920s but had since fallen into obscurity. As far as the expert community was concerned, he was the one who had “rediscovered” Irene Scruggs (see Boas 1962b). 35. This and many other documents are stored in the Günter Boas Collection in the International Archive for Jazz and Popular Music of the Lippmann+Rau Foundation Eisenach (IJAE). In the series “Ein Leben mit dem Jazz” published by the Westdeutsches Tageblatt (WT) in 1962/63, Boas wrote about his encounters and friendships with famous musicians. The WT recognized Boas as the “Pope of Blues.” Alongside those already mentioned, Boas wrote about Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, Lionel Hampton, Chris Barber, Joe Turner, and Sonny Criss. He dedicated a few articles to the “Golden Twenties,” jazz in the Third Reich and the new beginnings in the postwar era. Boas also reviewed blues and jazz LPs in the section “Platten-Box” [“Record Box”]. 36. How Big Bill Broonzy had addressed him in written correspondence (see, for example, Broonzy 04.03.1954). 37. Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee were originally planned to perform as well. 38. Concert organizer Günter Boas revealed all account details; see “Fast 1200 DM für Big Bill Broonzy” 1958. 39. African American soldiers were also welcome as guests at the weekly Hot Club meetings. The Bergen Hot Circle, which was usually skeptical of more modern playing styles, held a bebop evening in January 1950, presented “by two colored friends” (Hot Circle Bergen 1950). 40. The members of the Two Beat Stompers changed frequently. The original line-up had Günter Boas (p), Werner Rehm (tp), Walter Müller (cl), Dick Simon (tb), Horst Lippmann (b), and Ata Berk (dr). As Günter Boas “didn’t want to just play Dixieland, he wanted to showcase the real New Orleans style” he soon expanded the band to include Heinz Zimmermann (bj) and Wolfgang Böhm (tu) (see “Die Two Beat Stompers” 1951). 41. This article is found as a piece of torn paper, a part of Günter Boas’ estate, IJAE Günter Boas Collection. “08.22.1950” was written by hand as the publication date. That information is incorrect, the actual date could not be determined. 42. In August 1960, he was also offered a consulting contract by Philips. For a monthly sum of 250 DM, Günter Boas was supposed to maintain the jazz product line, to give advice on which LPs to release, to provide information “from the music life of the jazz sector” and to write texts for record sleeves and catalogs (see Deutsche Philips GmbH 1960). 43. Günter Boas: Happy Piano-Blues-Party, Karussell 2415039, BRD 1972. The record had already been recorded in 1970 in the Hamburg Tip-Studio.

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44. These citations are from the regional newspapers Schwarzwälder Bote and Ruhr Nachrichten. 45. In spite of that fact, it is estimated that ninety percent of the listening public was German (see Pells 1997: 41). 46. On the history of the AFN in Germany, see Schäfers 2014. 47. Transcription according to Stenke 1985: 5. 48. The actual start date is debatable. Several sources claim it to be 1949; see for instance Liniger 2006: 17. Jazz Podium dates the premier to 3 February 1950; see “Blues for Monday” 1953. Based on the show’s manuscripts, Blues for Monday first went on air 19 February 1951. The 11 February 1952 edition had the caption “First Anniversary Program,” which leads to the conclusion that it must have begun in 1951. Perhaps the confusion is due to the programs started by Günter Boas in 1946 for the AFN, before Blues for Monday. His series had names such as B. for the Blues and Saturday Afternoon Swing Session, a live show in which he himself played the piano (see Boas 1962a). 49. The show’s broadcasting time changed several times over the years. The documentation indicates scheduled slots from 1:45 to 2:00 p.m., 2:30 to 2:45 p.m., 9:15 to 9:30 p.m., and from 10:45 to 11:00 p.m. 50. According to him, he received no compensation for this work (see Kater 1988: 5). 51. It is possible to gather insight about the broadcaster’s profile from 1951 to 1954 based on Günter Boas’ legacy, which is preserved at the IJAE. There is a complete listing of the show’s topics from 19 February 1951 to 11 February 1952, the first year of the series. They reveal a high proportion of jazz. 52. On 22 June 1953 and 12 April 1954, Blues for Monday dedicated the show fully to music by Benny Goodman (see Boas 06.22.1953; Boas 04. 12.1954). 53. Jazz Podium reported that Vrotsos and Boas received mail from thirteen different countries (see “Blues for Monday” 1953). 54. The word Neger in German [translated here as “Negro” in English], was used broadly as a synonym for an African American person and/or black person up until the 1970s, and into the 1980s to some extent in East and West Germany. 55. Internally, these activities were followed with suspicion by public authorities. The Halle “jazz week” provoked particular resistance to the larger project. The Ministry for Culture resented the German-German program and the fact that the Western press was already celebrating Halle “as the capital of jazz”; it warned minor officials to be vigilant and sent observers to the festival (see Neukranz 1956). 56. The extensive collection of letters is part of Günter Boas’ estate, which is managed by the IJAE. 57. As an example, the sixty-two members of the IG Leipzig Jazz had the following make-up in the mid 1950s: “26 percent workers, 5 percent intelligentsia, 47 percent students, 22 percent office employees. The average age is twenty-two years old. 13 percent are members of the SED, 67 percent members of the FDJ” (Schott 1955).

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58. Siegfried Schmidt, later Schmidt-Joos, studied German literature and language, education, and musicology in Halle, distinguishing himself as one of Germany’s leading cultural journalists. Alfons Zschockelt headed a Dixieland band in which he played guitar and banjo. Both fled to West Germany in 1957. 59. At the CPSU’s 20th Congress in February of 1956, they accounted for the crimes committed under Josef W. Stalin and opened up the way for reform, a period that is now historically known as “de-Stalinization.” 60. In 1953 and 1956, East Germany, Hungary, and Poland were shaken by strikes and massive demonstrations for more democracy and fairer social conditions. 61. Rudorf 1964 provides a vivid biographical description. 62. Noglik 1996 and Bratfisch 2005b provide cursory summaries. See Rauhut 2006 for a discussion of jazz on the radio in East Germany and the Soviet occupation zone during the 1940s and 1950s. 63. All citations from the magazine Musik und Gesellschaft, the voice of the Verband Deutscher Komponisten und Musikwissenschaftler [Association of German Composers and Musical Scholars], which dominated the early jazz debates in East Germany. 64. The Leipzig philosopher and journalist Reginald Rudorf can be counted among the most prominent cases. He was arrested on 25 March 1957 and sent to prison in August for two years for alleged espionage, “counterrevolutionary activity” and “boycott campaigns” (see Rudorf 1990: 144). 65. Ernst Hermann Meyer was one of the most powerful figures of East German music life. His 1952 book Musik im Zeitgeschehen was considered the standard work and awarded East Germany’s national award. 66. During the Abitur stage, the “jazz” teaching unit was expanded. They also emphasized the sociocritical impetus, going back to the history of slavery (see Schubert 1969: 18–23). 67. The periodical was multilingual; it also contained German and English articles and abstracts. The title page read “Allgemeine Militärrundschau” alongside its translation “General Military Review,” with both titles treated equally. 68. Revolutionary Peace Counters Subversion. 69. “Psychological Tension.” 70. In East Germany however, these guest performances—motivated by foreign-policy interests—never took place. On the complex intentions and effects of the tours, see Eschen 2004. 71. The full interview was published in several newspapers and journals by the military’s information service, amongst others. See “Die Bundeswehr und der Jazz” 1958. This gave Joachim-Ernst Berendt the opportunity to answer the question “Was ist Jazz?” [“What is Jazz?”] in a separate article (see Berendt 1958). 72. Berendt also held talks at public educational institutions. The invitation to one of those talks at Rheda College promoted tolerance: “Parents! You are surely discovering with astonishment or even with a slight cringe that your sons and daughters are becoming fascinated with a new form of music called ‘JAZZ’ that is running more and more rampant. It is useless and

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73. 74. 75. 76.

77. 78. 79.

80.

81.

82.

83. 84.

85.

86.

87. 88.

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unwise to be hostile from the outset toward your children’s behavior and this music. As it is so necessary and self-evident for youth to honor and respect the views of their elders, so it would be right and good for parents to attempt to understand their children and to get to know that which delights them” (Kleine 1957). See the 1958 published self-portrayal “Über den Hot Club Dortmund.” He lived in the Frankfurt suburbs until his death in 1997. The biographical portrayal ends in 1959, which could point to the manuscript’s date of origin; it then turns into a set of glib observations. Lippmann biographer Michael Rieth mentions that the underage youth was penalized with three weeks “arrest,” “without even his parents being informed of his whereabouts” (Rieth 2010: 68). This letter was presumably written in 1946. This document, with the page numbers 34 and 35, is clearly a part of a Jazz-Club News edition from March/April 1947. Horst Lippmann organized jazz concerts starting in 1948. At the beginning, he worked together with the American Sergeant Dave McCarthy and was supported financially by the German Youth Activities Program. Joachim-Ernst Berendt was critical of the familiar saying that Frankfurt am Main had become the “German jazz capital” after the end of the war. He rightly pointed out that Berlin possessed a richer musical tradition. Frankfurt, according to Berendt, owed its high-profile status to its restless organizers and journalists. See the chapter “Kleine Geschichte des deutschen Nachkriegsjazz (1945–1960)” in Berendt 1987: 163–214. In the beginning, Horst Lippmann was “mainly employed in his parents’ hotel business” anything else he did was done “on the side” (Lippmann 1952). The edition was comprised of thirty-six pages and was described as a “trial edition” due to “irregularities in individual page size and in the print itself” (see Hot Club Frankfurt 1947: 35). The elaborate production method was, however, not the main reason for its low circulation. That had much more to do with the paper shortage. As of 1948, it was called: Hessischer Rundfunk [Hessian Broadcasting]. In Lippmann’s telegraphic-like self-portrayal in 1952, he comments on the show’s frequency: “organizer of both weekly jazz shows by Hessian Broadcasting, better known as Radio Frankfurt” (Lippmann 1952). Günter Boas also got involved on occasion (see, for example, Hudtwalcker and Boas 1953; Boas 11.16.1953b). In both cases, the topic was “Blues from the Golden Age.” Broadcasting time: 11:20 p.m. to 12:00 p.m. The script for the show on 2 May 1956 mentions that Jazz aus Frankfurt, which had been running at 10 p.m. every week, would now run every fourteen days on Wednesdays at 9 p.m. It would last forty-five minutes (see Lippmann 05.02.1956: 5). 807 readers voted for Wolfgang Sauer (see: “Erstaunliches Resultat beim Gondel-Poll” 1954). The US army’s “German Youth Activities Program” was meant to promote education, culture, and sports, thereby contributing to their “re-education.” The clubs, which were erected in West Berlin and in several West German

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91. 92.

93.

94.

95.

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97.

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cities, functioned as important meeting points for jazz fans. For the history, concerns, and a profile of the program, see The U. S. Armed Forces German Youth Activities Program 1945–1955, 1956. For example, he played in the East Berlin art club Die Möwe in 1956 with Alfons Zschockelt’s band from Halle (see Rudorf 1990: 125). The songs were released in 1957 and 1961 on two EPs, both under the artist’s name “Toby Fichelscher/Gustav Brom’s Dixielandband”; Amiga 5 50 027 and Amiga 5 50 123. Amiga later included them on various samplers (see Brüll 2003: 165–66, 175–76 and 296–97). Title 1, B-side on: Toby Fichelscher/Gustav Brom’s Dixielandband, Amiga 5 50 123, DDR 1961. The film Tobby [sic] has the same tenor. Released in 1961, the screenplay was written by Hansjürgen Pohland and Siegfried Hofbauer. It was directed and produced by Hansjürgen Pohland, with Fichelscher taking on the leading role himself. Undated and unspecified radio broadcast by Joachim-Ernst Berendt. The recording can be found on Gudy Fichelscher’s CD: Toby Fichelscher. Ein Porträt 1953–1988. The disc is marked with the declaration: “non-commercial fan edition.” “Mit einer Stimme so tief wie ein Bergwerk,” 10.03.1956. The newspaper clipping, the origin of which could not be identified, is among the holdings of the JID. It is clearly from the Düsseldorf area. At this point, the DJF was not yet officially founded, but it did already exist as a continuously growing cooperative of West German Hot Clubs. The program for the Bell-Broonzy show identified it as the “Deutsche Jazz-Federation” [German Jazz Federation]. The autobiography Big Bill Blues, published and commented upon by Yannick Bruynoghe, followed the same strategy (see Bruynoghe and Broonzy 1955). Regardless, Big Bill Broonzy soon disappeared from the scene. In 1950, he was “re-discovered” by the Belgian blues fan Yannick Bruynoghe in Chicago. Bruynoghe was responsible for both initiating work on the autobiography Big Bill Blues and organizing bookings for Broonzy in Europe (see Broonzy 1954). New Masses was closely associated with the Communist party in the US. There were two concerts in September 1951 at the London Kingsway Hall that fueled the Broonzy mythology in Europe. Globally one of the most powerful blues ideologues at the time, Alan Lomax assumed the position of moderator, providing a lengthy introduction. He had left the US due to the rampant persecution of communists there and had announced that it was his mission to protect “archaic” musical heritage, and in Great Britain as well. Big Bill Broonzy’s performances received significant media attention and laid the foundation for his high standing. In the opinion of musicologist Roberta Freund Schwartz, Broonzy’s influence was groundbreaking: he “altered the landscape of British popular music as surely as the Beatles did a decade later” (Schwartz 2007b: 155). See Cohen 2012 for information on Alan Lomax’s time in Great Britain from 1950 to 1958 and the immense effect he had on the scene there.

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100. “Echter Blues und australischer Jazz.” This article was found as a piece of torn paper as part of Günter Boas’ estate (Boas; IJAE Günter Boas Collection). The date 09.19.1951 was written by hand as the publication date, with the publication name “A.Z.” The actual source could not be determined. 101. This document was clearly written by Horst Lippmann. 102. See the concert excerpts from 15 September 1951 at the Düsseldorf Robert-Schumann-Saal released on CD, as well as the booklet commentary. Big Bill Broonzy in Concert with Graeme Bell & His Australian Jazz Band: Germany, September 1951, Jasmine Records JASMCD 3007, Great Britain 2002. 103. Sister Rosetta Tharpe and the Sam Price Trio, Brunswick 82721.

CHAPTER 3

Get off of My Cloud Emancipation

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Bo-o-o-oy, it was just like the President or Jesus comin’ in. —John Lee Hooker1

The Concept and Design of the American Folk Blues Festivals The room went dark as the spotlight hit the stage at the Großer Kursaal in Baden: it was 4 October 1962 and the dawn of a new era. Finally, the time had come for the blues to step out from behind the shadow of jazz. It was demonstrating its vitality and self-awareness— and mass audiences were listening. John Lee Hooker acted as herald: taking up his guitar and stamping his feet, he opened up the first American Folk Blues Festival (AFBF).2 The concert series was organized by Horst Lippmann and Fritz Rau and continued up until 1985. Although it has often faced criticism, its historical value is beyond dispute.3 Paul Oliver, the Nestor of international blues scholarship, called it simply “ground-breaking” (Oliver 2007: 36). Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman saw Lippmann and Rau as visionaries who “got the blues in a big way” (Wyman and Havers 2001: 326), further commenting that, “Things would have been a whole lot different in Britain without the American Folk Blues Festivals; they proved a rich legacy for musicians throughout Europe” (Wyman 2003). At this point, the festival already had a long prehistory, as it had taken many years for the AFBF to come to fruition. Horst Lippmann was the driving force; he embodied musical proficiency and organizational know-how. As an “old school jazz fan,” he had always had a strong affinity for the blues. Back during the period shortly after the

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war, he demonstrated his knowledge and deep interest with Hot Club presentations, fanzine articles, and radio scripts. And it was Lippmann who in 1951 coordinated the first performance in Germany by an African American blues musician of distinction: Big Bill Broonzy. For the future major events promoter, Broonzy’s debut presaged broader horizons, which would eventually develop into an artistic cosmos of flowing borders. Fritz Rau, Horst Lippmann’s business partner, felt the same magnetic pull toward the blues. Starting in 1956, he worked as an assistant and tour manager for the American impresario Norman Granz. He was also in charge of the ground-breaking concert series Jazz at the Philharmonic.4 In 1957, Fritz Rau experienced a defining moment: John Lewis, the pianist for the Modern Jazz Quartet, played him a Muddy Waters record. Rau recalled, “That was the first time I had heard authentic big city blues” (“Blues before Sunrise” 2009: 395). According to the legend, the saxophonist “Cannonball” Adderley gave Lippmann and Rau the address of Willie Dixon, a busy musician and producer at the Chicago company Chess Records. Dixon would become their most important contact person for everything to do with the blues. His information was then also passed on to Joachim-Ernst Berendt, West Germany’s leading writer on jazz. On his three-month trip throughout the US in 1960 with the photographer William Claxton, Berendt’s path led him to Willie Dixon. That encounter opened up an entirely new world for him, refuting all of the naysayers who had already signed the blues’ death certificate. Upon his return to Germany, Berendt is said to have called out “Jesus Christ, blues is living [sic]5” (cited in Dixon and Snowden 1990: 126). He had experienced an epiphany in a garage in the ghetto of South Chicago where he had attended “a giant blues party” arranged by the drummer Jump Jackson. “It began at around three o’clock in the afternoon; and it was still in full swing as the sun rose the next morning. As is common in the South Side, the black part of the city, the entire neighborhood ended up taking part in it. I recorded all of it and used it to put together a radio series that was broadcast on Südwestfunk.” At the time of the party, which united almost everyone “with a name and reputation in Chicago’s blues scene,” “the idea for the American Folk Blues Festivals was born.” Deeply struck and inspired, Berendt asked “all the different European concert promoters,” but “I was denied by all of them. The blues did not mean much back then—until finally, I spoke to Horst Lippmann and Fritz Rau. They jumped on it. Horst flew immediately to the US, contacted Jump Jackson, picked up John Lee Hooker from Detroit and signed the contracts” (Berendt, n.d.: 2).6 Lippmann and Rau have issued a correction to that particular telling

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Figure 3.1. John Lee Hooker (in front), Big Mama Thornton, and J. B. Lenoir during a television production for the American Folk Blues Festival, Baden-Baden, 1965 (photo by Stephanie Wiesand, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

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of the story, as they claim to be the ones to have come up with the idea of the festival. According to them, Joachim-Ernst Berendt wanted to hire the musicians for his television program Jazz—gehört und gesehen and had asked the agency for support. “Only if we do a tour along with it,” is what “the realistic Lippmann” (cited in Brigl and Schmidt-Joos 1985: 130)7 is supposed to have said. And so, things took their course from there. There was a lot of skepticism in the beginning. N obody truly believed their endeavors would have any actual commercial viability. As Fritz Rau recalls: When Horst returned for the first time from his blues trip throughout the US in 1961 and said: “The musicians have committed, book the tour now,” I felt sick, I didn’t know if we would be able to find any local event organizers for a group of obscure blues musicians, randomly thrown together and known by no one—and even if we could, I didn’t know if an audience would show up. (Brigl and Schmidt-Joos 1985: 133)

Horst Lippmann was clearly convinced the time was ripe for the blues. At the end of his radio special Gesungener Blues [The Blues Sung] broadcast on HR on 11 January 1962, he told the audience, “Rarely has it been at the center of jazz happenings as much as in recent years” (Lippmann 01.11.1962: 1). In spite of all the doom and gloom, Lippmann and Rau were able to symbiotically combine art and business. People like to focus on the festival in retrospect as a pioneering achievement or suggest that it was all about idealism. In doing so, they forget that the AFBF was actually following a well thought out master plan. The enormous scope, including numerous Western and Eastern European countries, as well as the clever marketing concept, were keys to its success and pointed to possible future directions to take. From the very beginning, the project attracted popular sponsors and the event promoters guaranteed both highly effective advertising and the largest audiovisual production possible. The festival provided the blueprints for an innovative launch and cultivated networks. Moreover, in addition to the main media outlets, it got a new generation excited about the blues. It established the genre as a market segment. They were able to get many powerful campaigners and multiplicators to participate, which played a decisive role in its success. Everyone pulled together, and in the end, the venture triumphed as a result of teamwork. Lippmann and Rau were always open to new proposals and infected people in the industry with their enthusiasm. At the be-

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ginning, Günter Boas was one of the most inspiring contributors. It was he who “always pressed Lippmann: ‘You have to get the great, old bluesers over here, while they’re still alive!’” (Rieth 2010: 156).8 Joachim-Ernst Berendt did a substantial amount of groundwork for the AFBF and was its loudest promoter, advertising on the radio, television, and in the press. He also provided logistical assistance. Berendt brought the blues show to the popular TV series: Jazz—gehört und gesehen, which he had been in charge of at Südwestfunk [SWF, Southwest Broadcasting] since 1954.9 Not only did he draw an entirely new form of attention to this neglected genre in doing so, he was also the reason money started pouring into the concert agency’s pockets. Graphic artist Günther Kieser was responsible for AFBF’s visual design.10 He did an excellent job of illustrating the spirit of the event and its ideology with his posters, brochures, and stage sets. Siegfried Loch, the record producer, and the journalist and radio presenter Siegfried Schmidt-Joos were also part of the inner circle.11 They recruited the audience and were in charge of music recording. Last but not least, Lippmann and Rau had their colleagues and kindred spirits in the US on their side. The record label managers Leonard Kunstadt and Chris Strachwitz ferreted out legendary artists who had disappeared from the scene, making travel preparations and organizing documents and passports for them.12 Some of them also worked as assistants on the tour in Europe. The most important local intermediary was Willie Dixon. He held the undisputed authority of “father figure,”13 being a musician and composer with numerous hits, as well as a producer, arranger, and studio band leader at Chess Records. Organizational and contractual details came across his desk. Horst Lippmann flew several times to the US to refine their concept together. Dixon showed himself to be a profoundly qualified scene expert, an invaluable link between the different worlds, and a reliable contact person. He was “the right man for the job,” Lippmann emphasized, and was in no way just an “assistant producer”; he was a true partner. “We worked together like brothers. It was very, very good cooperation” (cited in Dixon and Snowden 1990: 127). Willie Dixon led Horst Lippmann to the breeding grounds of urban blues. Under his protection, the German man dove into the workings of Chicago’s bars, rarely patronized by white people. Lippmann was fascinated by the music’s “elemental force,” resolving to transfer it to the European concert hall. The first AFBF programs featured prevalent artists from Chess Records, put together by Willie Dixon. He himself could be seen performing on the festival stage up until 1964, and once again in 1970, as a bassist, singer, and guitarist.

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In Dixon, the organizational team had a gatekeeper who had maintained an elastic understanding of the blues throughout the decades. He recognized the genre’s immense scope more than any other. He believed the music had enough popular appeal to continuously re-define itself, which made it capable of satisfying the requirements of generations to come (see Filene 2000: 76–132). And, as many of his compositions became hits, he clearly proved that. Dixon’s song “(I’m Your) Hoochie Coochie Man” was the first in a long line of mega sellers. It was recorded by Muddy Waters on 7 January 1954 for Chess Records. Willie Dixon also brought his flexible outlook to the AFBF. “In the mid 1950s, Dixon had used ‘Hoochie Coochie Man’ to prove that African American audiences would accept a more pop-oriented sound as legitimate blues,” underscored the historian Benjamin Filene. “Ten years later, he was making a similar point with the AFBF, demonstrating that the Chicago sound could gain acceptance among white blues revivalists as an authentic roots music” (Filene 2000: 121). Lippmann and Rau wrapped Willie Dixon’s strategy in an ideological patina, which acted as a communication foil and a lure that offset the event’s artistic subtleties and diversity, polishing the message into a catchy slogan. Contemporary buzzwords were necessary to effectively communicate the concept; it would never have reached a broader public otherwise. The AFBF’s subheading promised: “A Documentation of the Authentic Blues.” That slogan reflected a widespread yearning for “nativeness”; in the same spirit as the folk revival, whose waves had only just left the American shore for Europe. In the movement’s worldview, “archaic” blues was considered a symbol of “real” life, as existence reduced to its core, yet to be corrupted by technology and commerce. Some parts of that philosophy affected the presentation and perception of the AFBF. Lippmann and Rau put a model of “authenticity” up for discussion that only used the traditional folk aesthetic as an introductory argument. In actuality, their festival was based on a principle of stylistic variety. The spectators were presented with both country blues solos and a trip back to the “classical” pre-war era. The Chicago sound got them clapping and some trace elements of soul were heard as well. In light of this pliable concept, the blues seemed authentic per se; it was a “roots music,” which would always be able to generate new growth on old wood. Only the artists’ skin color, which was associated with the corresponding social experiences, marked the borderline, as it was considered a criterium of “realness.” No white musician was ever given a spotlight at the AFBF. During the festival’s establishment phase, the advertisements and journalistic acclaim decoupled the value of the blues from the sound

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material. Joachim-Ernst Berendt used a strong metaphor in his contribution to the 1963 program brochure: In every culture, there is a certain group of people who—to use the biblical expression—are the “SALT” of their society: only present in the smallest of doses, but transformative to the “taste” of the whole. Blues musicians are the “salt” of the American—and perhaps even of modern Western—society. That does not change the fact that this society is unaware of their “salt.” The blues musician lives in the underground—in a world of catacombs; whatever sinks down to the bottom has sunken down through everything that lay on top of it—and become saturated with it. That is why in the blues world a man and his life are still considered to be one and the same thing, which otherwise no longer exists in our society. (Berendt 1963a)

While Joachim-Ernst Berendt saw the “art of naked existence” (Berendt 1962c: 55) in the blues, Horst Lippmann discovered a “plain, real humanity.” “Troubadours” such as Sonny Boy Williamson and Memphis Slim “belong in the concert hall,” because they count among the “great personalities of the most important living folk art to have originated in our time.” Lippmann portrayed the musicians as living shamans. “Due to the power of inherent artistic ability,” they sang “of the everyday hardships and imperfections of people,” “to free themselves and all of us” from it (all citations: Lippmann 1963b). Lippmann and Rau sought to educate people about the blues. Rau remembers: We wanted to present the blues as the folk music of an underprivileged, black minority. Thus the “folk” in the title. The audience was supposed to learn the different traditions: country blues, Delta blues, city blues, Chicago, West Coast, Texas, etc. It was a little like adult education classes. We explained and conveyed our concerns in the presentation and in the program brochures with German efficiency. It was moving! (“Blues before Sunrise” 2009: 400)

The AFBF’s image presentation took up a lot of space, in the best sense. Horst Lippmann knew curious minds require visual representations, and thus placed great value in the corresponding optics. From the earliest days of his time as a jazz promoter, he had used “artistically designed posters meant to reflect the content of the music” (Horst Lippmann, n.d. [autobiographical outline]). Lippmann found the perfect partner in Günther Kieser. The graphic designer, three years Lippmann’s junior, subtly sounded out the meaning of the blues. His art was elaborate and complex, it revealed a penetrating gaze that never came across as artificial. Like a soundboard, it took in the emotional sound vibrations and extended them into the visual representation. Or, ob-

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served from a different perspective: “For us, the poster is not a means of advertisement; it is a ‘prelude to a kiss,’” according to Fritz Rau. “Our concerts begin with the Günther Kieser posters” (“The Prelude” 1995: 34). Kieser chose the body of a natural wood guitar as a motif, which he filled with new associations from year to year.14 It became the AFBF’s logo. In order “to be un-missable,” the announcements were printed in the largest format, DIN A0.15 “It was bigger than anything else on the advertising pillars,” explained Günther Kieser. “DIN A116 size posters were the norm. We asked ourselves, what can we do to tell the people: This is something special” (all citations: Schwab 2008: 137). Lippmann and Rau wanted to signal something to their target group—a group not yet swallowed up by the mainstream: “You must hear this at all costs. If you pass it up, then you are missing something truly significant” (ibid.: 388n13). Kieser’s work demonstrated a sense of urgency. It effectively presented the blues as an “existential art,” (Berendt 1962c: 55) utilizing images of suffering, but also of resistance. A decidedly political tone was introduced into the message from early on. In contrast to the situation in his homeland, the blues was no longer a form of entertainment with increasingly antiquated features; it was a clear, highly current statement. The festival organizers heard the cry of discriminated African Americans in the music and aligned themselves directly with the civil rights movement. The blues was stylized as a form of protest. In both word and image, posters and sumptuously designed program brochures broached the issue of black people’s subjugation and miserable living conditions. Coarse photographs and collages showed physically abusive police, prisons, a black dove behind bars surrounded by a halo, cotton fields, the depressing wasteland of the slums, and symbols of hope, such as the portrait of Martin Luther King, Jr. The 1965 AFBF held up guitarist and singer J. B. Lenoir as a special discovery. The thirty-six-year-old musician, who addressed painful contemporary topics with songs such as “Eisenhower Blues” and “Vietnam,” was praised as the new generation’s admonishing voice of warning. His “Alabama Blues” opened up the evening.17 He accused the American South of racism “I never will go back to Alabama . . . / . . . they killed my sister and my brother / and the whole world let them peoples go down there free . . .”18 The festival was also critical of the United States in 1966. The program brochure’s frontispiece showed white, supposedly “upright citizens” in front of the US flag, with statistics on the side about: “How White Views of the Negro Have Changed.” The results were devastating: within the survey period of 1963 to 1966, there had been almost

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no change to the invariably negative attitudes (see American Folk Blues Festival ‘66). Suggestive images were also shown on television. Until 1966, the SWF included the AFBF in Joachim-Ernst Berendt’s series Jazz— gehört und gesehen.19 The shows were either filmed live or in studio. Lippmann was responsible for direction,20 Berendt undertook the production, synchronized backstage, and spoke a few introductory words. The remaining forty-five minutes belonged to the musicians. They introduced each other, “in a chain-like sequence, which was not to be broken at any point during the show, lending cohesion to the entire program. Any cuts or modifications—where required—must be so well concealed so as not to allow the ‘switch’ from soloist to soloist to appear implausible at any point” (Südwestfunk 1962: 1). They also spent a lot of time and effort designing the stages. Transporting the audience to America, to the “urban jungle,” they used illuminated advertising, road cruisers, and telephone poles to recreate a typical street scene in the South. They invited the public onto the veranda of a house where time seemed to stand still, or to a “black” bar where they could breathe in the after-hours atmosphere. JoachimErnst Berendt greeted the audience of the German TV premiere of “In front of Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” (ibid.: 2) as determined by the stage direction. For the 1962 recording, they hired GIs in plainclothes and their likewise dark-skinned female partners. The group listened and bobbed their heads to a “jam session in the great club” (ibid.: 8). In the end, they were jumping up from their chairs and clapping. The sequence had something prophetic about it: the dynamic young couples were enthralled by the good old city blues, played by six elderly men and the singer, Helen Humes, born in 1913. But the dancers were not moving in any old-fashioned way—they were dancing the Twist.21

Logistics, Marketing, and Artistic Profiles Contributions to the series Jazz—gehört und gesehen were produced in Baden-Baden’s SWF studios. After their transatlantic voyage, the musicians stayed there almost a week. They were briefed on the details of the program, practiced their parts, and stood in front of television cameras before they gave their first regular concert of the tour in the Großer Kursaal in Baden. This serene, southwestern city was the ideal place to acclimate. Lippmann and Rau’s retinue and old friends such as Lore and Günter Boas and the photographer Stephanie Wiesand took care of the musicians’ well-being and created a familial atmosphere.

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Most of them were in Europe for the first time and thus found themselves confronted with a completely new world. At home, they were handled like second-class citizens; even their music was not worth much anymore. They were slowly but inexorably sinking into anachronism. Young African Americans found that their feelings about life were much better reflected in soul and R&B. At that point in time in the US, there was not a large white blues audience, beyond a devoted circle of students and intellectuals. As the crew of the first AFBF landed at the Frankfurt am Main airport, they were serenaded and greeted with every honor. Horst Lippmann had obtained special authorization for the Benno Walldorf Blues Combo22 to wait on the runway in order to welcome their American colleagues. Decades later, their guests would still be raving about the wave of enthusiasm that broke over them upon their arrival. John Lee Hooker experienced his stage appearances as revelation: “Bo-oo-oy, it was just like the President or Jesus comin’ in” (Murray 2011: 313). Joachim-Ernst Berendt remembers the musicians’ “incredulous wonder” when they “entered the modern concert halls and venerable philharmonic halls of the major European cities, seeing an audience of thousands before them.” After all, many had “frequented nothing but the dives of the South, the dark and seedy ghetto bars their entire lives” (Berendt, n.d.: 3). In front of cameras, the Chicago harmonica player Carey Bell recounted that he would only earn ten to fifteen dollars for a full evening session back home.23 In contrast, Lippmann and Rau paid a generous salary. They were, however, extremely modest compared to the usual fees in the “popular jazz” or even “entertainment” sectors. But the AFBF could never have taken place if they had done it any differently. The often-quoted “idealism,” (see, for example, Schwab 2008: 138) and the agency’s “selfless dedication” (Köhler 2008) in the form of financial sacrifice, is sheer fiction.24 Lippmann and Rau did indeed go further than any other—they were inspired by the concept—in the end, however, their company had to function. The business’ profitability was their top priority; all artistic aspects and questions of image were subordinated to that. In other, more pointed, words: the commercial core was covered up with an appropriate design concept. From the very beginning, the concert series embodied a clever and farsighted business model. Their folk aesthetic, which appealed to the concepts of genuineness and simplicity, was not just pure marketing; it also followed economic constraints. Lippmann and Rau knew almost no boundaries, something proven year after year by their wide-ranging artistic line-up. The two impresarios were presumably much more flexible and open than their critics would make one believe. Even aspiring

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Figure 3.2. Benno Walldorf (right) greets the 1962 American Folk Blues Festival participants at the Frankfurt Rhein-Main Airport (photo by Renate Dabrowski, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

blues stars—considered modern and cool because they had absorbed soul and R&B—would have fit into the concept, if properly packaged. Contracts fell through due to the budget, not any form of resentment. “Even at that time, B.B. King was out of our league,” Fritz Rau later admitted. “We couldn’t work him into the festival, so we sent him on his own tour in 1968” (“Blues before Sunrise” 2009: 401). According to Joachim-Ernst Berendt, the eleven musicians from the 1964 AFBF

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received a total of 70,000 DM for the month-long tour (see “Macht der Jazz uns doch frei?” 1965).25 At around the same time, Lippmann had the opportunity to engage the jazz star Sarah Vaughan. The singer demanded a net sum of US$3,500 for a double concert, and US$5,000 for a television appearance (see Green 1963).26 Jimmy Rushing was proposed for the 1963 festival, but Lippmann and Rau turned him down because his weekly fee of US$750 seemed too high. The absolute maximum payment was US$500 (see Lippmann 12.20.1962). Fritz Rau revealed the following in an interview with the author: Lippmann and I had calculated everything with pinpoint accuracy. We paid the people properly; but compared to the fees that would later become standard, the production of the festival was relatively low-cost. There were those among the blues singers who really did live on the poverty line. Every hundred-dollar bill was a blessing in the economic desert of South Side Chicago. That was how the economic risk remained manageable. Back then, John Lee Hooker played for a fraction of what he was later paid. (“Blues before Sunrise” 2009: 397)

So, the AFBF’s early phase functioned based on the win-win principle. “All things considered, we were in a position to give the package over to European promoters with conditions that would allow them to hold concerts in locations with capacity for eight hundred or a thousand people. That changed afterwards however” (ibid.: 398). In their clients’ eyes, Lippmann and Rau were fair business partners. Not only did they pay well, they handled the musicians with a great deal of respect. Back home in the US, the custom was often very different. Lippmann entered into a legal dispute with Chess Records in the mid 1960s regarding the commercialization of Sonny Boy Williamson. He accused the brothers Leonard and Phil Chess of shameless exploitation and a “sort of a new slavery,” claiming they did a lot for the blues but did even more for their own money (cited in Dixon and Snowden 1990: 202 and 203). Standing up to a company that played such hardball “actually unleashed a giant storm throughout their blues artists” (Lippmann 10.14.1981: 1) and engendered additional respect for the German organizer. He commented laconically, “My experience with the Gestapo, I had to face that, you know, so that’s harder than the Chess brothers” (cited in Dixon and Snowden 1990: 203).27 Lippmann also helped Willie Dixon to better safeguard his author’s rights, thus providing an appropriate income from royalties (ibid.: 166). Alongside media organizations with large audiences, powerful advertising partners and sponsors contributed to the AFBF’s relatively smooth beginnings. The 1963 and 1964 program brochures contained

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advertisements from two dozen commercial enterprises, including the airlines Air-India and Lufthansa, major labels such as CBS and Philips, the manufacturers of musical instruments Hohner and Sonor, hi-fi electronics manufacturers Braun and SABA, as well as Coca-Cola, and the cigarette brand Roth-Händle.28 AFBF recordings and the participating artists’ portrait LPs guaranteed financial sponsorship and additional publicity. All festivals, except that of 1968, were immortalized on vinyl. Brunswick released the 1962 AFBF recording, while those from 1963 to 1967 were put out by Fontana.29 After that, Lippmann and Rau got into the record business themselves. They began publishing the performances on their own label; first Scout Records30 and starting in 1979: L+R Records. At the beginning, while the blues market was still manageable, the sampler received a great amount of attention and favorable reviews. The 1962 compilation was clearly ahead in an expert poll printed in Jazz Podium (see “American Folk Blues Festival Platte in Front” 1963). It won the “Deutscher Jazz-Plattenpreis” [German Jazz Record Award] in the folklore category, as did the 1963 and 1964 LPs (see “Der Deutsche Jazz-Plattenpreis” 1963; “Der deutsche Plattenpreis 1965”).31 It was clear from the beginning that tough and efficient press contacts were essential. The 1962 debut featured two different presenters: the DJF and the youth magazine twen. Lippmann and Rau worked as concert advisors for the DJF and could count on an organically developed network. They were also clever not to select the Jazz Podium, in a sense the central body of the federation, as their mouthpiece, using it instead as a parallel multiplicator. It was clearly meant to draw a more diverse selection of fans to the scene, to break through the limitations of orthodox jazz circles’ hermetic target groups. As a lifestyle magazine, twen was focused on a young, open-minded generation. It argued for hedonism and anti-authoritarian self-determination, while also presenting discussions of fashion, music, leisure time, sexuality, culture, and politics. The publication’s innovative, forward-thinking design was appealing; it stood out in the media landscape of the time: “twen was something completely different, something completely new,” (Till 1997) an “identity-generating medium” (Koetzle 1997b: dust cover text). Positioned in this way, the blues suddenly seemed much more up-to-date and attractive than it had in the jazz circuit’s traditional journals. Moreover, twen had a higher circulation, which reached an untapped audience.32 And their plan to conquer more territory did in fact take off. The festival struck “right in the heart of a new youth culture” (Fritz Rau, cited in Brigl and Schmidt-Joos 1985: 128), which had discovered the blues as an appropriate soundtrack.

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With a full-page article, twen announced “the first blues documentary in the world, with the best authentic blues singers from America.” Joachim-Ernst Berendt, jazz editor and “twen employee from the very start,” (Koetzle 1997b: 317) aroused people’s curiosity by suggesting that one should “expect an excess of vigor and expressive power.” The blues, he explained to potential ticket buyers, was “the only folk music of our time” not affected by the “rift” between tradition and popularity. It “is as alive and current as the latest pop hits.” According to Berendt, the AFBF offered the only opportunity to experience its magical power personally. He ended by calling out: “Don’t miss it!” (all citations: Berendt 1962b). In the next edition of twen, the active propagandist intensified his blues philosophy and profiled the advertised artists (see Berendt 1962c). In addition, he put together an LP for the “Philips-twen record series” (ibid.: 86).33 The DJF also put out some advance praise, celebrating the AFBF as “the most interesting tour of the upcoming 1962/1963 concert season” (Lippmann, Berendt, and Schmidt-Joos 1962: 181). The experiment did indeed turn out to be a resounding success. The press lauded it as an “adventurous and fascinating enterprise” (Burkhardt 1962)—and the public was enthralled. Lippmann and Rau had booked “medium-sized halls” with a capacity of up to two thousand, and every last seat was filled (Fritz Rau, cited in Brigl and SchmidtJoos 1985: 133). The first AFBF took place between 4 and 21 October 1962, beginning in Baden and ending in Manchester. Nine West German cities were scheduled, with additional stops in Austria, Switzerland, France, and Great Britain. The blues was already “in the air”—it had been included in the folk revival and was protected by the old guard of jazz fans—but its scope remained negligible. It led a niche existence, only reaching a select group of insiders. With the AFBF, the blues took a quantum leap forward.34 N o longer were individual soloists and hired bands traveling through the clubs; the music was now presented “as a package.” That was a true novelty. The news headlines rightly announced it as the “World’s First Blues Festival” (“Erstes Blues-Festival der Welt” 1962). The following artists were part of the 1962 line-up: Helen Humes, John Lee Hooker, Memphis Slim, Willie Dixon, Jump Jackson, Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, Shakey Jake, and T-Bone Walker—artists who up until then had only been known by a small, enlightened circle.35 Their program was conceived based on a revue style and saw an increase in theatrical staging. Soloists, duos, and varying performer formations performed one after the other, each playing a handful of songs. Musicians took on different roles, standing in the spotlight

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during their own sets but also accompanying their colleagues as instrumentalists. The concert was always concluded with a particularly captivating session. They maintained the same formula throughout the years, staying true to their goal of providing a “fundamental introduction to the world of folk blues and all areas of the living blues” (Lippmann 1963b) with every festival. One effective advertising strategy was the promotion of “rediscovered” artists and “legends” longthought forgotten, including Big Joe Williams, Viktoria Spivey, John Henry Barbee, Mississippi Fred McDowell, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Doctor Ross, Bukka White, Son House, and Skip James. The first signs of crisis could be observed in the mid 1960s. In a way, the festival’s initial success had come back to haunt it. Lippmann and Rau had stirred up high hopes for a “faster-higher-further” trajectory—which they were both unable and unwilling to fulfill. They stuck to the theme and “documented” the blues as the “authentic folk music” of African Americans. “Concepts get worn out, that simply can’t be changed” pronounced Dieter Zimmerle, chief editor of the Jazz Podium in 1964. We are “on the way to becoming spoiled and to perceiving what was once extraordinary as ordinary. It is possible that the friends of the blues, attending ‘their’ festival for the third time now, will begin turning up their noses at this or that, here and there finding a hair in the blues soup” (Zimmerle 1964: 299). The Hamburg journalist, Werner Burkhardt, who had provided his expertise and actively committed himself to the AFBF since the beginning, had already included some subtle criticisms in his review in 1962. He questioned the appropriateness of presenting the music in a high-culture performance context. He argued that the musicians had come “directly from suburban taverns or nightclubs” and were now standing on the concert hall stage. “With all one’s heart, one does not begrudge them, but one gets the feeling that they themselves do not quite know what is happening to them” (Burkhardt 1962). Four years later, Burkhardt found the festival “yawnable.” He asked, “Haven’t we had enough of this primitive tone?” The answer was obvious. “The spell of the purely archaic fades quickly.” And so, the old motif received only “moderate approval” (all citations: Burkhardt 1966). Werner Burkhardt expressed similar concerns during the 1968 AFBF television production. He met Fritz Rau in the WDR [Westdeutscher Rundfunk, West German Broadcasting] studio to discuss the current situation with him. They had both been invited by Siegfried SchmidtJoos. The renowned publicist had always been one of the festival’s supporters and inspirers. He worked with radio and television, producing and moderating numerous specials, but was also active in print media,

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writing in-depth pieces for program brochures and record covers. And now he was sitting down in front of the camera with Fritz Rau and Werner Burkhardt, asking probing questions. Siegfried Schmidt-Joos pointed to the growing number of “critical voices talking about the tour’s production schema, the documentation, being stale.” His colleague Werner Burkhardt seconded that: “It’s that really explosive newness that I miss a bit at this festival.” There was also no clear political stance; “almost no mention” was made of “the major social problems.” Fritz Rau defended the concept of the AFBF, stating that the event series was explicitly defined stylistically. He argued that anyone wanting to hear soul or “white blues” should go to those concerts, which were also organized by his agency in abundance. They did not want to randomly water down, or “repurpose” the festival concept; they wanted to continue presenting the genre’s “old and young masters.”36 The 1968 television production demonstrated that both the media and the audience’s image of the blues had changed. Once the AFBF was no longer integrated into Joachim-Ernst Berendt’s series Jazz— gehört und gesehen, and the WDR had taken over the recording process, it lost the feeling of a museum artifact. The film clips presented the AFBF as a happening; they made the audience become part of the action. They had moved from the concert hall to the club, which maintained a lighter mood. Instead of Günther Kieser’s decor—which had radiated “authenticity”—trendy camera effects were used. Siegfried Schmidt-Joos, who had hosted the AFBF as part of the television series Swing-in was involved in the attempt to bring the music closer to new audiences. He presented the blues as an integral part of pop culture. Schmidt-Joos was open and communicative, he joked around with the musicians and tapped his feet to the beat. He introduced Koko Taylor as a “soul singer.” The woman with the thunderous voice grabbed the microphone—and sang a true blues song.37 The listeners were asked during the breaks, “What fascinates you about this music?” One young man answered, “This music makes it possible for practically everyone to express themselves individually.”38 There was an even stronger generational change in 1969, the year of Woodstock. In cooperation with Swiss television, the SWF captured atmospheric images that conformed to the hippie aesthetic. The audience was no longer filled with stiff suits; instead, it was dominated by so-called Freaks wearing alternative clothing. As with the regular concerts,39 “almost only teenagers” showed up, who “had been thrilled to hear the sounds of John Mayall and other white singers and who were now drawn to anything with the word blues” (Strachwitz 1969: 403). One could now see long hair, beards, extravagant eyeglasses,

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leather jackets, parkas, ponchos, bandanas, and flower power hats on the television. A couple in an intimate embrace, an ember passed from cigarette to cigarette. This time, it was Chris Strachwitz who moderated the program. More powerful than Joachim-Ernst Berendt and Siegfried Schmidt-Joos (who maintained an impeccable, suit and tie type image and an intellectual speaking style), Strachwitz imparted a feeling of groundedness. His statements came across as smoother, unstrained, while still well-informed. Chris Strachwitz knew exactly what he was talking about. Born in Lower Silesia, he moved to the US when he was sixteen years old, right after World War II. In 1960, he founded the important blues and roots label Arhoolie Records in California. He was closely connected to the AFBF and its organizers, standing at their side as expert advisor and networker. Strachwitz put the 1969 line-up together and brought it to a television audience.40 The broadcast was an immensely successful cross between concert and road movie. Chris Strachwitz interviewed the artists on the tour bus and introduced them with short stories. Spectators were thus permitted a peek behind the scenes. They saw the musicians backstage, in the hotel, at the airport, telling jokes, smoking and drinking, and warming up their instruments. The camera zoomed onto a hand jauntily giving autographs, watched the pianist Alex Moore writing postcards—clearly not illiterate. Carey Bell opened up his harmonica case, exposing a bottle of Scotch Whisky lying there quite naturally. Earl Hooker tormented his guitar, picking it with his teeth. The blues had now arrived in the kingdom of pop on a visual level as well. N otwithstanding the attractive television images, the AFBF began battling signs of exhaustion by the late 1960s. Lippmann and Rau found themselves in a difficult situation. For one, the gesture of “further education,” the concept of time travel, stoically leading from country to city blues every time, had run its course. And the nostalgic search for the “fading note” became increasingly obtrusive. In 1966, Joachim-Ernst Berendt summarized a half-decade of festivals, providing food for thought: The slogan, that this or that blues man is “the last great representative” of this or that blues style, has fizzled out over the last five years. An American critic recently wrote that it seemed laughable. There are more brilliant blues musicians alive today than have died up until now. Those who can only enjoy the blues if they think they are witnessing the last spasms of a dying art are masochists of romantic melancholy. (Berendt 1966)

Werner Burkhardt said with sarcasm, “Sleepy John Estes, very old and very blind, feels quite at home in the country blues world; and whether

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listeners interpret his unorthodox phrasing and intonation as the impressive incantation of a living myth, or as musical illiteracy, surely has something to do with whatever their mood happens to be on that day” (Burkhardt 1966). It also became more difficult to balance cost and profit, and those margins diminished. While the market value of blues interpreters had increased, festival production remained expensive and ticket sales were stagnant or declining. Lippmann and Rau had to accept no longer being at the top of the game, even though many of their clients had been promoted. They nevertheless continued to provide high quality, but that was not always sufficiently appreciated by a star-fixated media. The standards, once set by the event promoters themselves, were just too high. And so, their shows stood in the big names’ “economic shadow for no good reason” (Didi 1969: 27), as the Austrian magazine blues notes criticized. Lippmann and Rau did sign contracts with several high-quality musicians throughout the 1960s. Starting in the mid 1960s—during the much-cited “crisis phase”—they engaged Buddy Guy, Big Walter “Shakey” Horton, Junior Wells, Otis Rush, Little Walter, Eddie Boyd, Big Mama Thornton, Jimmy Reed, Clifton Chenier, and Magic Sam, among others. Lippmann and Rau continued to work with American concert agencies and record companies. They looked for inexpensive, up-andcoming artists, who would generate sustained public interest. Whatever their commercial motives may have been, they ended up providing a level of development assistance for the blues not to be underestimated. The cost factor played a pivotal role. In 1967 for instance, Hound Dog Taylor was “completely unknown here in Europe,” as Fritz Rau argued to the management at the time, which is why the stipulated fee of “US$450 to US$500 per week” could be negotiated (Rau 03.28.1967). Buddy Guy, who would soon prove to be a new comet in the blues firmament, received only US$48041 in the mid 1960s, the well-known singer Big Mama Thornton accepted US$450.42 Snooks Eaglin asked for US$1,500, so he had to be taken off the wish list.43 The 1970 production of the AFBF was supposed to stem the creeping loss of resonance among the public, to initiate a trend reversal. This time, Lippmann and Rau stretched the genre framework, announcing it as an “American Blues + Gospel Festival,” hoping for a synergetic effect. Inspired by the early success of the AFBF, the agency had been sending more “authentic documentations” on different European tours since 1965. Using a similar model, they presented spirituals and gospel, flamenco, country music, bossa nova, French chansons, and Argentinian folklore. The fusion of blues and gospel was supposed

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to put two beleaguered projects together to create a new quality class. Unfortunately, not everything worked out as expected. The tour started in the Heinz-Hilpert-Theater in the city of Lünen with just seven hundred fans coming to listen to Bukka White and Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, as well as Sister Rosetta Tharpe and the Robert Patterson Singers. The recordings also received mixed reactions. Even the Jazz Podium, which usually had a positive and even partisan view of the festival, deemed it only “satisfactory” (“American Folk Blues Festival 1970” 1971). In 1971, Lippmann and Rau took a forced break. The following year was the last AFBF during that time period. It was held in two parts, in March and October 1972, and marketed with the slogan “Blues Giants— Rock Creators.”44 That tagline could not conceal the underlying dilemma, however; its time had clearly passed. But alongside the many critical voices, one could hear just as vehement praise up to the end. The 1972 program was applauded by the specialized press and said to be “thoroughly satisfying” (Hess 1972: 23) if not even “one of the best” (Gschwendner 1973) overall. Fans asked anxiously, “Will there be another Folk Blues Festival?” “One really hopes so” (Doering 1972: 164). Throughout the years, the AFBF had excited hundreds of thousands of music fans. With great skill and dedication, Lippmann and Rau brought the blues to an unexpected audience, providing them with entertainment that filled them with joy. That alone should lead to a positive balancing of the accounts. And indeed, their reward was much greater: they started a chain reaction, stimulating cultural processes and substantially influencing the course of popular music history. The AFBF made the blues at home in Europe. The tours passed through numerous countries, including Great Britain, Ireland, France, Spain, Italy, Belgium, the Netherlands, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Finland, Austria, Switzerland, West and East Germany, the former Czechoslovakia, and Poland. Many artists also extended their stays in order to hold additional concerts and record productions.45 Year after year, the blues caravan set off, leaving deep tracks in its path. The media also began paying closer attention to the music. Clips from the festival were broadcast on the radio and television all over Europe, LPs and press reports were released. More than a few local blues interpreters described the AFBF as the driving force for their own careers. The festivals were the “crystal nucleus around which, out of almost nothing, a (West) German blues scene began to form” (Miller 2008: 33). They also had far-reaching consequences in Great Britain. They catalyzed the blues boom that had

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been boiling up since the beginning of the 1960s, and which continued to fundamentally influence rock music. Young bands such as the Rolling Stones, the Animals, or the Yardbirds received inspiration from encounters with their idols. A key figure was Giorgio Gomelsky. He worked as Lippmann and Rau’s business partner and took the AFBF to the national level. In contrast to the jazz agents with whom they had worked up until that point, Gomelsky had his finger on the pulse of a burgeoning youth culture. He managed the Rolling Stones and ran the Crawdaddy Club in London, one of the prominent refuges of the scene. According to a contemporary self-portrayal: “rhythm-’n’-blues-club in Richmond, Surrey, has 4,000 members and has become a center from which emanate new styles and habits in clothing, fashion and talking” (N ational Jazz Federation 10.08.1963).46 After the first AFBF in the Manchester Free Trade Hall saw only modest attendance,47 Gomelsky arranged for six dates in 1963.48 They were all sold out. The next season was another success, bringing about 50,000 Brits into the concert hall (see Schwartz 2007a: 157). In 1968, ten cities in the United Kingdom were on the schedule. The crash came the following year, with only one stop at the London Royal Albert Hall.49 The breakthrough in Great Britain woke up the competition. With support from Harold Davison, Lippmann and Rau’s British partner, George Wein, sent the American Folk Blues and Gospel Caravan on tour in the UK at the end of April 1964. The press applauded enthusiastically and all tickets for the seventeen dates were sold (see Schwartz 2007a: 153). As the organizer of the Newport Jazz Festival and the Newport Folk Festival, George Wein belonged to the international heads of industry. He was now poaching within foreign territory and courting “those people who in the various continental cities are opposite to [sic: opposite to = against] your and our ring of promoters” (Lippmann 04.20.1964), as Horst Lippmann expressed in disgust in a letter to his colleague Norman Granz.50 What was most disturbing to him was that Muddy Waters also worked for George Wein, even though Lippmann had wisely bound the godfather of electrical blues to his agency on 18 April 1963 with the signing of a long-term contract.51 It included a passage guaranteeing the German agent “three years exclusivity” for all “European appearances” (see Lippmann 04.02.1964). Through his record company, Chess Records, Muddy Waters made it known that he was illiterate and could not have read the contract; he requested forbearance.52 Marshall Chess appealed to Horst Lippmann’s magnanimity: “I hope you have enough heart to give him this chance” (Chess 04.06.1964). With justification, Lippmann pointed to the fact “that the

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new interest” in Muddy “over here is because of my tour,” that he had been “built up in Europe” by him (Lippmann 04.12.1964). But he soon relented. In order not to cause “very difficult problems,” for him, Lippmann gave his blessing for Waters to participate in the American Folk Blues and Gospel Caravan (see Lippmann 04.21.1964). In the wake of the AFBF, the African American “originals” converged with their British “disciples.” The blues must have possessed a particular appeal and sense of immediacy in a country without the language barrier, where listeners were able to feel the full impact of the music’s communicative effect. The doors stood wide open. They jammed with each other, appearing together in front of live audiences or recording performances for television, radio, and the record studios (for more detail, see Brunning 1995). Lippmann arranged for Sonny Boy Williamson and the Yardbirds to record an LP in the Crawdaddy Club at the beginning of December 1963. Just a few days later, Williamson performed with the Animals in Newcastle upon Tyne, which was also recorded.53 In 1964, John Lee Hooker toured with John Mayall & The Bluesbreakers as well as the Groundhogs; T-Bone Walker signed Mayall’s band the following year. That combination of young, aspiring musicians and distinguished veterans from overseas caught the public’s attention, which was also helpful in clearing the way for the blues. Once again, Willie Dixon played a central role. He was “like a guru” (cited in Dixon and Snowden 1990: 136), remembers singer and London blues pioneer Long John Baldry. The British youngsters revered Dixon as “the archetype of the bluesman. His physical bearing and manner reinforced their notions that the blues represented a dynamic alternative to bourgeois British culture. Dixon’s lyrics, with their aggressive, sexually charged tone, certainly added to this impression” (Filene 2000: 123). The self-made man from Chicago demonstrated that his business acumen and communication skills could also be put to good use in Great Britain. He treated his white novices like partners and invited them to cover his songs. Dixon predicted that the prophet, once heard on the other side of the Atlantic, would also be honored in his own country. And indeed, once the AFBF began to shine its light back over to the US, Willie Dixon determined outright that: Naturally, people were getting jealous or something because here’s a gold mine sitting in my backyard and I didn’t know but over there people are making money. This is why America decided to get back into the blues because they found out that everybody in the European countries was going for the blues and it created all these different rock groups and things. (Dixon and Snowden 1990: 141)

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Figure 3.3. Willie Dixon, Baden-Baden, 1964 (photo by Stephanie Wiesand, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

The Second Season of the American Folk Blues Festival After an eight-year break, Lippmann and Rau took a chance at reanimating the festival. They started up the AFBF once again, sending out tours every year between 1980 and 1985, except 1984.54 A small but sta-

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ble blues scene had been long established in Germany by then. Thanks to its rocking varieties, which produced media compatible stars in cyclical regularity, the music maintained a way to interface with the mainstream. Lippmann and Rau’s company policy regarding the blues had also begun setting new priorities. In 1979, Lippmann and Rau had founded their own record label, L+R Records, and they needed a stage to market it. It appeared as though the time was ripe for a blues festival renaissance. The concept was based on the 1960s festival, albeit modified and downsized. Once again, exclusively African American musicians were called into the limelight. Any overtures by white performers were rejected by the organizers. When asked to address that during the run-up to the 1982 festival, Lippmann answered, “The board who selects the artists for the next American Folk Blues Festival decided to have again an all black cast” (Lippmann 09.18.1981: 1). However, in 1985, wanting to hire an L+R client in the making, Jim Kahr, he did consider including both white and black performers. Lippmann, who thought of himself as “color blind when it comes to quality,” admitted the following, “I overlooked the poor guy for years, just because he lives in Germany and is white” (Lippmann 04.15.1985: 2). However, he had “once again dropped” (Lippmann 04.25.1985b: 1) that idea just a few days later—and there must have been some sober calculation behind that decision. Considering the fact that they were already forced to engage musicians from the lower price bracket, they at least had to take advantage of the alleged “authenticity” provided by an African American artist. Black blues singers and instrumentalists maintained an enticing semblance of “realness”; they were easier to market. From time to time, Lippmann would suggest there was also an aspect of political correctness to those restrictions. In a letter to the Chicago guitarist Jimmy Dawkins, who had arranged several new contacts for the AFBF, he wrote, “We cannot prevent some British youngsters from proclaiming themselves the Blues Band and make a hell of money [sic] with third hand versions of black man’s music” (Lippmann 10.14.1981: 2). In his opinion, the true creators, those who had started the ball rolling, should get their due. There was also a touch of the didactic to the second festival series: It is part of the tradition of the American Folk Blues Festivals to not only introduce authentic blues by those artists who create them but also to offer at the same time with each presentation an introduction to the diverse styles of the blues to all those who are confronted with the blues in their pure, undiluted form for the first time. (Lippmann and Rau 1981)

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Figure 3.4. Horst Lippmann (left) and Fritz Rau, 1985 (photo by Mara Eggert, courtesy of Lippmann + Rau-Stiftung).

That was declared by Lippmann and Rau, who then added, “We have kept to this principle.” But instead of the older, unjustly forgotten heroes, they took on some new “discoveries.” On behalf of the two impresarios, blues scouts searched all the hidden corners of the larger American cities and rural regions, bringing to light some performers with interesting potential and occasionally returning with obscure raw material. Lippmann and Rau signed contracts with these musicians as “recording artists.” Eunice Davis, Cephas & Wiggins, Lonnie Pitchford, and Blind Joe Hill were part of the L+R label. The organizers defended the blues as a never-ending well, as a social corrective measure for a technologically advanced, cold world, “The blues is not a dying folk art, but is as alive and important as ever. At a time of computers and disco, which leads to ever increasing isolation, young black musicians have understood the importance lying within the blues, a message which is deeply human” (all citations: ibid.). In 1980, the revival of the AFBF was eagerly awaited, albeit with a great deal of skepticism. Lippmann and Rau came back with a set that felt in large part like a rehashing of the first one. Sunnyland Slim, Carey Bell, Hubert Sumlin, Eddie Taylor, and Odie Payne—almost half

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of the whole line-up—were known from earlier festivals. Louisiana Red55 was introduced as a bridge between the generations. N ot only was he a noteworthy guitarist, singer, and storyteller, he had a grim history and a life shrouded in myth—something highly marketable— and as a result, he became L+R Records’ “best-selling blues artist” (Hartmann 10.28.1980). Their core advertising strategy can be represented by the following statement: “Louisiana Red’s biography reflects the fate of the black American.” His mother died after giving birth, and his father was murdered by the Ku Klux Klan. Red moved to a Pittsburg ghetto, “where violence is as everyday as sunrise and sunset.” His path was predetermined. He joined a street gang, landed in the penitentiary, and ended up chained together with other prisoners toiling in a quarry. He finally went to work “in the cottonfields of the South.” He “became a representative of the Farm Workers Union and fought for the Civil Rights Movement” (all citations: “Louisiana Red” 1981). The next stop on his path of suffering was being sent to fight in Korea as a paratrooper. Music became his pressure relief valve. “His texts are aggressive, socially critical, and sometimes accusatory,” (Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro, n.d.: 1) they explained in the press portfolios. He “sings of suppression and exploitation and describes the dark side of the ‘American way of life’” (“Louisiana Red” 1981). The fact that the details of his life—expressed with such exhibitionist flare—were definitely dubious (see Justin 2008), played no role in the commercial context. Performing in 1980, 1981, and 1983, Red became a fixed star in the AFBF’s second season. Even though Lippmann and Rau’s field of influence was narrower from the outset, they continued to pursue their goal of reaching a European public in the 1980s. For the festival in 1980, they envisioned holding concerts at about two dozen West German cities as well as performances in Austria, Switzerland, France, Denmark, and Great Britain. However, advance ticket sales were extremely sluggish, forcing them to make new arrangements and cancel some dates.56 They had to pull out of agreements with the larger halls and switch to smaller spaces. At the end of March, three weeks before the start of the tour, they took a sobering look at their financial situation. Frankfurt am Main had the most sales, with 115 advance tickets sold. In Berlin, there were sixty-eight, in Munich thirty-nine, and in Hamburg only eight advance tickets sold (see Rau 03.27.1980). The month-long concert tour was deep in the red. “Despite massive advertisement”—in addition to various ads and elaborate poster posting, they put out nine LPs and a sampler with the performing L+R Records’ artists—the seventeen shows in West Germany drew just 12,000 attendees. All in all, they

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registered a loss of 100,000 DM (citation and information: Hess 1980: 29),57 in Horst Lippmann’s words, “a very big financial flop” (Lippmann 06.18.1980: 1). The press coverage was mixed, covering the entire spectrum from scathing reviews to songs of praise. While one would attest to the “technical perfection coupled with an incredible spirit of performance,” others found it “a bit irrelevant and colorless” (cited in Hess 1980: 28 and 29). Die-hard blues fans were very hard on the promoters. The musician Udo Wolff saw it as a confirmation of his “concerns about this kind of festival.” Inevitably, the “musical quality” of the “thrown-together sessions” (all citations: Wolff 1980a: 12) had fallen by the wayside. On the evening that Wolff attended the concert in Hannover, it was almost an embarrassment. “Too many breaks went wrong to be able to still call it ‘folk.’ Bob Stroger and Odie Payne looked up painfully to the ceiling a lot, as if they had lost a filling” (ibid.: 13).58 Lippmann and Rau invested enormous amounts of energy to keep the festival alive; a festival whose influence “can hardly be overestimated” (Groh 1981). Before the tour even started, they released portrait LPs and samplers to present and advertise the upcoming concert program.59 The liner notes, which were written partly in English, introduced the artists and provided the AFBF’s schedule. Radio and television programs broadcast performance clips. Their preference was to have the event held on the Rockpalast, and they attempted to organize that during the 1981 preparation. Started in 1976, the television series was produced by WDR and televised by Eurovision. It was known as the central institution presenting “handmade” pop music and “guitar rock anchored in the blues” (Rüchel 2008: 232). All-night-long live broadcasts of concerts with Rory Gallagher, Muddy Waters, the Paul Butterfield Band, Johnny Winter, ZZ Top, and Little Feat captivated an international audience. The AFBF would have greatly valued a cooperation with the station, but the WDR rejected the idea of any conventional showcasing of it, as they thought it would only be of interest to a niche audience. The editorial department said, “that a program like that would not live up to the now abundant fan base’s expectations. Because they expect up-tempo rock music, with high quality obviously, and certainly slots for ballads” (Rüchel 01.13.1981). However, the broadcaster did secure the recording rights and transmitted the AFBF separately and during Rockpalast intermissions.60 Lippmann and Rau ran a comprehensive marketing campaign. They circulated flyers and stickers, had 50,000 large format posters hung across all of West Germany in 1981, and sent out 1,075 press portfolios.61 They published full-page advertisements in corresponding trade journals, as well as in the agency’s own, complimentary jour-

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Figure 3.5. Bob Margolin, Muddy Waters, and Jerry Portnoy (left to right), Rockpalast, Grugahalle Essen, 1981 (photo by Manfred Becker).

nal Concert.62 They then scored a major coup in acquiring the electronics manufacturer Blaupunkt as their sponsor. The ad deal helped minimize their risk after the financial disaster of 1980 and enabled them to cut ticket prices by a quarter.63 Lippmann and Rau praised the company as a “Maecenas” and transferred their “patronage” over to it (Lippmann 01.23.1981).64 All printed material—from leaflets to album covers to posters to tickets—contained the following: “Blaupunkt presents American Folk Blues Festival ’81.” In return, the company was “expected” to grant them a “lump sum of 120,000 DM” (Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro 01.19.1981) plus sales tax, which was a considerable amount of sponsorship money. Doing business with Blaupunkt led to some problems for Lippmann and Rau. They themselves had repeatedly jumped on the blues purists’ bandwagon, conjuring up absurd, demonizing stereotypes. In the 1981 AFBF program brochure, they campaigned against “computers and disco,” nailing the fetish “technology” to the cross (see Lippmann and Rau 1981). But the back cover of that same brochure was emblazoned with the Blaupunkt logo, with the following printed in bold: “We have helped make it possible to hold the American Folk Blues Festival

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again in 1981. And we are also busy making sure you can hear ‘original’ blues once the concert is over: HiFi for the home and car” (American Folk Blues Festival ’81, back cover). Critics bemoaned these shady sales strategies as a betrayal, claiming that the concert office had lost an enormous amount of credibility. It was called the “Advertising Idiocy of the Year” (Karcher 1981) and a “Public Hoax” (Miller 1981: 21). Lippmann and Rau got a dubious reputation as being interested only in large profits. The esteemed journalist Manfred Miller attacked them from all sides. He reproached “the dishonesty of the principle” (Miller 1981: 20) of going peddling with the old “AFBF” trademark. In fact, according to him the festival’s remake amounted to a case of fraudulent labeling, a desperate musical revue providing none of the promised, extensive “documentation.” Miller asked pointedly why they did not just honestly call the show “The L+R Blues All Stars”: “Because that is actually what it is about in the end: organizing a promotional tour for artists whose music is released by L+R Records.” Although he wrote that there was no doubt as to the promoters’ dedication to the blues, he continued on to say, “But please: no more festival nonsense, ok?” (all citations: ibid.: 21). The insult affected them deeply. It was only printed in a small, semi-professional periodical, the Blues Forum,65 but it reached key individuals and led to “wide repercussions” (Lippmann 09.21.1981b: 1). Blaupunkt was upset at the negative reviews, which Horst Lippmann dismissed as “stupid,” “arrogant,” and “spiteful.” Their advertising partner was considering taking action. Bewildered, Lippmann informed his partner Fritz Rau about the rising displeasure. Something which had begun as a trivial issue was threatening to become a serious concern. “This just can’t happen like this,” said Lippmann, “one single killjoy’s article in a publication barely anyone reads cannot be used as a reason to stifle the ’82 festival, not when the AFBF project went so well in ’81 (for Blaupunkt too).” He put Miller’s dissonance into perspective, contrasting it with “the almost 90 percent positive, even enthusiastic reviews in journals and newspapers, and the enthusiastic audience in the mostly sold out concert halls” (all citations: Lippmann 09.21.1981a: 1).66 And indeed, it is true that the dominant reaction to the festival in the 1980s was positive. The press used superlative phrases such as “giant success” (Svacina and Svacina 1981: 6) and “wonderful evening” (Conrad 1981: 8). Witnesses to the event reported strong emotions: “The people were besides themselves with joy” (Steinike 1983). The influential newspaper Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung declared that “The festival has been rejuvenated; it is more energetic, heftier, and ethnic

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models no longer play as large a role” (Olshausen 1985). In 1985, the media’s diagnosis was still, “that in no way had interest in this downto-earth music faded” (Metzner 1985). However, there was a more distanced viewpoint that weighed heavier than the praise—and it started discussions that would shake the festival’s foundations. All five iterations of the 1980s AFBF were criticized for their uniformity. “The same names always show up on the posters,” complained fans, calling the line-up stereotypical and anemic. Instead of the real “personalities who wrote the history of the blues,” it was “predominantly imitators” (Reitz 1986). People wanted “more variety” and “fresh air” (Feldmann 1983: 11). But Lippmann and Rau’s financial framework created limitations: they were still hiring artists at the lower end of the pay scale. In 1980/81, top performers such as Louisiana Red, Hubert Sumlin, Margie Evans, and Carey Bell received a weekly salary of US$1,200, while less well-known or younger musicians earned a smaller amount.67 Their participation in an obligatory live album recording was compensated with a “one-time payment” of US$100.68 And then in 1982, remuneration began to decrease for everybody involved. Carey Bell and Louisiana Red now had to be content with only US$1,000 per week.69 In 1983, the overall daily salary total per concert was about US$1,100 (see Lippmann 04.21.1983: 2), in 1985, it was US$1,000 (see Lippmann 04.25.1985a: 2).70 The restriction of the festival to black artists remained a troubling area. Chris Strachwitz had already suggested “a mixed program” in 1969. One “could get John Mayall, Paul Butterfield, and other good white blues groups that draw large audiences, and then add in the representatives of the old blues. I believe that could make a really good concert” (Strachwitz 1969: 404). Lippmann and Rau took measures against the damage to their image by introducing some modern musical diversification, proving once again that their concept of “folk” was not stylistic, but ideological. Lurrie Bell, Margie Evans, Billy Branch, Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson, Queen Sylvia, and Cash McCall played contemporary blues; they had no reservations about jazz, rock, gospel, funk, and soul. The parade of young performers was contrasted with the “old masters,” who were supposed to be the ones to keep the sense for the music’s roots alive. They included Willie Mabon, Sunnyland Slim, Archie Edwards, Jimmy Rogers, Lovie Lee, and Hubert Sumlin. Up until the end, the organizers continued to make full use of that catchy dualism of country and city blues. Country blues was represented by performers such as Cephas & Wiggins and James “Son” Thomas, flanked by obscure artists such as Washboard Doc, Lucky & Flash, and Blind Joe Hill’s one-man band.

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The attacks experienced by Lippmann and Rau in the 1980s were more than just a reflexive reaction to their work. They demonstrate how patterns of interpretation and value had shifted at that point in time, leading to different fractions fighting over the power of definition. Any claim to sole representation, something which that concert agency had enjoyed in the 1960s, was no longer valid. Fans, independent media, labels, and small promoters all asserted their own particular concept of the blues. They staked claims, dug trenches, and began fighting their holy war. As Lippmann and Rau were always striving for efficiency, they sought out an alliance with the blues scene, embedding themselves within the fan network and hiring insiders as tour assistants, scouts, and art consultants. That was often highly problematic, leading to collisions between contrary interests, as fandom and business came continuously into conflict, as demonstrated by their attempt at collaboration with the Blues Forum. One year after Manfred Miller’s attack was published, everyone agreed to cooperate with one another. Lippmann and Rau wanted to run advertisements; the editor wanted to sell his paper at the concerts (see Gutberlet 09.17.1982) and also requested to print “a short reference to the existence of the Blues Forum” in the album cover text for the festival’s “program record” (Gutberlet 09.10.1982). It soon became clear they would be unable to resolve their issues. The Blues Forum wanted to profit from the AFBF’s publicity while maintaining a critical distance. When they received a leaked draft of the review of the 1982 festival,71 Lippmann and Rau saw that the publication’s tenor had not changed: it accused the agency of treasuring hard cash much more than artistic quality, of promoting only its own label in the end, of advertising “exclusively sensations,” and of creating a program brochure full of “base flatteries.” The author started off with, “Please, not like that, Mr. Lippmann!” (all citations: Klemme, n.d.: 1 and 2). “Deceiving yourself or others—it all looks much too much like pure marketing. Even today, the AFBF’s organization still has to have something to do with idealism” (Klemme 1982: 19–20). And he concluded with that discussion stopper argument of “everything was better in the old days.” The “older listeners,” those thinking back to the 1962–72 AFBF for example, “got that melancholic feeling of how much more intense it was back then.” In contrast, the 1982 festival “would be quickly forgotten. Mr. Lippmann, are these ‘. . . the blues artists of today . . .’? There really aren’t any more notable ones out there?” (all citations: ibid.: 20). While the cynical tone was slightly diminished in the printed version, the message remained the same. As expected, the pamphlet en-

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gendered great anger. In the paper, Fritz Rau recognized “the intense efforts on the part of die-hard blues fans to ruin the American Folk Blues Festival for our local organizers, so that sooner or later they will not take it on anymore. This is not just a negative review, it is a targeted scheme” (Rau 11.27.1982). Horst Lippmann, specifically named several times in the article, wrote a letter to Thomas Gutberlet, the editor of the Blues Forum to say he “did not have anything against objective and professional criticism, quite the contrary.” But the “slurs” seek to “attack him generally in the concert scene. Eventually, one gets the impression it seems there is a targeted campaign against the American Folk Blues Festival.” He went on to say that if the “antiLippmann-Rau” propaganda did not stop, “the envisaged collaboration between you and me would be a long time in coming” (all citations: Lippmann 12.07.1982: 1 and 2). Thomas Gutberlet countered that he did not agree, “that one had to find everything that promised colorful advertising good, and I cannot see how wanting to aspire to something better could be perceived as being anti, or as part of a ‘scheme.’” He called for mutual understanding: “The addition of even more blues sects won’t help anybody” (all citations: Gutberlet 01.13.1983: 2). While Fritz Rau still appeared “disgusted” (Rau 02.23.1983), Horst Lippmann relented, knowing there would only be losers in a David and Goliath battle. In a reconciliatory letter, he offered Thomas Gutberlet advertising space for the Blues Forum on the next AFBF sampler cover. He wrote that his gesture of goodwill “was surely in the interest of all blues fans” (Lippmann 02.07.1983). Lippmann and Rau knew no mercy when it came to any infringement upon their guaranteed rights, as demonstrated by a legal complaint filed against a blues fan. Following in the tradition of Robin Hood, he had duplicated a live 1980 AFBF radio recording72 and placed an ad in a fanzine offering to sell it “at cost” (advertisement in GBCI 44/1980: 15). Together with their business partner, Bellaphon, L+R Records obtained a temporary injunction prohibiting any further sale of the cassettes, threatening “a fine of 500,000 DM” or “imprisonment of up to six months for each infringement” (Landgericht Frankfurt am Main 06.26.1980). The defendant, a “friend of the blues with no bad intentions,” was aghast. He assured them that only two exemplars of the illegal copies had been sent and that he had thought of his initiative as an “action in support of blues musicians and music,” and had in no way planned to glean any “financial benefits” (citations and information: Donisch 07.10.1980: 2 and 1). The accused got off with a slap on the wrist and the case was closed.

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The American Folk Blues Festival in East Germany While in West Germany the AFBF gradually lost status, prestige—and money (see Schwab 2008: 141), interest remained constant in East Germany. The festival unleashed real waves of excitement there in 1964, 1966, and 1982, 1983, and 1985. There were several reasons for its ongoing success. International concerts had an aura of exclusivity about them; they were celebrated as rare, crowning events and not taken lightly. The omnipresent scarcity, which also affected the availability of records and printed materials, led to a particular sensibility and receptivity on their part. “One cannot praise the former East Germany for its obstructions,” wrote the journalist Christoph Dieckmann, “but it made music as precious as possible for us. One only loves that for which one must fight, and art deals with what is missing” (Dieckmann 1991: 11). The AFBF stood out amidst a meagre selection of international events. Popular music was never experienced in East Germany in such a concentrated way, as a festival package with exclusively American “originals.” Even after the performance quality had decreased, the audience continued to respond with thunderous applause. Western artists always had an advantage in front of an East German audience that celebrated them as the incarnation of “genuineness,” as envoys from a world of “unlimited possibilities.” Add to that the fact that, in a country sealed off with a wall and barbwire, the blues possessed a unique symbolic power and relevance. It mixed the basic melancholic notes of the everyday with defiance and rejection. Much more than just the soundtrack of a devoted community of music fans—the blues translated social conflicts into sound and action, creating a political identity composed in sound, which they were otherwise not permitted to express. That is why it had a longer half-life than elsewhere; it remained immune to new fashions and trends. Unlike in the West, where Lippmann and Rau recruited local AFBF event organizers on a purely commercial level, in East Germany they had to negotiate with the state. The media and the live sector were both controlled by the SED. They monitored art and culture in the public sphere, signed contracts, and oversaw all programs. German–German businesses required a sure instinct and a willingness to compromise. Horst Lippmann was well aware of the sensitivity of the situation and proceeded to use some tried and tested principles: he infected kindred spirits with his enthusiasm, thereby succeeding in getting local intermediaries on his side. The most important East German contact was

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Karlheinz Drechsel (*1930). As a radio anchor, emcee, and author, he was one of the most prominent jazz promoters in the socialist part of the Republic.73 Lippmann appreciated Drechsel’s abilities, calling him the “jazz and blues pope in East Germany” (Lippmann 09.21.1981b: 2). Over the decades, they maintained a friendly relationship. After having corresponded for a while, they met in person in the spring of 1964. Lippmann traveled to East Berlin to find colleagues who could act as “bridge builders” (Drechsel and Drechsel 2011: 93) and help him with his plans. Karlheinz Drechsel had set up meetings with radio representatives, the VEB Deutsche Schallplatten [state record company], and the talent agency. Those institutions had a monopoly in this area; there was no private competition—and there was no getting past official entities.74 Thanks to Drechsel’s support, Lippmann was able to convince the state’s artists’ agency to agree to an Albert Mangelsdorff Quintett tour in East Germany,75 which took place in September 1964. Mangelsdorff was a trombonist managed by Lippmann and Rau who had a bright future. At this time, Horst Lippmann presented his companions with his vision of taking the AFBF behind the Iron Curtain. Karlheinz Drechsel stood behind him in this as well. He had already suggested how one could “sell” this kind of project to official decision makers, namely as “a political event, in the best sense” (Drechsel 01.25.1964: 1). The title “American Folk Blues Festival” undoubtedly needed explanation. Drechsel remembers that, “nobody at the artists’ agency knew what to do with that name,” and that he acted almost as a guarantor: “Of course, Horst Lippmann could have provided a lot of details, but somehow it was important to the people that someone was there from their own country saying something. It was possible to come to an agreement in principle very quickly” (Drechsel and Drechsel 2011: 94 and 94–95). Financing appeared to be the only remaining problem, as East Germany was lacking in hard currency. The conditions sounded relatively fair, however, with Lippmann quoting 12,000 DM for the entire program. All travel costs were included in that sum and East German radio was accorded broadcasting rights. The offer was to hold the AFBF in East Berlin for an estimated 12,000 guests.76 Lippmann and Rau eventually relented and suggested splitting up the remuneration. “At least 3,500 DM in Western currency would have to be paid out for the performance, and export licenses and purchasing licenses would have to be issued for the rest.” Everybody would profit from this concession, for surely, alongside “the commercial success, there is also a lot of prestige gained in doing this kind of event” (information and citations: Lippmann 06.10.1964).

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The alternative option was to engage a group of five musicians who toured around different countries as an offshoot of the AFBF under the title “Big City Blues,”77 which included Howlin’ Wolf, Willie Dixon, Sunnyland Slim, Hubert Sumlin, and Clifton James. In the end, they all agreed to this scaled-down version, sparing themselves the costly foreign currency, and Lippmann and Rau were instead remunerated with non-monetary compensation. The artists went to the East Berlin Amiga Studios for Lippmann on 1 November 1964. Howlin’ Wolf was unable to take part as he was already under contract with Chess Records. An LP was recorded by the remaining quartet that the state’s entertainment label was also authorized to release.78 These recording usage rights were limited to East Germany “and all other socialist countries including Yugoslavia and Cuba.” The contract further stated: “Mr. Lippmann will receive a copy of the recording from DS to sell to the rest of the world.” The VEB Deutsche Schallplatten had to pay a sum of 7,500 East German marks for the artists’ fees and the publishing rights, no foreign currencies were used (citation and information: Vertrag zwischen den Herren Sunnyland Slim, Willie Dixon, Hubert Sumlin, Clifton James 10.31.1964: 2).79 The record was a small sensation and provided an opportunity to hear a rare constellation of musicians.80 Willie Dixon and his four colleagues performed in East Berlin, Dresden, and Potsdam in 1964. On short notice, they gave a bonus concert in Dresden the morning before the recording and then drove to Berlin. Shows were held in mid-sized halls,81 they were completely sold out and “wildly celebrated” (Neues Deutschland, 2 November 1964, 4). Karlheinz Drechsel affirmed, “People clapped their hands raw, it was a giant success” (Drechsel 2009: 403). The press expressed unanimous praise. They wrote that the artists, called “Negro musicians” (Neues Deutschland, 2 November 1964, 4) or “jazzers from Chicago,” had brought the essence of the blues to the stage. “We often only hear what seems to us like poor imitations of this music, so hearing it unaltered and in the original, that alone was a thing of joy” (all citations: “Großstadtblues vom 5. Kontinent” 1964). Two years later, on 16 October 1966, the AFBF once again traveled to East Berlin. They decided to present the entire line-up this time, scheduling it for 11 a.m. at the renown Friedrichstadt-Palast. In spite of the early hour, every last seat was filled and the building quaked with applause. Karlheinz Drechsel recollects: Lippmann could hardly believe it. The blues brought black artists to East Germany—that in itself was something special. But I do not believe one could explain the massive response as being due solely to its exoticism. Perhaps people in the East felt the music’s explosive power, the oppositional, the contra attitude, more deeply. (Drechsel 2009: 403–4)

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The Friedrichstadt-Palast concert was recorded and released on two LPs by Amiga.82 They both sold a total of 148,340 copies.83 The East German press tended to discuss the AFBF from a political perspective. It identified the blues as the “music of the other America” (see “Musik des anderen Amerika” 1966), recognizing in it a “voice of humanity aware of its upcoming victory over inhumanity” (Drechsel 1966a: 25). On the occasion of the 1964 festival, a journalist wrote, “Always on the spur of the moment, our US guests would express the feelings held by N egroes about race discrimination; they played and sang of all that is bitter and sad, but also of the humorous and happy occasions of the everyday” (“Blues aus Chikago” 1964). The 1966 festival used the song “Vietnam-Blues”84 by Junior Wells as their flagship track because it was thought to embody “the Negro ghetto inhabitants’ desire for an America without oppression and war” (“American Folk Blues” 1966). To describe it, people used words such as “protesting, accusing, demanding” and simply “moving” (Drechsel 1966a: 24 and 22). They spoke of a new self-awareness forming in the US, which “is no longer waiting for the citizen rights promised to the Negroes, but loudly demanding it—and with the blues. With his ‘Vietnam-Blues,’ Junior Wells is at the forefront of the progressive artists of the ‘other’ America” (Drechsel 1966b). As a result, the song was lifted from the concert recording and released as a single.85 That political interpretation was almost identical to the one held by West German leftists and barely differs from the orientation of Lippmann, Rau, and Kieser’s staging concept. Those patterns had a really significant influence on the East German perspective, even permeating through to choices about specific language. Karlheinz Drechsel, who moderated all of the AFBF’s performances, remembers the following: I received the information in written form from Horst Lippmann. In the announcement, I would introduce the artists and tell their stories. We were already moved by the fact that these great musicians were barely acknowledged in the US and some of them were living on the edge of poverty. And it was the same with the topic of “racism.” The song’s content also played a central role. The promoter wanted people to know what was actually being sung about. Which was actually not a bad idea at all.86

When the AFBF was reanimated in 1980, East Germany was put back on the schedule. Horst Lippmann signaled to Karlheinz Drechsel that he “would again like to enter into discussions with Amiga and the German artists’ agency,” and that he could offer high-quality acts from the L+R catalog:

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I am mostly thinking about Louisiana Red, who has produced two LPs with me that are even more socially critical than Lenoir’s “Alabama Blues”87 or Junior Wells’ “Vietnam-Blues.” I believe there would definitely be an interest in that in East Germany—that is, how in the first place Red, under my production management, became the biggest blues artist of that time in the US and everywhere. That is not what I am saying, it is what others are saying. (Lippmann 03.25.1980)

In December 1980, Lippmann wrote the artists’ agency directly, while also asking Drechsel at the same time if he could “follow up on it” (Hartmann 12.11.1980)88 for him: he wanted to hold the AFBF in East Germany again. Taking his request to the state’s record company as well, he sent a letter suggesting various financial models and expressly referring to his corresponding conversations “with my friend Karlheinz Drechsel” (Lippmann 09.22.1981a: 1). He wrote that payments in West German marks could be covered by another live LP recording and that they would consider non-monetary compensation for any remaining payment in East German currency. The co-production and licensing of recordings by East German artists for the Western market were also discussed as a mutually beneficial option. Lippmann mentioned the blues musician Stefan Diestelmann who enjoyed a cult status in East Germany and had recently released his second album:89 I would like to publish this record in West Germany, or, if the rights are already spoken for, do a new production with this group in a VEB Deutsche Schallplatte studio following the American Folk Blues Festival. What I especially like about the record is that, for me, Stefan Diestelmann is the first German-language artist who has taken the particularities of the blues in English and transformed them into German. So, if this kind of new production is possible, I would also definitely be interested in having Diestelmann and the singer Regine Dobberschütz sing their blues texts in German. (Ibid.: 2)

Even though other agreements were pursued in the end, Horst Lippmann’s basic idea had fallen on sympathetic ears. On 6 N ovember 1982, the AFBF opened in East Germany once again. This time they chose the concert hall Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach in Frankfurt/Oder, a former abbey church, as the venue. The state broadcasting company acted as the local promoter. Even in the years it did not make its way over to the East, the festival had always had its place on that station, as parts of the recordings were transmitted over the radio. In a letter dated 6 September 1982, Lippmann and Rau confirmed the terms and conditions:

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The artists will receive a payment of 4,000 West German marks and an additional sum in East German marks, which will cover the flight costs from Berlin-Schönefeld to Vienna to Berlin-Schönefeld for thirteen people,90 and a generous amount of spending money for all participants. These are net totals, and thus free from any deductions, and will be paid on the night of the concert. (Rau 09.06.1982b: 2)

They also paid for the night in an East Berlin hotel, the transport from Frankfurt/Oder, and provided the sound and lighting technology and individual instruments. The concert was presented twice, at 5 p.m. and 9 p.m., and recorded by the radio station; and they agreed that “in exchange for the broadcasting rights for the socialist countries, we will receive a copy of the band recording for our free disposal in the Western world” (ibid.).91 Amiga chose eight songs and put them out on an LP,92 for a net payment of 7,000 East German marks (see KünstlerAgentur der DDR 1983).93 They sold 54,850 LPs.94 As expected, the concert in Frankfurt/Oder was celebrated as “an unforgettable experience” (Lorenz 1982). “The mostly bearded blues community, who had traveled from afar, listened with enthusiasm” (Eik 1982: 1,502–3) and thanked the artists “with euphoric, prolonged applause for the real, deep blues feeling that emanated from the stage” (Gehl 1983: 21). Advertised as the “DT 64 Jugendkonzert”95 [DT 64 Youth Concert], the evening followed Lippmann’s stage direction meticulously. In documentary fashion, the show was didactically divided into two parts, entitled “Country Blues” and “City Blues.” The program brochure96 introduced the musicians and reserved one page for a “lexical issues” section, which contained questionable terminology and reproduced many clichés. For instance, it stated that the country playing style had its roots “in African Negro folklore” and was spread by “wandering, mostly blind folk singers.” In the list of references, one source is listed as “promotional material from the Lippmann/Rau concert office” (all citations: DT 64 Jugendkonzert 1982). The next AFBF was also presented as a “DT 64 Jugendkonzert.” The Dresden Kulturpalast raised its curtain to present the long-awaited spectacle at 5 p.m. and 9 p.m. on 14 November 1983. The show’s subtitle, “In memoriam Muddy Waters,” paid tribute to a pioneer of the genre who had died a few months earlier; the festival was held in his memory. Full of praise once again, the press gushed over the “special delicacy” (Lorenz 1983). The audience was jumping up from their seats; there “was no end to the applause—applause for a lively way of making music, within which—as in hardly any other area—art and life melt into one” (Flügge 1984). Drechsel’s stage moderation was criticism by some, however. He had reportedly expressed “sobering un-

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dercurrents concerning the artists’ social circumstances, which clearly disturbed some ‘fans’” (“Folk Blues” 1983). An East German connoisseur’s review, printed by the West Berlin magazine Blues Forum, drew critical responses. His objections would barely have been possible in the East German media: the prevailing censorship was also supposed to guarantee the continued existence of “Western concerts,” not challenge them with polemical language. Of course, as with all other reviewers, the author knew to report on how the concert hall was “raving, seething, and surging” (Freyer 1983: 27)—however, as far as he was concerned, only some parts of the show demonstrated satisfactory artistic quality. He was “terribly disappointed” by Louisiana Red, who “acted almost amateurish both musically and technically,” offering up “nothing but show.” Jimmy Rogers sat “like a grandpa on his little chair,” and Carey Bell “tooted around on his instrument relatively pitifully.” Larry Johnson was either “totally out of practice, or he didn’t really feel like playing.” Moderator Karlheinz Drechsel also came away badly: he had demonstrated himself to be “unfortunately incompetent, as always, which is why he would do better keeping to his specialty: jazz” (all citations: ibid.: 26). The article closed with a conciliatory note, “In spite of some downsides, there were enough highlights to be able to say that the AFBF ‘83 was worth it. For next year’s festival, I hope the producer Horst Lippmann finally finds the time to present us with blues artists from the other blues centers, in addition to Chicago and Mississippi” (ibid.: 27). The AFBF did another stopover in East Germany on 27 October 1985. At 11 a.m. and 4 p.m., the nine-person crew stepped onto the East Berlin Metropol Theater stage. A coproduction between DT 64 and state-owned youth television, the event was integrated into the series Hier um 11 [Here at 11]. Just like before, hundreds of ticketless blues fans crowded together in front of the hall; once again, “thunderous excitement, total consensus” and “standing ovations” (Drechsel 1986: 13) were reported. Radio and television recorded the concert, but the anticipated LP production fell through. As in 1982, “for the relinquishment of exploitation rights” (Kammel 02.24.1986), Amiga offered 7,000 East German marks net—but Lippmann and Rau demanded 2,000 West German marks (see Heinrich 04.29.1986), precisely the sum requested by the radio broadcasting company for the band recording as a “total license fee,” contrary to earlier agreements. Lippmann communicated to the artist agency, “We are very upset and disappointed by the lack of cooperation” (all citations: Gawlitta 03.10.1986). The project failed due to entrenched interests and East German blues fans came away empty-handed. In spite of the dispute,

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DT 64 was excited about the continuation of the festival series (see Bartel 11.08.1985). That would never come to be, however—the AFBF was now a part of history.

Blues Discourses: Topoi, Interpretive Models, and Clichés N ot only did the AFBF bring the blues into the spotlight, it also encouraged its ideologization. Once ensnared within the elite circles of jazz exegesis, the doctrine took the feature pages by storm, blossoming anew as it developed into a common good. All of those discussions can be reduced to the main category of “authenticity.” Whether in aesthetic, social, or political terms—the blues was considered an art that needed no disguise, that expressed “things” directly. In the blues, its devotees recognized the sound of existence. Or as Willie Dixon dramatically expressed it, “The blues comes from your life; if you have got a life then already you have the blues.”97 The AFBF began the process of assimilating a music genre many Europeans had experienced as foreign and exotic. In the beginning, there was a kind of tense distance, which was clear to see based on the show’s concept. Critics objected to the sterile atmosphere of the concert hall, saying it tore the blues out of its “living environment” and “flattened out” the nuanced undertones (“American Folk Blues Festival ’66” 1966). Journalist and eyewitness Konrad Heidkamp wrote in retrospect, “It had that museum-like aura that blows apart any commendable documentation wishing to record and preserve that which is systematically ploughed and levelled by the white civilization with the goal of sowing its own ideology” (Heidkamp 2008: 159). Chris Strachwitz, who was only too aware of the inherent circumstances thought it would be risky “to present real folk music on the stage. It is just not the right framework.” For, “most of the musicians don’t understand what role they are playing here, and they do not conform in any way to a formal concert performance.” They “need a certain amount of spurring on by the audience. It’s only then that they play really well. If the audience doesn’t really participate—and many feel inhibited in the concert hall—they don’t have enough practice with that, so they are not used to coming out of their shell without that contact” (all citations: Strachwitz 1969: 404). Charles Keil handed down a scathing verdict. The American ethnomusicologist and anthropologist derided Lippmann and Rau as archaeologists and downgraded the 1964 festival to a “third-rate minstrel show. The same show presented to a Negro audience in Chicago

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(assuming they could be enticed into watching a parade of invalids in the first place) would be received with hoots of derision, catcalls, and laughter.” In London however, where Keil had experienced the concert, the auditorium was filled with “awed silence.” And “the more ludicrous the performance, the more thunderous the applause at its conclusion” (all citations: Keil 1970: 37). Charles Keil’s damning review appeared in Urban Blues, published in 1966. This influential monograph, still controversial today, was conceived of as an analysis and political manifesto protesting against the subjugation of African Americans in the US (see Keil 1991, Postscripts: 226).98 Keil’s view of the AFBF was canceled out by that of Bob Groom. His voice had particular weight, as it belonged to a contemporary and an insider—he had put out the British magazine Blues World since 1965. In his study The Blues Revival, Groom rejected Keil’s slander as “bitter and unjustified”: He implied that most of the bluesmen who had appeared on it [the AFBF] at the time of his writing had been old, infirm and musically incapable, a criticism very far from the truth. In reality, all the performers who have taken part in the FBF99 have been in full possession of their musical faculties, and there has been considerable variety in the composition of each festival, with no emphasis on any particular style or generation. Old and new blues cannot be compared, only contrasted, and the blues festivals have served to present a wide spectrum of blues for the enlightenment and entertainment of all concerned, audience and performers. This, and their presentation on stage of artists whom most blues lovers would not otherwise have an opportunity to see, is their justification—if justification be needed for such a vital part of the blues scene. (Groom 1971: 86–87)

Baldur Bockhoff wrote an attack similar to that of Charles Keil, which was printed in the conservative Protestant weekly paper Christ und Welt at the end of 1964. The writer, a journalist and amateur musician, was scornful: The antics and gimmicks on show at the Folk Blues Festival, all of the helpless prattling and babbling, they all belong in the archive. Some of those musicians, showered with laurels by the German pontiffs of jazz, can’t even find the one, the two, the three, and the four, nor do they know in which key to play. The concert was admittedly interesting sociologically speaking: for those funny characters who gathered on the stage made the show worth seeing—but they also made it into a cabinet of curiosities. But, as is well known, managers stop at nothing. They even sent the mentally ill Bud Powell onto the stage years ago. The Folk Blues Festival was played to sold-out houses, the critics were falling over each

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other, and some of the rare living curiosities were accepting wages that would even have been refused by a Dixieland amateur. That’s what the downside of idealism looks like. (Bockhoff 1964: 17)

The affront evoked a prominent retaliatory response. Joachim-Ernst Berendt, who the press had flattered as the “pontiff of jazz” and who considered himself to have been unashamedly targeted by Bockhoff, identified his acts as the “precise realization of the crime of ‘libel’” (“Macht der Jazz uns doch frei?” 1965). Jazz avant-gardist Albert Mangelsdorff defended Lippmann and Rau’s pioneering work. He attested to the concert agency’s absolute “sense of responsibility and seriousness” and underscored “that there had never been such an exemplary and earnest documentation of a folk music in a concert hall” as with the AFBF (Mangelsdorff 1965). Baldur Bockhoff was not the only one to strike such a polemic blow. Aesthetes, nostalgists, and above all, the “jazz police” mocked the show’s entertainment format; they wanted “pure” music. They accused Howlin’ Wolf of “playing the wild man” (Zimmerle 1964: 299) and of bathing “in erotic brutality” (Burkhardt 1964). They admonished Sugar Pie DeSanto’s nightclub chic and mused on the “fashionable wavy hair” (“American Folk Blues Festival ’66” 1966) of Otis Rush and Junior Wells. Buddy Guy, who was “using his guitar like a machine gun,” (Oliver 1965: 19) was criticized for his flamboyant dance steps and for covering James Brown. In regards to T-Bone Walker, “a characteristic representative” of the “cabaret-like blues performance style,” (Zimmerle 1962a) the promoters were advised “to encourage him to maintain more restrained facial expressions” (Burkhardt 1962). At the same time, Lippmann and Rau had already asked their clients to refrain from acrobatic interludes as a precaution. In any case, they were considered taboo on the television, as Günther Kieser remembers, “It was embarrassing to us, which in retrospect I don’t think was right, because we, with our all too white selves, interfered. We wanted these musicians to be accepted and not to once again make them into Negroes doing funny things and embarrassing themselves” (cited in Schwab 2008: 139). Feigning outrage, voyeurs spread reports about the excessive use of alcohol behind the scenes. As someone commented smugly, you could easily “fall over the empty bottles” in the dark (Burkhardt 1962). And what happened during the ferry ride from Denmark, as a result of “the transition to Europe’s clear liquors,” (Burkhardt 1964) was left to the reader’s imagination. A picture was published in Jazz Podium that made it much more obvious: it showed an indisposed Shakey Jake face-down on the tabletop in an apparent

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drunken stupor, with the disrespectful caption: “Lying in the Blues” (illustration in Zimmerle 1962a). In its early phase, the AFBF was characterized by a purist approach, rooted in the fixed parameters defined by jazz theoreticians and the premises of the folk revival. They saw the blues as the mother soil, as the nutrient-rich, stable foundation. Festival advertisements even claimed it was “the only real folk art to have come out of the 20th century” (Lippmann 09.27.1962: 1). In the beginning, the most important blues propagandist was Joachim-Ernst Berendt (1922–2000). His vision had a decisive influence on the ideological design of the AFBF. Berendt had committed himself to his work as an extremely driven and productive publicist and media expert for African American music. After the war, he was one of the founders of the SWF and led the jazz department there.100 In 1953, he put out the first edition of his much-read Jazzbuch.101 It only briefly mentioned the blues, characterizing it as a form-providing “power source” (Berendt 1953: 105). Four years later, Joachim-Ernst Berendt presented a special, short monography comprised of 123 pages, simple entitled Blues. The publishing information revealingly listed Günter Boas in the section for “musical collaboration”—in first position, before three other names. With his 1957 publication, Berendt exited the one-way street of interpretation that claims the blues was only intended as an evolutionary aid, opining that, “it will exist as long as there is jazz” (Berendt 1955). At the turn of the twentieth century, according to corrective trends, “the development of the blues branched off into two separate lines: a folkloric one and one that led to jazz. Or, put in another way: the blues became jazz, but the blues folksong also continued to exist independent of that” (Berendt 1957: 26). Berendt’s book combined original and translated song texts, partial scores, and an introductory essay meant to set hermeneutic and ideological standards. His definition emphasized the “sociological determination” of the blues and characterized it as “the music of a rural and later urban proletariat that is faring badly” (ibid.: 13). The author summed up the “racial” component with a slogan: “‘A white song—black’: that is—expressed in simplistic terms— the blues” (ibid.: 11). That statement, meant to capture the blending of different music traditions, ignited criticism. Janheinz Jahn, art historian, theater scholar, and Arabist, submitted his vehement veto in 1958. His book Muntu deals with philosophical and cognitive concepts in African and African American cultures, granting an entire chapter to the “for the most part fully misinterpreted blues” (Jahn 1958: 225). He wrote that Berendt’s statement was “a widespread opinion,” (ibid.) which dis-

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torted power relations and assumed inaccurate forming principles. Jahn pointed to the jazz researcher Alfons Michael Dauer’s work: “The blues formula is not what actually marks something as the blues—it is the Bluesstimmenablauf [blues voice sequence], which is founded on African antiphony” (ibid.). And with that, Dauer corrected the conventional interpretive pattern, relocating harmonic norms to the area of “fundamentals” without which the “entire structure would fall.” The “actual creative element of the blues” was observed by Dauer “exclusively in melodic events: it is the schema for the invention of the blues voice, the Bluesstimmenablauf” (Dauer 1958: 73). As a media man, Joachim-Ernst Berendt knew how to bring his message to the people—a message made more compatible with mainstream clichés—and so his writings had a broader impact in West Germany than those of Jahn and Dauer, although their work represented the actual state of research at the time. Of course, their publications were not entirely free of mistakes and risky prognoses either. Jahn’s political disputes, directed against colonialism in word and deed, often came under fire as being speculation based on an ideal type and empirically thin once tested. And Dauer’s division of “contemporary blues” into the categories “post classical,” “decadent,” and “artificial” (Dauer 1958: 85–87), originally introduced by jazz purist Rudi Blesh (see Blesh 1946: 112–14), seems—at least from an historical perspective—controvertible. Nevertheless, both researchers led the way toward a worthy path of study, with new scholarly focus and a targeted criticism of Western myths, such as “the ‘melancholic’ blues fairy tale” (Jahn 1958: 227) and “maudlin romanticization” (Dauer 1958: 78) of African Americans. Later, after the AFBF was already running at full speed, Jahn and Dauer supported their theses with a collaborative publication, Blues und Work Songs. The work pursued the lines of tradition around African poetry, reflecting on the connection between “improvisation and rule adherence” (Jahn 1964: 12), the laws of musical tectonics, the rhythm and the function of instrumental accompaniment (see Dauer 1964). They concluded that “the blues is the consummate form of African American folk art” (Dauer 1964: 36), which had also begun to fascinate a youth public in Europe. “The blues has become fashionable,” without adequate expert understanding, they claimed. “Misjudgments, once made, are spread around like hard currency” (Jahn 1964: 5), the study’s authors complained. In 1962, at the start of the AFBF, Joachim-Ernst Berendt released a collection of blues lyrics, accommodating the burgeoning boom at the time. “The blues renaissance is magnificent” (Berendt 1962a: 108), rejoiced Berendt, while commenting on the flipside that:

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Brownie McGhee and Sonny Terry are clear examples of the blues renaissance’s “weak links.” This important blues team from the South has started working with only nice, amusing songs, which in the end leads to people getting entertained by the misery of black inmates in Angola Prison. Now, of course, there were always happy blues songs, but it is striking that the happy and parodying side of the blues has come abruptly to the foreground. The songs of the new blues wave have accomplished something “youth-animating”: everybody must be able to sing along, and everything must be done in a way so that nobody can say anything against it. (ibid.)

And Berendt reminded them that, “People tried tapping into a larger public for the blues once. That’s what became rock ‘n’ roll” (ibid.: 109). The 1962 brochure presented a hierarchical model precisely reflected in the AFBF’s musical concept. Opposed to any attempts at periodization that would favor a linear succession of styles, Joachim-Ernst Berendt suggested: . . . thinking of folk blues as the literal “main stream”: It has been flowing with consistent force and permanence since its inception—even before there was jazz—through the plantations and villages of the South, through the prison gangs and penitentiaries, and up to the current blues capital of Chicago. All of the other blues styles are tributaries that have left the main stream at some point, but which will flow back again, if they haven’t already trickled away into shallow ground. (Ibid.: 110–11)

Berendt’s theories were criticized time and again. His fiercest opponents accused him of being a lightweight who “would even fail an introductory course in music.” “He is neither capable of distinguishing beat, tempo, meter, and rhythm from one another, nor of differentiating between an interval and a chord” (Baldur Bockhoff in “Macht der Jazz uns doch frei?” 1965). But it was the sociological angle that interested Joachim-Ernst Berendt. He traveled the world to study local conditions. As early as 1950, he made a pilgrimage to the “cradle of jazz” in the American South. On Bourbon Street in New Orleans, “an unusually guttural voice, with slow, sad piano music” reached down to him through an open window. It struck the German man to his core: “That was the greatest blues singing I had ever heard.” All attempts to learn the name of the artist came to nothing—nobody knew him. “It was like a symbol for the anonymity of great art in close proximity to its origins” (Berendt 1951: 4). Ten years later, Berendt encountered the blues in metropolises such as Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, and Memphis, as well as in Louisiana’s Angola State Prison, which he visited, as did all major field researchers.

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Thanks to his high-ranking positions and all-encompassing media presence, Joachim-Ernst Berendt attained a power of definition unparalleled in Germany. He was well aware of the fine balance in art interpretation. Early on, he warned that, “As soon as any great music is linked to an ideology, it automatically withdraws behind that ideology” (Berendt 1956: 106). He himself had often turned a deaf ear to this insight, systematically building up a monopoly position, for which he has often been condemned. But perhaps his groundbreaking and controversial role will now be justified within its historical context: as an advocate for the blues, jazz, and world music, he defied the obstacles of his time. “Berendt was the right man in the right place at the right time”; not only did he understand the music, he understood the structures within which they could thrive (see Knauer 2009: 237). Joachim-Ernst Berendt had to defend himself against opponents on the inside and the outside. Feuds ignited around the interpretation of jazz and blues that occasionally had nothing to do with the “thing” itself. The debates often obscured what were actually battles over resource allocations; they fought about careers, control, and money. And those motivations functioned as leverage; the effect of which can hardly be overestimated. Berendt had some serious competition in Siegfried Schmidt-Joos (*1936). He too was a media virtuoso and knew how to play in all registers, not to mention being a highly professional journalist and no pedant.102 Just like his colleague, SchmidtJoos acquired knowledge about his subject matter on location in the US. In contrast to his “role model,”103 however, he was also interested in the alleged dark sides of “mass culture” and provided well-founded insights into the sphere of the musical, in regards to schlager, rock, and pop. He worked based on the principle of plurality. In a 1963 review of the AFBF, he opined against clichés he considered fatal, such as “the act of putting down every species of blues as some form of archaicanonymous folklore” (Schmidt-Joos 1963: 41), and swore to “the multidimensionality of the blues world.” This music resembled “those carved, Chinese dolls that you open up only to find even more dolls inside their body, down to the size of an apple seed; and every doll has a different face” (all citations: ibid.: 40). Siegfried Schmidt-Joos, who had attended Adorno and Horkheimer lectures as a cultural studies student, was concerned with the industrial foundations for the existence of popular music early on. It therefore does not come as a surprise that his work with the blues was also critical of the consumer society. In 1959, he asked the question, “Is the blues commercial?” in the Jazz Podium. That article was based on the observation “that we are living in a real third blues wave, which has

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the scope of the blues wave during the early jazz era at the end of the last century, and of the 1920s with Bessie Smith.” The author wanted to know: “Is there this blues wave because playing the blues is a business, or is the blues selling well because we are having a blues wave?!” (all citations: Schmidt 1959: 171). Schmidt-Joos asked his journalist colleagues for their opinion and cited their responses. He evaluated the arguments, both for and against, drew comparisons to schlager and to rock ‘n’ roll, but came to no definitive conclusion. He knew it was impossible to make schematic judgments about “marketability,” and that upon closer inspection, using “commerciality” as the distinguishing criterion would become “increasingly questionable, especially as a concept of value.” That “seems to justify the idea that we need to adjust our standards” (all citations: ibid.: 173). This was a revolutionary declaration, as it upended established traditionalist principles. Moreover, it touched on the dogma of “authenticity,” without even once using that emotive word, and unmasked the ambiguity of that base category. In the process, the twenty-three-year-old rejected all artifice—he factored modern R&B into the calculation just as he did the “classic, golden” 1920s. It was less about the factor of economic success, and more about the genre’s social relevance. And in those terms, the blues was still the frontrunner. In the case of schlager, that mass market class of German popular music, Schmidt-Joos saw a lack of such immediacy. It was much more about delivering a “plastic feeling from the assembly line” and engaging in “overexploitation of the soul” (Schmidt-Joos 1960: 11 and 158).104 On the other hand, the blues “tells it like it is. There is no run and hide,” he explained as the moderator of the 1967 AFBF television recording. “Young people all over the world turn away from the cheesy world of pop music looking for their own form of expression. They found it in the blues of American black people.”105 Despite the occasional polemics, Schmidt-Joos was basically advocating for the peaceful coexistence of visibly expanding musical trends. However, harder battle lines were drawn by the press, defending the value conservatism of the “folk song,” identifying the blues “as the standard” (Hudtwalcker 1964) and as a corrective force. In their eyes, the music symbolized a pre-modern “ideal world” not yet corrupted by greed and money— and therefore campaigned militantly against the “excesses” of the culture industry. They saw the blues as the counterpoint to the lascivious hip-swinging and “hideous form of rock ‘n’ roll,”106 that “barbarism” (Rosenberg 1961), which is nourished “by the general public’s inevitable bad taste” (Bruynoghe 1957: 170). Similar tirades were later directed at soul, beat music, and funk.

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In large part, the media succumbed to the cliché’s pretty packaging, which was indeed much more marketable than any sober analysis. One of the ineradicable stereotypes was the suffering motif. As in other parts of the world, the blues was interpreted as the cry of the oppressed soul, as the symbol of marginalization and the uprooting of people. “For blues singers, the basic state in which they live,” wrote Joachim-Ernst Berendt, could be described in two words: “unrest and insecurity.” They lived their entire lives “on the road” (Berendt 1963c). It was said that poverty was their companion from childhood until death, with the AFBF and the press repeatedly emphasizing how unkind fate had been to them. One staggering, and yet “so typical” (Berendt 1970, n.p.) example, was the biography of John Henry Barbee, who was one of the 1964 festival performers. In the program brochure, Lippmann described his life as “one unique dramatic blues itself.” Barbee “toured the entire South as a street and field singer” until he met “Mr. Charlie,” a “white man” who “had thrown an eye on Barbee’s girl. All the begging to give her up did not help.” It came to blows, and the musician pulled out a gun and shot his rival—who “was only lightly wounded and soon recovered.” John Henry Barbee “fled, jumped into a river and was never seen again.” Since he thought he had killed the white man, he lived “in hide-aways and sang for children in backyards” for twenty-five years. Until he was “re-discovered” by Willie Dixon (all citations: Lippmann 1964). However, even his performance at the AFBF was overshadowed by bad luck. Due to failing health, he had to cut the trip short and return to the US. Joachim-Ernst Berendt continued to spin the tale: Barbee was happy to fly off because he knew that he would finally have enough money for medical treatment after his successful blues tour. For years, he had been unable to afford a doctor despite being gravely ill with cancer. Just one day after his arrival in the US, Barbee was discharged from the hospital: a hopeless case. As his money was useless at the hospital, he took it to a car dealer. He bought a beautiful car, gleaming with chrome. But he did not have a driver’s license. And he had never sat behind a steering wheel before. (Berendt 1970, n.p.)

The catastrophe took its course. “John Henry Barbee just wanted a car: a symbol that he, the poor, sick blues singer from Tennessee, had ‘made it.’ He proudly raced off. He then ran over somebody, went to jail, and died there the next day” (ibid.). There was no doubt in Joachim-Ernst Berendt’s opinion that a man like Barbee, “didn’t just sing the blues. He lived the blues. The lives of the great blues singers are the most adventurous, moving, and dark

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that one could imagine” (ibid.). Because they possessed a particular, special sense of reality, their art was universal. It was founded in the experience of hard work, the fight for existence. Sparing any further commentary, the 1969 AFBF television production added the following captions to John Jackson’s performance: “guitar and banjo player, singer, farmer, blacksmith, janitor, gravedigger.”107 Those kinds of musicians could sing about anything and everything: “prison gangs and alcohol distilleries, dive bars, women, railway lines, roads, bus routes, illness, workcamps, about tuberculosis and drugs, about peaches and whiskey and President Roosevelt,” as summarized by Berendt about Big Joe Williams (Berendt 1963b). They held unprecedented authority and demonstrated unparalleled social skills. Their songs had a cathartic effect, gave strength to their listeners, and went beyond introspective contemplation. And hidden beneath the surface was a political core. The media and biased specialist literature were quite happy to focus on this aspect; it was more important to them than the moment of entertaining. They argued that the blues was the sedimentation of the experience of an oppressed race, which had been genetically embedded since the first slave ships landed on N orth American shores. The slaveholding society robbed the creators of this music of every freedom, forcing them to mask themselves. The blues was the “only possible release” (Weckelmann 1965). It used individual images to express the feelings of a suffering community. “And rebellion was always inherent to it—even if indirectly,” Janheinz Jahn insisted. “Melancholy is the camouflage, in their lament is concealed protest” (Jahn 1958: 227). Or, as expressed by Hugues Panassié, “The blues is an indictment, a cry of rebellion issued from the soul of the black person, first because of slavery, then due to the oppression that continued to burden the black race after its abolition” (Panassié 1962: 11). Seen in that way, whether this discontent was clearly articulated in the spirit of the civil rights movement or hidden between the lines through allegories and “double talk,” the blues was a medium of political protest. According to Alfons Michael Dauer, that kind of interpretation is misleading and says more about the observer than the actual people experiencing it. He doubted “the image of the poor slaves,” “singing longingly of their lost freedom” (Dauer 1961: 47), claiming it was “a delusional image with black skin but a white soul underneath,” simply a “romanticization” (ibid.: 48 and 49). In his view, white people shape the blues, which in fact possesses many more differentiated cultural dimensions, according to their own ways of thinking and interests. And according to those ways, black people are not peers; they are exotic creatures. This kind of “attitude,” Dauer writes, “is based on the

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idea of a ‘noble savage’” (ibid.: 48), who must defer to European standards. Critical questions about the reception and presentation of the AFBF demonstrated that his criticism had hit its mark. Oscar Peterson, the classically trained, African American jazz pianist accused Lippmann and Rau of engaging in “Uncle Tom politics,” because they “put archaic guys like Big Joe Williams on stage” (“Blues before Sunrise” 2009: 398). Peterson was ashamed of the cliché of singing illiterates, saying, “That isn’t even music” (cited in Brigl and Schmidt-Joos 1985: 133). In reference to the early festival years, John Lee Hooker’s biographer Shaar Murray declared that, “By any standards, it was a serious culture shock for all concerned” (Murray 2011: 313). In the dignified atmosphere of a concert hall bedecked with gold leaf, two worlds crashed into each other—and it was not uncommon for members of the high culture to make claim to their home property rights. In their highbrow arrogance, they reduced the artists to “superbly broken, lovably warped oddballs” (Burkhardt 1964). The aloof specialized press warned of “fashionistas in the jazz business” and snobby concert attendees: “They are going to the blues concert like going to a zoo or to the Natural History Museum” (Zimmerle 1963: 232). Many reports bear witness to that fact. Howlin’ Wolf was described as an untamable beast, which surely suited him: “Asked her for water, she brought me gasoline . . . ,” the most harmless question out of his mouth always seemed to get an answer that put him into a rage, yes, even the most harmless question would make him terrifyingly agitated. The listener must not have even begun to understand, there were already beads of sweat on his forehead despite the cold draft; they poured down his face, soaking him and causing visual distortion. One still showed admiration for such an enormous actor, but one did have a guilty conscience, wondering whether it wasn’t martyrdom. (“Sofa des Psychoanalytikers” 1964)

What is expressed here and in numerous other utterances, was the more or less subtle discrimination against African American music and its creators, which rumbled on after the end of National Socialism. West Germany had failed to consistently combat all forms of racism (see, for example, Bielefeld 1998); therefore, cultural differences often continued to be evaluated based on ideological perspectives.108 Although they rarely had negative connotations, the music press also pushed through some absurd, othering images that twisted the facts and asserted concepts of biological lunacy. For instance, one assumption was that “music gladdens the Negro’s heart” (Schomburgk 1947),

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or that the “turgid shape of the lips, which every white singer envies” was the reason for the “indescribable, voluminous, and appealing tone color” (Winckel 1948). In a “dispute about the true jazz,” the publisher of the West German journal Jazz Tempo, remarked: The N egro, especially the inhabitants of the American South, has suffered little ill effects from the soul-destroying civilization. It is not the intellect that plays the main role in his case, it anyway, it is emotion. Rich, unadulterated emotion courses through us with the original jazz forms. Here we find what we are missing. (Ebel 1951: 7)

The contemporary pedagogical theory played an inglorious role. They lent a pseudo-academic voice to the Philistines’ rejection of the “cultural slime” (cited in Hoffmann 2000: 289), which was African American music in their opinion, thus quietly making Nazi attitudes socially acceptable again. Wilhelm Twittenhoff’s 1953 book Jugend und Jazz is a prime example. The educator and director of a youth music school in Dortmund characterized jazz, which, as the primary discipline of “black” music, included the blues, as a conglomerate from “the jungle and the city,” as the result of the interaction “between the N egro’s vitality and the white’s intellect” (Twittenhoff 1953: 11 and 27). According to Twittenhoff, “We are probably in agreement with staunch opponents of jazz, that this music represents a breach into the magical, the Dionysian, indeed into the chaos of the underground, as has never happened with such intensity during the entire history of occidental music” (ibid.: 111). In his opinion, the “vigorous libidinal” components “create the actual source of danger” (ibid.: 118) with jazz, “which has clearly arisen from the ‘underworld’ where it resides to this day” (ibid.: 25). The author dedicated only a few platitudes to the blues, saying the genre was once a source of jazz, which had, however, been “completely absorbed” (ibid.: 87) by it. He wrote that the blues is the song “of twilight, grief and gloom,” from which “the soul of the Negro directly speaks” (ibid.: 81). While Wilhelm Twittenhoff and his brothers blatantly sought to discredit the genre, misusing the sound as a foil for their conservative moral values, the “protectors and importers of the blues” (Siegfried 2006: 372) had the opposite motivation—even though their idealization was tinted with racism. As recognized by the historian Detlef Siegfried, the stereotypes were used by them: to create a positive resonance chamber in the public space: black people stood for originality, emotionality, and physicality; the blues was considered the purest form of African American music, which has been main-

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tained within the milieu of the marginalized, beyond all the popular or esoteric forgeries, and which is now to be set free. (Ibid.)

That argumentation remained questionable, however. Against better judgment, it drew on interpretational patterns that were not a hundred percent correct and fair, but which got people’s attention. Lippmann and Rau, Berendt, and all the others chose their methods based on the principle of success. There were plenty of critical, opposing voices— but they were heard all too rarely.

Notes 1. Murray 2011: 313. 2. On the history and effects of the AFBF, see, for example, Schwab 2008; Adelt 2010: 78–97. 3. The event “First Time I Met the Blues” was held in Eisenach from 30 August to 1 September 2002 to pay homage to “40 Years of American Folk Blues Festival 1962–2002.” Among the performers were Hubert Sumlin, Carey Bell, Bob Stroger, Louisiana Red, and Colin Hodgkinson. 4. Fritz Rau (1930–2013) also completed a law degree parallel to his early activities in the concert business. 5. This is the original English citation; Berendt clearly meant: “The blues is alive.” 6. For the AFBF’s origin story from Berendt’s viewpoint, see also Lippmann, Berendt, and Schmidt-Joos 1962: 181. 7. This version matches Horst Lippmann’s recollections (see Dixon and Snowden 1990: 126). However, in another section he writes, “the idea of holding a blues festival came from Joachim-Ernst Berendt” (Lippmann 1963a: 4). Siegfried Loch also considers Berendt to have been the originator of the AFBF (see Loch 2010: 36). 8. It was indeed painful for Günter Boas not to be entrusted with an official function at the AFBF, to be left to disappear into the background (see Liniger 2006: 20). Boas did appear occasionally on the sidelines. For example, he profiled Victoria Spivey for the 1963 program brochure (see American Folk Blues Festival 1963) and introduced the shows in Düsseldorf and Iserlohn in 1965. The latter ended in an informal party, “The atmosphere was at its thickest around midnight, in the Iserlohn Hot Club cellar. That’s when the whisky bottles were passed around, Günter Boas sat at the piano, the guitarist Lonesome Jimmy Lee was on bass, and the corpulent singer Big Mama Thornton played the drums” (Düdder 1965). 9. The first edition was presented on 11 January 1955. Forty years later, Joachim-Ernst Berendt appraised Jazz—gehört und gesehen as “the most award-winning television show ever” (Berendt 1995: 87). 10. In cooperation with his colleague Hans Michel until the mid 1960s. 11. From 1963 to 1966, Siegfried Loch produced the AFBF albums for Philips; Siegfried Schmidt-Joos worked at Radio Bremen.

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12. Chris Strachwitz was the proprietor of Arhoolie Records, Leonard Kunstadt and Victoria Spivey ran Spivey Records. 13. Horst Lippmann on Willie Dixon (cited in Dixon and Snowden 1990: 127). 14. A majority of the AFBF posters is depicted in Museum für Kunsthandwerk 1995. 15. Based on the German DIN 476 standard for paper sizes: DIN A0 is the maximum size in that format: 33.1 in × 46.8 in. 16. DIN A1: 23.4 in × 33.1 in. 17. The television production also began with this song. They superimposed the German translation of the lyrics (see Berendt 1965: 1). 18. The lyrics were printed in the brochure (with mistakes), including a fullpage photo that showed three white policemen wrestling a black man to the ground (see American Folk Blues Festival 65). 19. Starting in 1967, stations other than the SWF began broadcasting the AFBF, including the WDR. 20. Horst Lippmann became the director of the SWF series Jazz—gehört und gesehen in 1959. He regularly advertised for the AFBF on the radio show Jazz Club. See, for example, the 1962 and 1965 specials (Lippmann 09.27.1962; Lippmann 10.21.1965). 21. See the track “The Blues Ain’t N othin’ But a Woman” on the DVD The American Folk Blues Festival 1962–1969, Volume Three, Reelin’ in the Years Productions, L. L. C., 0602498628980, USA 2004. 22. The combo was founded in 1956 and, starting in about 1960, had a “real” African American singer who was stationed in Wiesbaden: Reverend James W. Parks. 23. See the chapter “American Folk Blues Festival 1969” on the DVD The Famous Lippmann + Rau Festivals 1965–69, Volume 3: Legends of the American Folk Blues Festivals, Tropical Music 68.364, BRD 2008. 24. Even contemporaries countered the altruism myth, “What’s being played up as a relief operation is nothing more than a normal, for profit business operation” (“Macht der Jazz uns doch frei?” 1965). 25. The specific remuneration was based on the particular artist’s “market value.” According to Berendt, “The worst-paid blues festival musician was still making 3,800 DM per month” (“Macht der Jazz uns doch frei?” 1965). 26. The absolute numbers cited here, and in the following, can only suggest the basic dimensions and trends. Any more precise interpretation would require further knowledge: entry costs, incidental expenses, taxes, commissions, copyright costs, etc. The high external value of the US dollar should also be taken into consideration. The currency rate at the time was about 1:4. 27. Later, Lippmann even claimed that Willie Dixon had told him, “that the Chess brothers hired a man to kill me”—just because he had vehemently campaigned for Williamson’s rights (Lippmann 10.14.1981: 1). 28. N o brochure was printed for the 1962 AFBF, only a flyer. The tour was extensively advertised in the youth magazine twen. 29. Sublabels of the Deutsche Grammophon Gesellschaft and Philips, respectively.

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30. The 1969 AFBF was the first festival production for Scout. 31. The 1962 LP was rewarded belatedly together with the 1963 sampler. 32. Around 100,000 exemplars were printed for each edition (see Koetzle 1997a: 35). 33. The record series was assembled and designed by the editorial department, while Philips was responsible for the technical realization. The LPs were only available through the magazine twen for 17 DM a piece (see Joppig 1997: 142). 34. Paul Oliver argued that Lippmann and Rau were going against the trend with their AFBF. After the first wave of African American blues performances in Europe, a certain stagnation set in toward the end of the 1950s (see Oliver 2012: 30–31). 35. The Croatian jazz musician Davor Kajfeš was hired as an additional piano accompanist. He was not individually mentioned in the advertising. 36. All citations: Chapter: “American Folk Blues Festival 1968” on the DVD The Famous Lippmann + Rau Festivals 1965–69, Volume 3: Legends of the American Folk Blues Festivals, Tropical Music 68.364, BRD 2008. 37. See the chapter, “American Folk Blues Festival 1967,” ibid. 38. Chapter, “American Folk Blues Festival 1968,” ibid. 39. Reporting on B.B. King’s first German tour, organized by Lippmann + Rau in January 1968, is revealing. During the concert in Karlsruhe, the reviewer observed a group of youth clapping for a particularly long time: “The boys looked as though they usually listened to hippie music, not the blues” (Miller 1968a). 40. He was also the tour’s road manager. 41. The price was for the week and included the commission (see Dixon 12.05.1964: 2). 42. Price per week (see Strachwitz 02.20.1965). Thornton also asked for an airline ticket for her manager who wanted to accompany her, which the agency only agreed to compensate in part (see Rau 03.04.1965: 1). 43. Price per week, plus transportation, food, and lodging (see Waltzer 02.25.1965). 44. As the 1972 spring and fall concerts included different artists, they are sometimes listed as AFBF ten and eleven. 45. For instance, in November 1966 a splinter group went on their own tour directly after the AFBF. The supplement was called Alabama Blues. Similar, separate mini-festivals were also common in other years. In addition to that, there were extensive concert tours with front figures, often accompanied by their colleagues local to the area. 46. This text is obviously referring to Giorgio Gomelsky. The passage cited here comes from a section with the following title: “The blues is the most powerful musical influence of our century.” 47. The program was held there twice in succession. According to him, Giorgio Gomelsky got twenty tickets for the concerts and handed them out to young blues musicians in London, among them the Rolling Stones (see Dixon and Snowden 1990: 134). Despite the fact that the hall was only two-thirds full, the jazz press praised the event, calling it a “delightful revelation” (see Lambert 1962).

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48. The American Negro Blues Festival, which was the British name, was held four times in 1963 in the Fairfield Hall in the London suburb of Croydon, as well as in Manchester and Birmingham. The tickets for the first two shows in Croydon were sold out within a week, which is why they scheduled additional dates (see National Jazz Federation 10.08.1963). 49. All in all, there was a great deal of fluctuation in audience interest. In 1965, the AFBF suffered a major decline. The British event spaces were only half full, which was chalked up to extremely inadequate promotion (see Oliver 1965: 18). With nine stops in England, Ireland, and Scotland, the tour turned out to be too extensive. Only in London did they have four stagings of the event. 50. Lippmann and Rau held their own American Blues + Gospel Festival in 1970, which could be seen in Great Britain as well. 51. As early as in 1960, George Wein invited Muddy Waters to the Newport Jazz Festival; it was reported that the audience was “going absolutely crazy” (Aldin 2001: 5) during his performance. 52. Horst Lippmann denied this allegation. He claimed he had read the contract out to Muddy Waters down to the last detail (see Lippmann 04.12.1964). 53. Giorgio Gomelsky was significantly involved in both cases. He managed the Yardbirds and provided the Animals with professional support. 54. Explained internally by Horst Lippmann’s critical health condition (see, for example, Gawlitta 08.28.1984). 55. Birth name: Iverson Minter. 56. Twenty-one of the twenty-eight planned concerts were held. The shows in France were cancelled completely, as well as the appearances in London and Aarhus and three dates in Germany (see Gutberlet 1980c). 57. Fritz Rau confirmed the scope of the loss (see Schwab 2008: 141). 58. The bass guitarist Bob Stroger and drummer Odie Payne made up the rhythm section. 59. The double album American Folk Blues Festival ’81 had a first release of five thousand copies. The current L+R catalog was included (see Hartmann 04.02.1981). 60. For “the unrestricted rights” to the television broadcast of the 1981 AFBF in Germany, the WDR offered Lippmann and Rau a lump payment of 29,999 DM (see WDR 02.18.1981). 61. As of early February 1981 (see Hartmann 02.10.1981). 62. The January edition of Concert ’81, which the AFBF advertised extensively, had a planned release of 250,000 to 300,000 units (see Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro 01.19.1981). The August edition of Concert ’83 touted a “print run of 450,000 with articles on the AFBF and product ads” (see Private Collection Horst Lippmann; document not specified further). 63. A ticket for the AFBF concert in 1980 in Hannover cost 17 DM (see Wolff 1980a: 13). 64. The cited text was a draft that Lippmann sent to Rau for approval. 65. According to Lippmann, the Blues Forum had a print run of 1,500 units (see Lippmann 09.21.1981a: 1). 66. In the long run, business pragmatism prevailed over all the hostility: in 1985 Lippmann negotiated with Manfred Miller, who worked as an editor

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68. 69.

70. 71.

72. 73. 74.

75.

76. 77. 78. 79.

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at Südwestfunk, to present the AFBF as part of the Lahnstein SWF Blues Festival (see, for example, Lippmann 04.25.1985b). Eunice Davis and John Cephas, for instance, were only entitled to a weekly payment of US$600 (see Agreement between Lippmann + Rau and Eunice Davis 07.06.1979: 1; Agreement between Lippmann + Rau and John Cephas 01.21.1981: 1). Lippmann and Rau were clearly following the tide with those prices. For example, Earwig Music, an independent American label, contracted the blues veterans David “Honeyboy” Edwards and Floyd Jones out to Lippmann and Rau for US$750 each per week, for threehour-long performances, 6 nights a week (see Frank 01.05.1980). See, for example, Agreement between Lippmann + Rau and Iverson Minter 02.03.1981: 2. Over the years, this sum remained constant for all musicians. See Agreement between Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro GmbH & Co. and Carey Bell 06.29.1982: 1; Agreement between Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro GmbH & Co. and Iverson Minter 04.21.1983: 1. The payment reduction was clearly a reaction to the increasing external value of the US dollar. The entire concert industry suffered from this development. In 1984, the Blues Forum complained that: “For booking agents and concert organizers, bringing American blues musicians to Germany is an increasingly difficult undertaking due to the dollar exchange rate. It makes the artists’ reasonable wage demands (calculated in dollars) increasingly prohibitive, or, upon their return to the US, turns their net income (paid in DM) into paltry pocket money, if there is anything left at all” (Trebron 1984). Both totals only include the payments for the nine artists in each case. The manuscript was sent to Lippmann and Rau from the cultural department of the city of Kamen. The reviewer was explicitly referring to an AFBF concert in that location (see Brill 11.24.1982). The RIAS recorded a concert at the Internationales Congress Centrum Berlin on 29 April 1980 and broadcast it in excerpts. For that, he was awarded the Bundesverdienstkreuz [Federal Republic of Germany Cross of Merit] in January 2004. On the history, function, and operation principles of East Germany’s cultural-political administration apparatus, see Herbst, Ranke, and Winkler 1994; Wicke and Müller 1996: 251–61. Only the East German artist agency was allowed to hire international guests and enter into contractual agreements. Founded in 1960, it operated as the Deutsche Künstler-Agentur GmbH Berlin [German Artist Agency Ltd. Berlin] until 1968. It is possible that the concert was meant to be presented twice in succession, as was quite common at the time. This limited program was seen in West Germany and at the Warsaw Jazz Jamboree, for example. Various Artists: American Folk Blues, Amiga 8 50 043, DDR 1964. In German, DS stands for Deutsche Schallplatten, in English, German Records. The full company name reads VEB Deutsche Schallplatten. VEB stands for Volkseigener Betrieb which means nationally-owned enterprise, so, Nationally Owned German Records.

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80. 26,040 exemplars were sold. Information provided by Sony Music Entertainment Germany GmbH. The company capitalizes on Amiga’s back catalog. Email to the author, 12 June 2014. 81. Berlin: Filmtheater Kosmos, 30 October 1964; Potsdam: Haus der Offiziere, 31 October 1964; Dresden: Steinsaal im Deutschen Hygiene-Museum, 29 October and 1 November 1964. 82. Various Artists: American Folk Blues Festival 66, Part 1 and 2, Amiga 8 50 114 and 8 50 126, DDR 1966. 83. Information provided by Sony Music Entertainment Germany GmbH. Email to the author, 12 June 2014. 84. In the original: “Vietcong Blues.” 85. Junior Wells: Vietnam-Blues c/w Big Joe Turner: Roll ‘em Pete, Amiga 4 50 599, DDR 1966. 86. Karlheinz Drechsel in an interview with the author 17 June 2003. 87. Amiga acquired the license for the LP of the same name, which had been produced by Lippmann in 1965. J. B. Lenoir: Alabama Blues, Amiga 8 50 176, DDR 1969. 88. Lippmann sent a copy of the letter to Karlheinz Drechsel and made his request in writing. 89. Stefan Diestelmann Folk Blues: Hofmusik, Amiga 8 55 793, DDR 1980. 90. The AFBF traveled to Vienna on 7 November 1982, returning to Berlin the next day, where it was being held in the Western part of the city. The East German side had to pay the resulting flight costs. 91. The cost for the eleven AFBF musicians and two companions was relatively modest. In the same letter, Lippmann and Rau offered to provide more artists. A sixty-minute show with Helen Schneider with The Kick cost 5,000 West German marks and 7,000 East German marks. N ana Mouskouri charged 5,000 West German marks per performance and 20,000 East German marks net. In addition, there were expenses, overnights in “first class hotels” and an export permit guarantee. The guest performance by N ana Mouskouri was also dependent on whether she was permitted to purchase and take home a grand piano from the company Blüthner in East Germany (see Rau 09.06.1982b: 2–4). 92. Various Artists: American Folk Blues Festival ’82, Amiga 8 56 016, DDR 1983. 93. The East German record company was permitted to release the LP in East Germany and the “other socialist countries” (see Vereinbarung zwischen der L+R Records GmbH und dem Rundfunk der DDR 02.21.1983). 94. According to information from Sony Music Entertainment Germany GmbH. Email to the author, 12 June 2014. 95. DT 64 was the East German radio company’s youth program. After having been broadcast over Berliner Rundfunk for almost twenty-two years, it acquired its own radio station in March 1986. 96. In the title, there was no reference at all to the fact that it was actually the AFBF. 97. Cited on the back cover of the LP Various Artists: American Folk Blues Festival ’85, L+R Records, LR 50.003, BRD 1985.

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98. The book’s origin story is very revealing. Urban Blues is Charles Keil’s master’s thesis, written at the Anthropological Institute of the University of Chicago (see email from Keil to the author, 19 February 2007). Back then, Keil was a younger, more pugnacious man driven by grand illusions. In contrast to widespread assumption, his skin color is white. 99. FBF = (American) Folk Blues Festival. 100. On the life and accomplishments of Joachim-Ernst Berendt, see Hurley 2009. 101. It has been translated into more than a dozen languages and published in various editions. It is still the best-selling standard reference book of its kind globally (see Hurley 2009: xiii). 102. Siegfried Schmidt-Joos worked as a music editor for Radio Bremen in the 1960s. Later, he also worked at the news magazine Der Spiegel, at the RIAS, and at SFB. 103. Siegfried Schmidt-Joos on Joachim-Ernst Berendt (Schmidt-Joos 2014: 48). 104. Siegfried Schmidt-Joos later evaluated his book Geschäfte mit Schlagern as an “historic document” but “with outdated content” (Brigl 2001: 34). 105. The chapter “American Folk Blues Festival 1967” on the DVD The Famous Lippmann + Rau Festivals 1965–69, Volume 3: Legends of the American Folk Blues Festivals, Tropical Music 68.364, BRD 2008. 106. Dietrich Schulz-Köhn, cited in Schmidt (1959: 172). 107. See the chapter “American Folk Blues Festival 1969” on the DVD The Famous Lippmann + Rau Festivals 1965–69, Volume 3: Legends of the American Folk Blues Festivals, Tropical Music 68.364, BRD 2008. 108. See Nederveen Pieterse 1992, on the universal link between popular culture and racism.

CHAPTER 4

Standing at the Crossroads Expansion

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Suddenly, there were all these white groups playing blues so black, with such expression, you’d think they’d changed their skin color. —Joachim-Ernst Berendt, 19681

Between Pop and Political Protest Just as the AFBF was becoming obsolete in the mid 1960s, there was an increase in the commercialization and diversification of the blues. A new generation was interested in the genre and filling it with meaning that corresponded to their own life attitudes. The driving force came from Great Britain, where bands such as the Rolling Stones, the Animals, and the Yardbirds translated original songs sung by black artists into the soundtrack of a burgeoning youth culture.2 Taken up by media and the music industry, this wave brought more than just the sound material out into the wider world, it also disseminated the images, attitudes, and ideological norms of the blues—which had consequences. The blues served as a source of inspiration: its influence was palpable in the interactions between young bands and their audience of peers; it created identity and community. Nascent rock music bands soaked up the specific diction, forms, and techniques, turning them into part of the norm (see Oliver 1976: 228 and 238–39). This process occurred almost simultaneously in both parts of Germany: in the East, bands such as the Lunics, the Butlers, the Spotlights, and the Diana-ShowQuartett participated in the blues boom; in the West, it was the Boots, the Rattles, the Hounddogs, the Kentuckys, the Team Beats Berlin, and Parka Blues.

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Another push toward popularization was observed with the advent of the hippie wave, crowned by the myth of Woodstock. Jimi Hendrix became a guitar god and sex idol, a big-city partisan shooting his subversive blues from the hip. This perfect synthesis of tradition and high-tech distilled “contending definitions of authenticity” (Gilroy 1991: 121) and extended a bridge into the 1970s. The blues had freed itself up to become an inexhaustible source for modern popular music. “It is like in the old myths—Mother Earth, suckling countless children on her heavy breasts, sired by fathers whose names have since faded yellow in mountains of paper, they always did remain her children,” as declaimed in the liner notes of a 1972 sampler released in West Germany with early Fleetwood Mac recordings. Mother Earth—in the music of our, your, and my generation—is the blues. Whatever rock has seen since its inception, whatever trendy frilly little dress it would like to strut around in, it all goes “back to the roots.” The lost son’s return home has always remained foreseeable, the bands of the 1970s have the blues to thank just as much as the groups from the late 1950s, the early 1960s. N ow, the fact that it was purer back then, more “down to earth,” maybe a bit more honest, no one would want to dispute that. (Baron 1972)

The transformations of the blues were the subject of controversial debate in the West German specialist press. Critics interpreted the style, the expansion of the scene, and the interplay between genres as profit-focused manipulation and a dilution of the fundamental concept. After the discussions around R&B and rock ‘n’ roll, soul and beat music got caught in the reviewers’ crosshairs in the early 1960s. In 1963, Jazz Podium predicted that the “blues renaissance” would degenerate into “blues hysteria.” The author, a bebop pianist educated in the twelve-tone system who graduated from the Zurich Music Academy, used heavy artillery against “manic forms” of “soul blues,” which “celebrated magical somberness and obsession in permanence.” “It reduces the emotional content to nothing and evokes an instinctual reaction. Classic blues was more beautiful; it was richer in content and feeling; it was more relaxed, more human, and thus more moving. Even mainstream blues was and is that way” (all citations: Rosenberg 1963). It was inevitable that the genre’s convergence with pop culture would have a blunting, flattening effect. According to the general tenor at the time, profit interests were pulling the strings in the background, devaluing the blues into a commonly acceptable, mass product. Throughout the decades, shades of this kind of pessimism could be heard time and again, expressed by capitalism critics and purists.

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In the face of that criticism, liberal voices defended the music’s transformation and adaptation as simply following the law of evolution—and the specialists were listening. Jazz Podium printed a series of articles advocating open-mindedness, which carried particular weight, as they were mostly written by recognized authorities. In 1967, Siegfried Schmidt-Joos took up the fight for young, blues-minded rock bands and praised their awareness of tradition. “Many of them, such as the Rolling Stones, the Animals, or the Spencer Davis Group, play so ‘black’ that their records even count among the bestsellers in Negro cities.” Schmidt-Joos recognized in the blues “a musical archetype,” whose “impressive, formal, coherence” was predestined to be the ideal “link between different styles.” He said its message also had global validity, that it corresponded to “general anthropological conditions;” and was independent of any particular racial experience. These qualities would ennoble the blues, making it into the perfect catalyst, and explain “its universal significance for popular culture” (all citations: Schmidt-Joos 1967: 221). Alexis Korner’s perception of things was just as broad-minded. The guitarist and singer, stylized by the press as the “father of the blues revival” who was “undisputed” as “England’s best and most popular blues interpreter,” found no fault with the commercial mutation of the music. In an interview with Jazz Podium in 1968, he described the situation in his home country, saying that, these days, “most young people prefer listening to the blues. There are many big pop bands, such as that of John Mayall, Pete Green, the Chicken Shack, Ten Years After, Cream, who play the real blues to earn pop money and have pop success. It is the first time we can document pop-blues successes in England.” The journalist asked further, “Where do you draw the line between pop and the blues?” Korner answered, “I don’t, there really is no line between pop and the blues. It is all about that blues feeling. If a piece has that feeling, then you can call it the blues” (all citations: Broder 1968). In the same edition of Jazz Podium, Manfred Miller discussed a series of records CBS had released in the German market “under the initially irritating ‘underground’ label” (Miller 1968b: 313). The sensationalist label stuck to bands and artists such as Janis Joplin, Michael Bloomfield, Moby Grape, Electric Flag, the Chambers Brothers, and Blood, Sweat & Tears. Miller placated the readers: this is not just some simple entertainment industry maneuver, as one could easily assume prematurely, it is about future-oriented music. He called for understanding, reassuring them that it too drew its power from the wellspring of the blues:

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The language is the same, but the dialect has changed; it has developed a vocabulary appropriate to its new social environment. Tantalizing glissandi have turned into the blood curdling screams of a distorting amplifier, moving blues figures have solidified into small sound explosions. It seems as though a really contemporary blues idiom has originated from the underground; an idiom that manages to appropriately articulate new musical and social experiences. (Ibid.: 315)

For traditionalists and guardians of the doctrine, that interpretation went a step too far. They denounced all pop cultural metamorphoses of the blues as meaningless—declaring that the genre faced an increasing risk of deteriorating into an umbrella category, that “profit-seeking ruthlessness” was degrading the former “soul music” into an irrelevant trend (Brunnbauer 1970: 34), and that the fans were being sold a substitute dissociated from the experience of racial oppression, thus lacking in social relevance, emotional intensity, and “authenticity.” The fact that the industry was laying claims to those precise values felt like sheer cynicism, for in their opinion, it was not just artistic potential being stolen from the blues, it was its identity. West German record companies and media declared a “blues boom” with cyclic regularity. After the AFBF and the “British invasion” breakthrough, a new tide rolled in at the end of the 1960s. It pushed a mixed product soon operating under the name “blues rock.” With some exceptions (such as Jimi Hendrix and Taj Mahal), its protagonists were white and from middle-class backgrounds. The early phalanx included Janis Joplin, Joe Cocker, The Doors, Ten Years After, and Johnny Winter. They preferred “electrical” varieties of the blues with distinct rhythm and clung firmly to rock music’s sound patterns—which blew up all the traditional target group definitions and captured the mainstream. Blues rock was linked up with pop music’s celebrity cult machinery and proved to constitute a long-lasting, substantial business. The heritage of the African American people was also recycled in its wake. The major German label Polydor announced in a large advertisement, “In 1970, the blues has the right of way” and advised retail businesses, “Earn a lot from the blues. Sell the right records.” That was used for releases by John Mayall and Taste, AFBF recordings, and Chess catalog highlights.3 Ten years later, it was emerging guitarists such as George Thorogood, Robert Cray, and Stevie Ray Vaughan who were treated as a sign of a renewed boom. Pop media groups slowly began distancing themselves, as blues rock started feeling like an anachronism in the face of flourishing alternative youth cultures. The music magazine Sounds noted the rebirth during the Neue Deutsche Welle4 with feigned astonishment: Who would have thought “it would surge

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Figure 4.1. Blues rock star Rory Gallagher at a spontaneous jam session in the bar of the Schwarzer Bock Hotel, Wiesbaden, 1979 (photo by Manfred Becker).

up again right now as well, the blues wave we mean. Well, we sure didn’t!” (“The Blues Band” 1980). In spite of competition and nitpicking criticism, blues rock remained a significant brand product and the genre’s only mainstream trend. Even with many low points over time, it maintained a solid position in the media and in general concert productions in West Germany. All the other playing styles were also well-established there, but they tended to barely subsist within a niche environment. Starting in the 1960s, the blues expanded markedly into the audiovisual and print domains, as well as into the live sphere. Parallel to the first AFBF installment, Lippmann + Rau presented big names such as B.B. King, John Mayall, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, Canned Heat, Janis Joplin, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, Ten Years After, The Band, Jethro Tull, The Rolling Stones, Free, and Eric Burdon & War. Other impresarios joined in later, assuring tours of international stars throughout West Germany. Performers who were well-known to blues fans but unfamiliar to locals, as well as those of lesser renown drawing smaller crowds, had shows in clubs and bars that were mostly booked by specialized,

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one-person agencies. Founded by blues enthusiasts, and active from the 1970s, these agencies made a huge contribution, delivering a rich range of concerts to attend. They even provided performers for the increasingly popular festival, which either included the blues in a mixed program or granted it an exclusive spot. Every larger jazz event had specific slots dedicated to the “roots,” even though those often came close to rock music for promotional reasons.5 Alexis Korner gave a pioneering performance at the reputable Deutsches Jazzfestival on 24 March 1968 in Frankfurt am Main. According to the co-organizer Siegfried Schmidt-Joos, “for the first time on a jazz stage in Germany, only blues and soul music were played” for “certainly the most demanding audience, with the most anaphylactic response to commercial noise; hardened jazz fans one and all” (Schmidt-Joos 2001: 22). To a certain extent, the blues had entered “the lion’s den” (Schmidt-Joos 1986: 49). Even the renowned Berliner Jazztage6 organizers had seen the bigger picture and were engaging performers such as Odetta, B.B. King, James Booker, Margie Evans, Helen Humes, John Hammond, the Nighthawks, the Fabulous Thunderbirds, and the Neville Brothers. The response was divided, with disparate tastes and expectations clashing up against one another. One reviewer of the 1977 concert was upset by the “inexpressibly monotone blues evening, with truly unknown, young Chicago musicians” (Olshausen 1977: 21–22). Pulling the “flop” to pieces, he remarked maliciously, “and now, in addition to the subsidies, the Berlin Jazz Days needs a lot of self-earned money; and this concert sold out the fastest” (ibid.: 22). The fans were appalled and rejected the scathing review for its narrow-mindedness, another confirmation of the old crux: namely “the stance of many jazz fans and critics who do not want to admit the blues is more than just the twelve-bar format, and more than an archaic precursor or a basic element of jazz” (Groh 1978). An increasing number of large-scale events were dedicated solely to the different facets of the blues, including: the series American Blues Legends;7 the Chicago Blues Festival,8 which traveled through many cities; the Stuttgarter Bluestage;9 the German Blues Meeting;10 the Blues Night Lünen;11 the American Blues Stars;12 the Hamburger Blueswoche;13 the Blues Festival Unna;14 the Bluesfest Bonn, Blues in Lehrte;15 and the Bluesfest Leverkusen.16 As is the case with many traditional programs, the creation of the Gaildorfer Bluesfest in 1978 can be traced back to the enthusiasm of busy and bustling fans.17 Others were promoted by the public sector. For instance, the WDR funded the Internationales Blues und Boogie Woogie Festival in Bonn and Cologne starting in 1974; and the SWF organized the Bluesfestival in

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Lahnstein. It began in 1981 and since then has been held yearly under different mottos, with themes such as “Women in the Blues—Blues Women” (1982), “Blueropa” (1986), and “Harp & Harp” (1988).18 Little by little, the blues was staking a claim in the media as well, albeit a modest one. The pop and jazz press reported on concerts and reviewed new record industry releases.19 Fanzines and non-profit periodicals put out by idealists provided detailed information while also offering a discussion forum, thus contributing substantially to the scene network. People debated the most recent expert literature, whether published in West Germany, the UK, or North America. Throughout the years, several standard texts were released in the West German market in translation—books by Samuel B. Charters, Paul Oliver, LeRoi Jones, Charlie Gillett, Arnold Shaw, Giles Oakley, James H. Cone, Tony Palmer, and Greil Marcus. Excluding the early monographies written by Joachim-Ernst Berendt, Janheinz Jahn, Alfons Michael Dauer, Carl Gregor Herzog zu Mecklenburg, Waldemar Scheck, and Karl Gert zur Heide, publications by West German authors were limited to lexical entries and essays in anthologies.20 However, there was a larger selection of audio files. With time, all relevant record productions became available. Based on their releases and sales performance, the companies Bellaphon, Intercord, and Teldec21 were at the top of their field. They made sure the LPs of numerous foreign labels could be obtained effortlessly and inexpensively in Germany as well. Alongside the frontrunners whose sales were in the five-figure range, were other prestigious projects. In 1979, Teldec started the licensed series Blues Roots. The first run was comprised of a dozen LPs in the “country blues” category.22 Although lauded by critics, the company did not see a quick return on their investment. In the first quarter, “not even 500 were sold per title, and that in spite of the excellent quality” (Hess 1981: 49). After a year and a half, the producer summarized that about two thousand copies of each LP were sold— they needed to sell three thousand to break even.23 As more and more samplers and reissues of classical recordings were sold at a loss, some blues fans started to sense an impending “industry sell-out” (Groh 1976). In the 1980s, the market expanded so rapidly that even the most industrious collectors were overwhelmed: “The sheer volume is making them claustrophobic,” quipped one commentator “they don’t even know where to put it all” (Hess 1981: 49). The negative side of this “record deluge” was a “feeling of oversaturation and indifference” (Long Play Slim 1984), which continued to spread. Small independent labels tried to slow down this fatal trend. Ornament,24 Taxim,25 and CrossCut Records26 gave artists outside of

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the mainstream the opportunity to produce a record. In addition, they offered rare imports by mail order and kept their clients up to date with extensive, but manageable and clearly organized catalogs.27 In the 1960s, many stations started playing the blues.28 However, anybody who wanted to listen to the blues on the radio had to make due with tight, inconveniently-timed broadcasting slots, as this music was hardly ever played on the air during primetime. Programs moderated by Manfred Miller (SDR and SWF), Tom Schroeder (HR), Alexis Korner (BFN Germany), Tony Sheridan (NDR), Tiny Hagen and Christian Graf (both RIAS), Hans W. Ewert (WDR), and Claus Groh (SDR) were well-known nationwide. The blues was treated most poorly by the television industry. Every now and then, they would show concert recordings29 or biographical portraits of musicians, but it was extremely rare to see topical documentaries. One of the high points was the airing of a twelve-part series on rock history called Sympathy for the Devil in 1972, an NDR and SWF joint production. It was broadcast repeatedly and discussed excitedly within fan circles. Two parts were dedicated to the blues with the heading: “Magara oder Das Glück, Angst zu haben. Zur Sozialgeschichte der populären Musik der Afro-Amerikaner” [Magara or the luck of being afraid. On the social history of the popular music of African Americans]. Manfred Miller came up with the concept and script, Horst Königstein acted as editor. Miller rose in rank in the 1970s, becoming one of the most prominent rock, blues, and jazz journalists. He published profound essays (see, for example, Miller 1978a and 1978b) and was part of the team that produced the forty-one episodes of “History of Pop Music” called Roll Over Beethoven, broadcast between 1973 and 1975 by Radio Bremen.30 At that point, “supervisory bodies” ordered a “temporary end” to the large project due to a fear of “political indoctrination” (Miller and Schulze 1998). The series was not reinstated until 1984.31 The concept was close to that of Sympathy for the Devil: popular music was understood and dissected as a social medium from a Marxist perspective.32 During the presentation of the two blues sections, Manfred Miller had a crown witness of international rank at his side, Alexis Korner. Korner was one of the father figures of the British boom in the early 1960s; his band, Blues Incorporated, functioned as the nucleus of the scene and an excellent talent factory. Very early on, he started fostering relationships in Germany. Posted to Bremerhaven in 1946, he would remain stationed there for two and a half years. Korner presented radio specials on BFN and NWDR; and every now and then, he would show up at jazz sessions in the Hamburg harbor district.33 By the time Manfred Miller started to hire the singer and guitarist for his television

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Figure 4.2. Alexis Korner and the rock band Percewood’s Onagram, ca. 1970, NDR studio in Hamburg (from the left): Eddy Muschketat, Wolfgang Michels, Alexis Korner, and Jojo “Ludi” Ludwig (photo by Rolf Denckert, courtesy of Archiv Wolfgang Michels).

series, he enjoyed certain celebrity benefits in West Germany, as he had already toured the concert halls both solo and accompanied by various bands. Now, he was standing next to Miller in front of a camera. Together, they told the story of the blues with the artist appearing as contemporary witness, musical expert, and commentator. Korner played his guitar, accenting the lyrics and images with bluesy catchphrases, captivating the audience. As he spoke fluent German, his brief explanations had a particularly intimate effect. This was no aloof star; here was someone who was just as driven by the power of the music as the spectators. And with his distanced, analytical phrasing, Miller provided a counterpart to Korner. Pedantic critics accused him of an “intellectually overloaded” (Schmidt-Joos 1986: 62) perspective, thereby forgetting the whole purpose of the broadcast, which was defined as a “social history.” Others, such as the Hamburg blues musician Abi Wallenstein, praised the work as “enormously important, inspiring” (Wallenstein 2010: 237). Magara oder Das Glück, Angst zu haben did indeed set the standard. The two-part documentary furnished facts and figures; it combined coherent film clips and live recordings that went straight to the heart. Songs sung by Bessie Smith, Nina Simone, B.B. King, Champion Jack Dupree, Aretha Franklin, Maggie Bell, and Joe Cocker were given Ger-

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man subtitles and put into a new context. Miller lent his arguments depth and significance, as he invoked Charles Keil, LeRoi Jones, Allen Ginsberg, Hanns Eisler, Langston Hughes, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Ralph Ellison as authorities. Questions about the values of the blues was a common theme throughout these forays into its history; they were said to be diametrically opposed to “bourgeois popular culture.” As proof, the effusive schlager song “Ganz in weiß” was contrasted with the reality depicted in “Tobacco Road.” Miller explained, “Here are two dreams, and the difference is determinative. Roy Black dreams reality away; for it to stay the same, he must not touch it. Lou Rawls’ dreams are ahead of reality; he touches it to change it.”34 According to Miller, that is the function of the blues. The term magara, which originates from the philosophy of the Bantu people, works best to capture this effect mechanism. It stands for “humanity,” “life force,” and “the right to be happy.” Manfred Miller characterized the blues as a solidarity art form, which strengthens the “I” and calls for collective action. To identify the blues as an expression of “grievances” would be missing the point—according to Miller, this music is actually a reflection of social conditions. For that reason, it is universal and ultimately independent of skin color, time period, or location. Even those frustrated, white youth feeling excluded from society were using it as a megaphone. The last part of the film dealt with the blues’ definite combative dimension. Miller drew the connection to slavery and put the daily experience of racism in the US into focus. His tone hardened, “The blues does not change reality, but it does keep an eye on what needs to change. And it helps you to remain capable of changing reality. The Black Panthers are singing new texts to old melodies.” Following that was a collage of slogans (such as “Say it loud: I’m black and I’m proud” and “R-e-s-p-e-c-t”), statistics on the suppression of black people and the miserable living conditions for African Americans, as well as several statements by the incarcerated, radical civil rights activist Bobby Seale. Without mincing words, he made it clear that, “If we are shot at, we shoot back. We aren’t fair game for these pigs.” At the end, the film faded into a scene already shown repeatedly, in which an annoyed father presses the stop button on a tape recorder, choking off Joe Cocker’s fervent singing, and exclaims, “It sounds like jungle music!” His son responds defiantly, “You’re right, it is jungle music.” Manfred Miller’s two-part series illustrated how the blues had been politically charged and interpreted since the 1960s. For many, this music was considered a manifestation of, and commentary on, social upheavals. It nearly had a scent “like spring, a fresh breeze, and free-

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dom,” as was written in the foreword of the German edition of Michael Bloomfield’s memories of Big Joe Williams. “The 1960s were like a massive tidal wave that had separated itself from the sea.” The zeitgeist demanded “self-realization.” “The sails are billowing. Everyone is excited. They are on the tips of their toes. They are listening to far away, foreign sounds. And the foreignness of it, the unknown in it, imparts a strangely familiar beauty. A long-missed feeling” (all citations: Schmitt 1982, n.p.). A decidedly anti-capitalist flank also reclaimed the blues for itself. In the context of West German counterculture and the student protests, which reached their high point in 1968, the blues evolved into a shining symbol (in detail: Siegfried 2008; Siegfried 2006: in particular 366–98). Alternative social milieus praised the blues as an identity-creating medium and social corrective, as they thought of it as solidifying the experience of discrimination into sound. The flower power youth culture cherished its progressivity and “hipness.” It was purported to be the antithesis to commerce and middle-class disaffection. In opposition to such forms of valorization and idealization of “black” culture, which quickly become caught in the machinery of consumption and for which the ethnologist Moritz Ege coined the slightly satirical term “Afroamericanophilia,” (Ege 2007: in particular 9–22) militant leftist groups reinterpreted music, literature, and habitus in order to challenge the capitalist regime. The blues served them as a code; its artistic nature became completely absorbed, overtaken by the concept of revolution. Around 1970, a subcultural movement called Blues rose up in West Berlin. Rooted in the world view and traditions of the politicized group Gammler35 [bums], its sense of mission revolved around a “radicalized lifestyle concept” that followed the “postulate of instant gratification” (Siegfried 2008: 224). Based on their understanding of it, the blues was the perfect device—not just because of its roots in slavery, but because it rose up against it. A key program text explained the connection in the following way: The blues—it started out as the songs of American Negro slaves. Later, a music genre that could almost only be practiced by black people: For they had that feeling that made up the foundation of the blues; yes, it was practically taken in with their mother’s milk: living, even in the worst shit. Living in chains, in front of a gun, behind bars. And every now and then emptying out a supermarket or avenging one of their murdered brothers. (Der Blues 2001, Volume I: 137)

On their own “front,” they saw a “profit-hungry, idiotic industry,” “a giant machine of insanity,” and a “collection of the semi-geriatric and

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seemingly dead.” “We feel as though something is not right with this whole system.” Resistance was the order of the day. “The blues will go on,” they said, “our war against the old will be different than their wars ever were” (all citations: ibid.).

The Voice of the “Other America” The blues also had a political undertone in East Germany. State propaganda ascribed positive attributes to it, as it embodied the “other America.”36 It was heard as the protest of the “black proletariat” revolting against inhumanity and repression. In contrast to leftist circles in the West however, this revolutionary potential was seen as inseparably linked to the social situation in the US—the blues was calling out injustice—but it was not referring to the sociopolitical conditions in their own country. The official state assessment of the music genre was predetermined by the axioms of the ideological clash between the competing systems of East and West. According to the communist definition, the United States was taking the principle of capitalism to its extreme, and had reached the “highest and final” stage: imperialism. Characterized by agony as well as aggression directed both inward and outward, it should be seen as the “main enemy of the people” (all citations: Kleines politisches Wörterbuch 1973: 347 and 349). SED doctrine stated that: The USA is the focal point of the intensification of all critical manifestations of imperialism on an international scale. USA imperialism is the reactionary center of global imperialism. It is anxious to play the role of guarantor and patron of the international system of exploitation and oppression, to rule everywhere, and to involve themselves in the affairs of other peoples. (Ibid.: 350)

They continue by saying that “the working class in all of the capitalist countries is the most consequential and powerful opponent against the might of the monopoly, the center for the assemblage of all antiimperialist forces” (ibid.: 351–52), claiming that ultimately it would achieve victory and lead America to socialism as well. Up until the early 1970s, East German media fought many intense ideological battles against the US, with the cold war influence leading to militant rhetoric. Their arsenal included elaborate broadcast series and publications meant to inform people of “the truth about America.”37 The subjugation of the black population was considered telling

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evidence of the inhumanity of US imperialism. They wrote that black people were subjected to racism and mob justice, serving “as cannon fodder for Wall Street.”38 Again and again, the media drew parallels to the Third Reich. A radio broadcast on the supposed democracy in “God’s given land,” rejected the American president’s protestations as “sanctimonious whining” and “outrageous hypocrisy” (Schnitzler 1951), declaring: There is no difference between the persecution of Negroes in the United States and the persecution of Jews under Hitler—other than quantitative—nor between the intentions of these hideous crimes. They are meant to distract; distract from the crimes committed against their own people and the peoples of the world, distract from the war being prepared, distract from the fight against this risk of war; they are meant to awaken a feeling of pride in the people who they want ready to make war, a feeling of arrogance in being the master, in belonging to the master race. (Ibid.)

Later in the 1970s, more moderate voices joined in. Under Erich Honecker, East Germany’s broad international isolation was diminishing, and the US’s “rigorous policy of non-recognition” (Ostermann 2001: 272) was ended. In September 1974, the states commenced diplomatic relations. The SED’s agitation mechanisms were most effective when using the language of art to communicate the image of the “other America.” They said that in addition to literature and film, the different forms of African American music articulated a powerful “potential for anti-imperialist resistance,” saying they had arisen out of a “culture of struggle” (Hajek 1984: 7 and 14) and were a perfect “mixture of rebellion and the yearning for freedom, of lamentation and optimism in life” (ibid.: 7). Although the blues did not play an individual role in the propagandistic messages, it remained omnipresent as a fundamental element of the “black” music canon. It was named in the same breath as jazz, gospel, and soul, and was appreciated similarly as a “specific contribution to world culture by African Americans” (ibid.: 20). This political positioning was not invented by the East German government—it invoked US intellectuals and artists critical of the system (see Merkel 1996). Those individuals were accorded special attention by the East German media. Throughout the decades, Harry Belafonte was honored as a prominent “ally” and “the voice of millions” (Koch 1990: 255). In 1983, at an acclaimed performance at the Palast der Republik, the East Berlin Academy of Arts accepted the one-time King of Calypso as a corresponding member. A laudatory speech honored

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the “life and works of a great artist and fighter for peace” (“Ehrung in der Akademie der Künste für Harry Belafonte” 1983). The press wrote that Belafonte was a luminous example of an upright man, “who can’t be bought by enticing offers and capitalist celebrity cults” (Berger and Görtz 1983). Paul Robeson was depicted in the media as the incarnation of the “other America” up until the late 1970s. The presence of this internationally-acclaimed singer and actor was unique—no other African American enjoyed such sustained publicity and prestige in East Germany.39 Even though only trace elements of the blues can be found in his body of work,40 discussions around the Robeson repertoire influenced the political reading of the music. Paul Robeson interpreted “genuine” folklore and the enigmatic religious musical tradition— songs, which told of the suffering and anger of black people. They translated the legacy of slavery into revolutionary vigor. William Patterson, member of the National Committee of the Communist Party in the United States, wrote, “These songs come out of the dark, but they point to the light” (Patterson 1972: 17). Robeson’s artistic excellence, the “charismatic appeal of this blackest of black bass voices in our century” (“Paul Robeson singt” 1965), was said to shape that musical heritage into a “material force.” The poet Arnold Zweig saw in him the “most free and human singer of our time. Wherever his voice sounds out, the oppressed sing, but in such a way that one feels the strength that will be released to the benefit of all, once white people’s heads have finally been deloused of their group conceit” (Zweig 1950: 39). Robeson’s work was steeped in the spirit of internationalism. He was convinced that, “there is a world body—a universal body—of folk music” (Robeson 1971: 115).41 In his presentations and writings, Robeson advocated for a communist vision. Long blacklisted and persecuted by the US government, his mission for a peaceful and just world took him to the Soviet Union in 1934; he also visited East Germany in 1960 and held a concert there. Head of state Walter Ulbricht honored Paul Robeson with the Stern der Völkerfreundschaft and Humboldt University awarded him an honorary doctorate. In his acceptance speech, the artist called on the students: Do not believe what the people on the other side of the Brandenburg Gate tell you about the Promised Land of America. We are fighting a hard, bitter battle—there are two Americas. Millions of people in our country also want peace and to be freed from the fear of atom bombs. But one day, the power and the will of the people will also prevail in the US. (Robeson 1968)

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Figure 4.3. Walter Ulbricht (right) awards Paul Robeson the Stern der Völkerfreundschaft [Star of People’s Friendship] on 5 October 1960 in the Deutsche Sporthalle in East Berlin (photo by Alfred Paszkowiak, courtesy of the Akademie der Künste, Paul-Robeson-Archiv).

The SED praised Paul Robeson as “the black pioneering champion for humanity,” “one of the greatest in the history of this century” (Norden 1972), and a “faithful friend of the German Democratic Republic” (Ulbricht 04.08.1963).

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His ability to link the rational with the emotional in his propagandistic work, and to put his art at the service of the class war, is almost unparalleled. He was the originator of the slogan, “my song is my weapon,”42 a statement which would be supported by a Marxist-Leninist theory of art, which he could only have realized as part of a thorough examination of imperialist and revisionist concepts of art. Robeson succeeded at bringing the culture of American blacks, their songs and spirituals out of the abyss of official condemnation—and into the leading concert halls of the United States—while simultaneously incorporating the global proletariat’s cultural legacy into his art. (Loeser 1972: 7)

When author Anna Seghers described Paul Robeson’s energy, she compared it to a natural event: “His voice stirred us; as one can become stirred upon first viewing the ocean or a glacier.” She had heard him for the first time during the Weimar Republic era. Robeson had already begun linking together different worlds back then, performing spirituals and “battle songs.” “He was captivating, always and everywhere. What he sang and how he sang it—it got people listening to him fired up for the fight” (Seghers 1973). The list of official recognitions is a long one: The Paul-RobesonKomitee der DDR [Paul Robeson Committee of East Germany] was established in 1964; and a Robeson archive was founded at the Academy of Arts in 1965. Streets, schools, choirs, worker collectives, and commemorative medals soon bore his name. Political campaigns appointed him as their patron. The state suggested persuasively that, surely, “simple folk” must have a deeply emotional connection with the artist. A young East Berlin girl wrote the following in a letter to Robeson, published by the Deutscher Friedensrat [East German Peace Council] in 1961, “I am eight years old. And my favorite doll is called Jimmi and he is a Negro child. Please stay with us in East Germany. When you are in America, I am always afraid for you” (Deutscher Friedensrat 1961: 35). The biased depiction of African American musicians and the unashamed strategies of appropriation inflamed some internal controversies. There is, for instance, the case of Aubrey Pankey. Originally from Pittsburgh, the singer traveled to East Germany in 1955 and acquired permanent residency there one year later.43 He worked as a teacher at the Deutsche Hochschule für Musik and remained active on the concert stage. The classically-trained baritone interpreted European high culture—but he also performed the American “Negro folk song” (Amerikanische Neger-Volkslieder 1957: 2) in all of its varieties. A collection of sheet music, published by Aubrey Pankey, included one of his own creations entitled “Legend,”44 which illustrates his closeness to

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folklore. He himself described his work as a “protest song against the oppression and exploitation of the Negro people in the USA.” One passage reads, “You talk about freedom t’aint nothing but lies, you want it down South, is to ask just to die” (all citations: ibid.: 37 and 33). The media depicted Aubrey Pankey as a hero, “our black brother,” alongside Paul Robeson, Louis Armstrong, the Fisk Jubilee Singers, and Harry Belafonte (see “Musik unserer schwarzen Brüder” 1958). Nevertheless, the artist had mixed feelings about his own image. In a letter to the Rundfunkkomitee der DDR, he opposed any instrumentalization of his skin color. The state opera house had wanted to cast him “not because I am a singer, or an American, but strictly because I am a Negro,” but Pankey intervened against it. He claimed he was expected to “be relegated to supplying Negro atmosphere to a performance” (all citations: Pankey 04.19.1959: 1 and 2). Party headquarters was quickly officially informed of his writings. Alfred Kurella, head of the Kulturkommission beim Politbüro des ZK der SED [Politburo’s Cultural Commission of the SED’s Central Committee], tried to calm the waters. He declared it was time “to stand publicly against such pseudo sympathy for ‘N egroes,’ something which actually obscures the real racist attitudes.” The high-ranking functionary demonstrated complete understanding for the offended musician. “I generally feel that by making a cult out of the spirituals, which some people do here too unfortunately, they are hiding that same condescending and degrading attitude toward ‘Negroes’” (all citations: Kurella 05.02.1959b). Factions within the party urged the head of the Politburo’s Agitation Commission, Albert Norden, to “generally review how people such as Pankey are treated by us” (N orden 04.22.1959). In his opinion, the façade should not hide the existence of traditional discrimination: “Behind the very loud propaganda practiced by certain people for the ‘poor Negro’ and that which they refer to as Negro culture, there is in fact race hatred with reversed polarities!” (Kurella 05.02.1959a). Etta Cameron was a similarly sensitive case. The Bahamian-born singer debuted in January 1968 in East Germany, where she would hold hundreds of concerts and many television appearances. She lived together with her husband in an apartment in Berlin-Prenzlauer Berg until 1972.45 Etta Cameron quickly became a star and was celebrated as a captivating interpreter of jazz, blues, gospel, and soul. She had only the best accompanists: duet partners such as Manfred Krug, the bands of Klaus Lenz, Hannes Zerbe, Günther Fischer, and the Dresdner Tanzsinfoniker. Cameron felt at home on the most prominent East German stages and could also be seen performing regularly in churches, which displeased the state because of their entrenchment in the tenets

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Figure 4.4. Etta Cameron and the Hannes-Zerbe-Quintett, Zella St. Blasii, 1972 (photo by Foto-Halir Zella-Mehlis).

of Marxist ideology.46 It played a reluctant balancing act, as proclaimed in one piece of confidential information from the SED: “Any administrative process directed against this singer’s performance is dissuaded in principle, as it will be evaluated by her as a ‘race problem’” (Kanther 05.24.1972: 1).

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The black entertainer James W. Pulley traveled less politically explosive terrain. He found his milieu in the entertainment shows and dance halls of East Germany. Pulley came from Philadelphia and served as a soldier in Bavaria. In 1955, at nineteen years old, he deserted to East Germany and started a career as a singer.47 By the end of the 1950s, his rock ‘n’ roll performances were a sensation. And later, once he had conquered the schlager realm, James W. Pulley added some blues and gospel into the program, which corresponded to his own self-image and responded to the expectations he held for himself as an African American.

The Blues as Official Culture in East Germany In addition to political propaganda, the “other America” imagery permeated specialist literature on the blues, as well as its journalistic perception.48 Any longer treatment of the subject made use of fomenting slogans used by the state to describe “resistance” art. Two publications were put out in 1966—signifying the first time the blues had been discussed in book form—and both became standard works, but in different ways. Andre Asriel’s Jazz: Analysen und Aspekte dedicated a chapter to the blues, classifying it in a larger historical stylistic context. The graduate composer and professor of composition presented research on music theory parameters, while also making an effort to include those familiar ideological phrases. He described the social conditions in the following way: It is significant that the N egro’s awakening self-consciousness would manifest itself in a blues type of song. Based on both name and content, the blues is a sad song. If the abolition of slavery had really represented their true liberation, then the personal song of the Negro would perhaps be called “joys.” The tragic quality of the blues song indicates that the N egro’s liberation from slavery was nothing more than a transition to more contemporary, capitalist forms of national and social oppression. (Asriel 1966: 66)

As with the traditionalists in the West extensively cited in his bibliography, Asriel’s observations reflect his narrow understanding of authenticity. Anything that deviated from the folklore mainstream fell victim to harsh judgment. “The diverse commercial ‘rehashings’ of the blues are completely unworthy of discussion” (ibid.: 68). His book, revised and expanded multiple times, engendered some protest49 but was nevertheless used as educational material in schools into the 1980s.

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In 1966, Theo Lehmann’s Blues and Trouble appeared on the market as the first monograph on the topic in East Germany. Lehmann was a Protestant priest, and he was also one of the few connoisseurs of African American music in East Germany. His PhD thesis looked at Negro spirituals from a theological perspective50 and he later published a highly praised biography of Mahalia Jackson (Lehmann 1974).51 His blues book differed from similar writings in that it lacked the political kowtowing common at the time.52 Lehmann placed focus on the experience of suffering but went beyond the fate of African Americans. He was also writing about the lack of freedom in his own country, as he explained later, “That is why I chose the book’s dedication carefully: ‘For everyone who has the blues.’ And there were more than enough of them in East Germany” (Lehmann 2009: 139). The two-hundred-page book is reminiscent of Joachim-Ernst Berendt’s early works. A brief historical overview that includes translations and analyses of song texts, biographical details, as well as information on the social situation in the US and the everyday lives of blues singers. Large black and white images lent additional emotional weight to the text, which approached a poetic style. There was a “whiff of internationality” (ibid.: 138) to the introduction, written by Martin Luther King, Jr. For the figurehead of the civil rights movement, protests by African Americans were “something related to modern man’s universal fight. Every person has the blues. Every person yearns for a meaningful life. Every person wants to love and be loved. Every person wants to clap and be happy. Every person yearns for belief.” According to King, the blues, the “music of triumphal overcoming,” “provided the means to all of that” (all citations: King Jr. 1966). And those were the precise ideals and vision that Theo Lehmann wished to communicate in Blues and Trouble. But rather than originating from his hand, they came from that of a sought-after political icon. Any attempt at objecting to such an authority would be fruitless. Those who could read between the lines sensed the urgency of this study and its reference to East Germany. N ew editions were issued repeatedly, moving legions of musicians and fans. The praise was unanimous on both sides. East German press ranked the book as an “important sociocritical work” and said that it contained “everything one must know about the blues” (Wagner 1967). Theo Lehmann’s work was said to win readers over “with its sensitive interpretation” of the lyrics and the “unusually expressive photos” (“Musikliteratur in Neuauflage” 1982). Thought to have closed a “gap” (“Auswahl von Büchern” 1985: 37), it was said in the West that it was “written very smoothly with nice narrative form, without histrionics, but with great

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compassion.” Even the paper Blues Forum, which was known for its rigorous judgment, did not hold back in their acknowledgments, “German-language blues books of this kind are rare, and for that reason, no jazz/blues library should be without it” (all citations: Klose 1981). The acclaim was even more valuable given the fact that, in spite of the typical limitations in East Germany regarding research and the procurement of materials, the author was capable of providing a work of such lasting, quality scholarship. It would be 1982 before the next monograph was published; a general treatment entitled Blues in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart by Rainer Bratfisch (Bratfisch 1982), which was part of the series In Sachen Disko and saw itself as an aid for the “record entertainer,” the official term for a DJ. Western reviewers were not particularly delicate in their treatment of the forty-page brochure. One Austrian expert journal criticized it for a lack of expertise and catastrophic sourcing, writing that the author, as an East German citizen, was “unfortunately cut off from the last twenty years of blues research” (Hortig 1983). It is indeed true that people had only extremely limited access to international publications. They were not released there and only a few libraries kept some select titles.53 Anyone who wanted to read the standard Western works had to attain them through complicated channels.54 The scathing review ended with a patronizing epilogue: “One must absolutely, however, recognize and encourage Rainer Bratfisch: His enthusiasm and sincerity suggest that, if he had access to the sound material and literature of his Western colleagues, he would surely produce work that would shame many of the local, so-called ‘experts’” (ibid.). In an attempt to make up for that experience, Rainer Bratfisch cowrote a comprehensive, ambitious work called Blues heute in 1987 with Volker Albold that claimed to present an overall, multidimensional view of the genre.55 This book provided the reader with plenty of information on the social and regional history of the music in the US since 1945, biographies of relevant artists, lexical information, lyric translations, and discographic notes. Volker Albold and Rainer Bratfisch wanted to portray the blues in all its complexity: as the “battery” of popular music, as an artistic “phenomenon,” as an “unchanged, contemporary commentary on the times, as the cry of the oppressed, the underprivileged of this Earth” (Albold and Bratfisch 1987: 10). One chapter located traces of the “blues in Europe.” The fact that the Eastern Bloc, including East Germany, was being discussed alongside Western countries was a particular achievement. Blues heute had a circulation of twelve thousand copies, which sold quickly. Volker Albold relativized it, saying “that was of course because of the conditions of

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shortage in East Germany.” “Publications on music ‘from the West’ were rare and therefore in high demand” (information and citation: Albold 2010: 486 and 487). Opinions differed on this considerable, detailed piece of work. The magazine Unterhaltungskunst printed an extensive book review that at times failed to demonstrate the necessary objectivity. The reviewer called Albold and Bratfisch’s approach too technocratic and superficial, accusing them of a lack of commitment and “sense of responsibility,” while undertaking a precise examination of the obvious “inaccuracies and mistakes galore. The result of insufficient in-depth research” and providing a litany of corrections. In the conclusion, the critic wrote, “All in all, my impression of this publication is that it is a missed international opportunity. We would have had the chance to enrich the German-speaking region with a contribution supported by a more academic knowledge base” (all citations: Lorenz 1988: 23).56 Albold and Bratfisch replied in their own defense and refuted a number of allegations, countering caustically, “How does that saying about glass houses go again?” (Albold and Bratfisch 1988). In addition to individual writings on the subject, the blues also had its place in East German encyclopedias and music history books.57 The research works by the musicologist Peter Wicke received international acclaim, namely his Handbuch der populären Musik58 und Anatomie des Rock.59 The blues occasionally appeared in the daily or specialist press. They reported on concerts, introduced artists, and printed record reviews. In 1988, in one of the rare specific treatments of it, the youth magazine neues leben asked “What is the blues?” They called it not “a museum, but music that went with the times” (Bratfisch 1988a: 18). The only East German popular music journal Melodie und Rhythmus dedicated the most space to the topic and included the blues in history series, such as Schauplatz Beat and Jazz: Swingende Stationen zwischen Baumwollfeld und Phon-Ekstase. They followed global trends and published extensive profiles of the genre’s heroes, as well as the odd theoretical contribution (see, for example, Pfeiffer 1966). With time, scholarly professionalism prevailed over politicized language in the journalism sector. An “educated” East German citizen would overlook the occasional, stereotypical kowtowing occurring here and there—some even citing Lenin as a source (see Bratfisch 1988a: 18)— they were simply dismissed as legitimizing embellishments. The blues also had to make do with a niche existence on the margins of the audiovisual field. Record productions remained reserved for the professional upper class. Amiga, the state label for popular music, put out eighteen LPs and seven singles by ten local bands and soloists up

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until the fall of the Wall. Moreover, they released an amateur bands sampler, the American Folk Blues Festivals compilations, and a handful of LPs as part of the company’s jazz series, including classic artists such as Bessie Smith, Big Bill Broonzy, and J. B. Lenoir, plus the acquisition of Alexis Korner and The Blues Band LP licenses (in detail: Rauhut and Rauhut 1999; Brüll 2003). In 1985, Amiga started the licensed series Blues Collection. It covered a wide range of genres, from rural playing styles à la Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee to the blues rock of Johnny Winter. There was a total of eighteen releases, five of which were in 1990. The top sellers were Muddy Waters and B.B. King with 128,000 and 75,000 copies sold, respectively.60 Otherwise, the Blues Collection fluctuated between 30,000 and 60,000 units.61 The live recording of a 1977 James Booker concert was the last LP released by the formerly nationally-owned pressing plant in Potsdam-Babelsberg. This rare edition was a private venture limited to 1,000 units and is much sought-after today.62 Records were therefore in extremely short supply. They were exclusively produced by VEB Deutsche Schallplatten, a state-owned monopoly. Eastern European blues productions, which one could buy in the cultural centers of the socialist “brother countries,” above all in Hungary, Poland, and the former Czechoslovakia, represented one more drop in the ocean. The so-called intershops, which sold Western wares in exchange for hard currency, carried blues LPs every now and then.63 Fans compensated for this glaring lack of access to vinyl by making cassette-tape copies. Records were duplicated, and the radio was scanned for useable material. The blues was not played often on East German radio. There were some sporadic, tucked away concert recordings; the small number of regular broadcasts were always part of the night program.64 Presentations of the blues on television were few and far between (in detail: Breitenborn 2009). One highlight was the almost hour-long montage of a solo performance by Alexis Korner in an East Berlin television studio on 19 November 1979. Korner captivated the hand-picked audience with passionate songs accompanied with guitar and piano—and his irresistible aura. Every single word seemed to be permeated with a deep humanity. He took the stage in laughter, saying in his slightly broken German, “Good evening! It really is so nice to be here! Something like this finally has to happen. You try, and you try . . . finally! So, I will definitely be playing the blues. Whether you all recognize it as the blues, I don’t know. My opinion is that it is a feeling, not a note.” Korner’s words had a spontaneous effect; they represented a strong contrast to the stiff way of speaking on television. He announced the piece “Rock me Baby” in the following way, “Here

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is a blues, an ancient blues about rock and roll—before it was dancing. From the time that it just meant ‘fucking’: rock and roll all night long.” The musician was demonstrably genuine and unpretentious in the two, short panel discussions that interrupted the concert recording. You are called the “Father of White Blues,” what do you think of that? It’s terrible! And why? I am older than the others. That’s all it was, nothing more. It carries a responsibility with it that I didn’t want to accept willingly. I learned how to live with it, but it is never pleasant, really never pleasant. You met young people from East Germany for the first time today, as a guest on youth television. What impressions will you take home with you? Very warm, very, very warm, really very warm. And very open. It was my first day, first whole day in East Germany. I was told that it would be a very warm audience. I played a concert with Memphis Slim in Cork about three, four weeks ago. And Slim was in East Germany and told me, “You are going to have fun, they are really warm people.” And I believe Slim, we know each other well and we have worked together. And when he says that to me, yeah. I knew. But it was still a surprise.

Amid applause from spectators, Alexis Korner explained his philosophy, “Blues has always been pop music because pop music is ‘popular music.’ And ‘popular’ means ‘people’ in English, and the ‘people’ are the folk, so pop music is folk music.”65 And that is how straightforward things could be seen. Against the background of cultural-political openness at the end of the 1980s, East German television began broadcasting more blues programs, and the country’s live music scene was markedly stimulated. Starting in 1987, the communist youth organization FDJ became known as a promoter of large international concerts (in detail: Rauhut 1996b: in particular: 128–78), and one blues act or another was invited to perform. If it was a popular name, the performance would be recorded for television. Quite a number of them were situated at the interface between rock and soul, striking the nerve of a wide target group. Tickets to see John Mayall & The Bluesbreakers,66 Santana,67 the Climax Blues Band,68 Luther Allison,69 Alvin Lee,70 Mitch Ryder,71 Joe Cocker,72 Canned Heat,73 and the New Orleans Soul Festival74 were coveted and quickly sold out. The blues always had a spot at annual concert series organized by the FDJ. The traditional Liedersommer and Rocksommer events, two appealing open-air series, reserved an entire day for both domestic and international representatives of the genre.

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DT 64, the East German youth radio station, also had its merits as an event organizer. A “blues party” was arranged 25 May 1978, at the Palast der Republik, filling the large hall to capacity. Regine Dobberschütz, Stefan Diestelmann, and Hansi Klemm performed as vocalists accompanied by a jazz-rock orchestra called Fusion. Afterwards, Memphis Slim came on stage and was “enthusiastically acclaimed” (Baumert 1978), receiving a standing ovation from the 2,800 spectators. At the end, the grand master invited his East German colleagues to jam with him—and the press hailed it as “more than just a friendly gesture, it was a sincere recognition of their performance.” People praised the event, calling it “an unforgettable experience” (all citations: Linzer 1978), as the “major blues operation” that “could really get the audience vibrating” (Baumert 1978). It was called the DT 64 Jugendkonzert [DT 64 Youth Concert], and the same name was used by other events presented by Eddie Boyd and Jim Kahr,75 Roger Chapman & The Shortlist,76 Albert C. Humphrey and Denny Lee Hostler,77 and Al Rapone & The Zydeco Express.78 There were other, more intimate blues concerts with international performers that took place out of the spotlight, as they were held in “the backwoods.” Considering the conditions in East Germany, there was almost a gluttony of choice—and far more blues shows than Western rock and pop events, mainly due to their comparably low cost. American or English blues musicians of mid to high popularity were mostly hired by small German agencies on favorable terms. The Cologne event organizer Rolf Schubert described the conditions: At the time, the rate for an individual performer such as Louisiana Red or Little Willie Littlefield was 1,000 DM per concert (plus or minus) in “the West.” The East German artist agencies settled on the following process: 20 to 30 percent of the normal rate was paid in West German marks. The rest was multiplied by four, five, or six and paid in East German marks. So, for a Louisiana Red concert, it would be 250 West German marks and 3,000 to 4,000 East German marks. The artist agency did not really care how much they had to pay in East German marks, the negotiations were always about the foreign currency payment.79

There thus tended to be almost no risk in event organizing there: even without extensive advertising, tickets sold quickly. Small clubs did suffer from the payments required by artists agencies, so they tried to avoid those services. Behind closed doors, the concert organizer for the Dresden jazz club “Tonne” explained his preferred process: Foreigners should be obligated to bypass our state agency, as they always demand really high fees for special concert events. That is also our prob-

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lem. For instance, two years ago we had to pay 2,000 East German marks for a Vince Weber concert and even 3,000 for “Philadelphia” Jerry Ricks. And all that with Tonne’s low capacity of 200 and no outside financial support. (Wache 09.16.1985: 1)

By the end of 1976, there was a constant flow of blues imports into the country. The long list chronicles artists of many different styles, including: Johnny Shines and Robert Jr. Lockwood, James Booker, Willie Mabon, Louisiana Red, James “Blood” Ulmer, Little Willie Littlefield, Tommy Tucker, Piano Red, Philadelphia Jerry Ricks, Rosay Wortham, Johnny Mars, Doctor Ross, Frank Edwards, Big Walter Price, Errol Dixon, Charlie Musselwhite, Cephas & Wiggins, Gene “Mighty Flea” Conners, Johnny Copeland, Queen Yahna, Erwin Helfer, Katherine Davis, and Dave Peabody & Bob Hall. From time to time, there was collaboration between the East and the West. For example, Engerling toured with Johnny & The Drivers, the Mick Clarke Band and Lou Martin; and the Jonathan Blues Band accompanied Champion Jack Dupree, Peter Thorup, and Paul Millns. They often had private parties together after the concerts. Artists, journalists, and art patrons arranged for more relaxed encounters with the performers. Katie Webster sat down at the piano during an informal party in the town of Zeuthen in the spring of 1984. Stefan Diestelmann took Louisiana Red back to his place to jam with him. On 22 December 1976, James Booker had his East German debut at the Haus der Jungen Talente in East Berlin in front of a select group of about two hundred spectators. At the end, people convinced him to go to a club, where he played the piano brilliantly for another half hour, sweating “from every pore,” as “he had used his wages to buy himself a fur coat, which he was wearing” (Freyer 1977c). The press’ reaction to the concerts with Western artists was totally positive, with only a rare undertone of rebuke. One of those exceptions was the criticism of Cooper Terry, accused by the SED newspaper Neues Deutschland of being “a seller of the cheapest blues fare” (Starke 1980). Or the review of the DT 64 Jugendkonzert called Blues-Geschichten, which described it as developing into “a really exhausting, mammoth event” (Wicke 1981). International guests were lauded before they even arrived, as they were symbols of cosmopolitanism and “authenticity.” And as far as the musicians were concerned, many of them thought of their experiences behind the Iron Curtain as sacred. John Mayall was deeply impressed by the atmosphere, “It was fantastic. The blues fans raised us up like a wave, something tremendously important for a musician.” He spoke of the audience as remarkably “informed” (Grosser 1987).

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Rolf Schubert, whose clients regularly toured through the East,80 spoke about it all in a similarly euphoric fashion: People loved the music; and the all-night-long conversations and discussions stayed with you long afterwards. . . . I remember one gig particularly well. Errol Dixon was playing for a cultural event before the entire workforce of the Neptun Werft shipbuilding company in Rostock. There were the workers in their blue overalls, hearing boogie-woogie and rhythm & blues for the first time in their lives. Within the first half-hour, the audience had become electrified, and for Errol, it was one of the best concerts of his career. (Schubert 2008: 360)

All in all, what mattered most to the artists was what they got out of it creatively, not monetarily. They often had a difficult time spending their money sensibly in East Germany. As a permanent business partner, Rolf Schubert was accorded more financial flexibility: I had a kind of account set up for me at the artists agency. I also received a written certification that I was permitted to take wares of a certain value out of East Germany (exception: Meissen porcelain). I was also allowed to pay my private hotel with East German marks. I remember a very nice holiday on the Baltic in Kühlungsborn, which I took with my family at a labor union’s holiday retreat. As West Germans, we were really pretty exotic there. And in addition to that, I did my Christmas shopping in East Berlin for years.81

West German musicians were also full of praise for their time in East Germany. Many played in the socialist state over the years, including Knut Kiesewetter, Joy Fleming, the Dusty Broom Blues Band, Das Dritte Ohr, Vince Weber, the Electric Blues Duo,82 Gerhard Engbarth, the Delta Bluesband, Peter Bursch, The International Blues Duo,83 Olaf Kübler, and the Blues Company. Bernd Haake’s impressions were recorded in the German Communist Party’s paper, Unsere Zeit. In 1988, his eponymous blues band played in Dresden, Leipzig, East Berlin, and Halle. Despite his sympathies for East Germany, Haake’s views were in no way one-sided. He alluded to the smog in Saxony, urban misery, and the astronomical cost of luxury restaurants. While talking to the musicians from the Jonathan Blues Band, it “quickly became clear what dreamy conditions artists in this country enjoy. They have no financial worries, so they can concentrate fully on their work.” Nevertheless, the East Germans still saw the West through rose-colored glasses: “When we told them what our specific situation was like, they almost fell off their stools. And we were speechless when they told us about their 250,000-mark equipment. They complained it was difficult

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to get this or that instrument in East Germany, but I would just like to be able to afford those instruments.” The audience’s warm reception was further evidence to the Western musicians that they had found themselves “in a different world.” The band traveled back to Münster, deeply moved. “And after two days, my gitarrero calls and says, ‘Hey, are you having a terrible time settling back in here again like I am?’ ‘Yes!’” (all citations: Haake 1988).

In German: Blues and the Mother Tongue Many of the Bernd Haake Band’s East German colleagues would have disagreed with the above praise. Experiencing daily life in East Germany on a continuous basis gave them a different perspective; they were aware of its depressing sides and authoritarian aspects. Blues musicians in particular knew how thin the ice was there. Since their milieu was breaking political and behavioral norms, they swiftly ended up in the security agencies’ crosshairs. In contrast to the propaganda— which reduced the blues to a medium for the criticism of capitalism— many of its fans interpreted the music as a direct response to social conflicts in East Germany. It served as a soundtrack, as a device for a persistent youth culture in search of alternatives. They met to go to concerts on the weekend, where they could escape the system and engage in some excessive partying. A number of those performing bands took on an underground mystique; they did not appear in the media and all official stage productions remained closed to them. Operating in isolated village settings or within the Protestant Church’s sovereign territory, they occupied the safe spaces of private dance halls. Other blues bands solicited state recognition. They wanted to reach the largest possible audience, produce records, play the highly lucrative festivals, and perform outside of the country. Those who took that path often found themselves having to choose between street credibility and financial reward. Public media and official funding required compromise and they ran the risk of losing face by cooperating with the state. The life story of Stefan Diestelmann, East Germany’s greatest blues star is a good demonstration of just how fine that line was (in detail: Könau 2009). Born in 1949 in Munich, he was still a child when he moved to East Germany with his parents. Diestelmann was a singer, guitarist, and harmonica whiz, and was part of a variety of amateur bands. He joined Vaih hu in 1975, but he launched his own project two years later and the name says it all: Stefan Diestelmann Folk Blues Band.84 On the flyer was written, “Some of the group’s main role mod-

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els are: Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, Muddy Waters, B.B. King, T-Bone Walker, Taj Mahal, Robert Johnson and many others.” And about the bandleader, “He is mainly interested in the interpreters of black blues; he adopts many of their titles and reworks them” (Stefan Diestelmann & Co. Folk-Blues-Band-Berlin, n.d.). Diestelmann stood out in a scene dominated by rocking, “white” versions of the music; he preferred acoustic instruments and did without a drum set. A selfeducated musician and meticulous record collector, he set off a folkblues wave, acquiring countless fans within a few months. Blues pilgrims came pouring into his concerts. His quasi overnight success and high artistic quality sparked media interest. In 1978, Amiga produced an LP mixing together standards by Willie Dixon, Big Bill Broonzy, and T-Bone Walker with compositions by Diestelmann.85 With a style approaching jazz, many of the arrangements made room for violin, saxophone, and the mellotron. Fans gave the record top marks, calling it “real.” Keeping the cover songs’ English lyrics surely helped with that—their own pieces were all instrumentals, which was how they circumvented the unwritten East German media law requiring any productions created within the country to be composed in German. The song “Rockin’ the House” gave a boost to their authenticity ranking. It was recorded 25 May 1978 during a “Blues Party” organized by DT 64 in the Palast der Republik and showcased the harmonica soloist Stefan Diestelmann alongside Memphis Slim. That blues giant asked the rising star and the jazz-rock line-up Fusion to jam together on stage. Diestelmann was depicted as a man of the people on the record cover.86 He was shown in front of a crumbling house with various decorative elements, architectural refinements, and two blues harps representing the West German company Hohner. The collage brought diverging worlds together: East and West, art and decay, toughness and sentimentality. It would be almost impossible to present a more precise image of a particular life attitude. The musician also wore the symbols of the blues scene: long hair, full beard, plaid shirt, jeans, and Jesus sandals. Diestelmann’s debut LP received favorable reviews and sold 201,355 copies, more than any other blues album in East Germany.87 He was applauded for being a “technically-adept musician,” possessing “feeling,” “that characteristic sense for phrasing, varying the composition form, etc.” And when he completely lets himself go, his voice “shines” and is “full of warmth” (all citations: Lasch 1979). The youth magazine neues leben even wrote that, “every title is a showpiece in itself” (Martin 1978: 34). Without a doubt, the record was a “real smash hit” (Neumann 1979). “Diestelmann transposed the blues into our environ-

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ment in an original—never gimmicky or trendy—way. And the music he made together with many highly talented friends and colleagues is captivating, sometimes funny, almost always optimistic, and never cheap” (Kusche 1979: 127–28). Step by step, his scope of action widened as he broadened his artistic horizons. Although he was still performing in villages and youth clubs, he was also hired by radio and television. Diestelmann wrote music for theater, radio drama, and film. Tours brought him to the Eastern Bloc countries. His rise to success was practically meteoric, although he alienated some of his early fans. Now the concert series, such as Soli-Beat88 and Rock für den Frieden,89 which were scorned by the blues community, were using his name in their advertising. In response to a question asking why he would perform at the 1979 Festival des politischen Liedes,90 he answered without hesitation, “There will be those who will not understand why I am participating here. But I am of the opinion that as a blues musician, a person can, and should, contribute to the level of quality of this kind of event as well. Sometimes I get the impression that we are learning too little about ourselves, that we aren’t using our full potential.” And so why did he express himself in English in his songs? “You can make the blues with German lyrics, but I find that doesn’t work. Because in the blues, the lyrics and the music are one unit. So, when you try to replace the resonant and flexible English language with German, something gets lost, the blues gets amputated” (Heese and Scholz 1979). The second album was meant to revise that previous judgment. It was released in 1980 under the title, Hofmusik and showed another side of Stefan Diestelmann.91 Now he was singing in his mother tongue about daily life in East Germany, including depictions of his fellow human beings—usually ignored by the media—disrupting the sacred image of socialism. The lumpen proletariat, alcoholics, egotists, and the weak. Right from the start, Diestelmann put any hypocrite or sceptic criticizing him about his skin color in their place, “I play the black man’s blues / because he wanted us to understand them too.” And he directed the following lines at those fans for whom the lifestyle was more important than the music: “The blues needs understanding and love / And I play them like I want / And that’s why you should be here / Filling your heart instead of your gut.”92 The record strengthened Diestelmann’s image as a critical bard close to the people. Portraying himself as a coal porter on the cover, he told his stories from a backyard in Berlin-Prenzlauer Berg, in those days a traditional working-class neighborhood with a harsh environment. He skillfully drew a distinction between himself and opportunists, those loyal to the party

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line. In one song, Diestelmann sent a message by casually mentioning the Puhdys, the most successful East German rock band, which many had maligned as having “conformed.” He barked out sarcastically, “And there’s a drunken man singing in the backyard, lazy and insincere / And he’s singing a Puhdys song: ‘Don’t avoid the wind.’”93 The song, “Der Alte und die Kneipe” [The Old Man and the Tavern] garnered the most attention. Musically speaking, it pushed the limits of the pop ballad. From a social perspective, it demonstrated Diestelmann’s realistic view of the world. He clothed the topic of “isolation” in a touching story about a widower’s dull existence: every day, the old man goes to his favorite bar to be around people. But this trusted environment turns into a place of humiliation. In the afternoons, the “upand-coming drunks” push onto the premises, occupying it without any consideration for those who have always sat there. He is accosted and thrown out on the street; there is no place for him anymore. He swears never to go there again, but by the next day, he is standing once more in front of the entrance. Driven by loneliness, his life is empty and “he is doing the only thing left for him to do.”94 The title was played often on the radio and in discos and was Diestelmann’s greatest media success, storming the charts in East Germany. They had only one day of live recording for the Hofmusik album. In addition to his already proven colleagues, Diestelmann brought the highly-talented, nineteen-year-old pianist Alexander Blume into Amiga Studios, as well as session guests from Cuba and Czechoslovakia. Regine Dobberschütz took to the microphone to sing “Blues von der guten Erziehung.” She sang in a Berlin dialect about her physically abusive husband, reproaching her parents: “To what end did you, with all your might, / educate me so terribly well / If, in the end, you deceived me about what is most important / And instead of teaching me to walk on my own two feet / You turned my feet into yours.”95 Diestelmann clearly had an influential advocate in the media. Controversial topics were smuggled here and there onto the radio or on vinyl—but not usually in such concentrated form. Practically every song written for his second record scratched at the surface of society. The LP’s release provoked a powerful press response. Interviews and reviews characterized the musician as a critical, socially-aware person, who himself described his guiding principles as “honesty” and “conversations with people, with my audience, with my neighbors” (cited in Martin 1981: 34). One devoted journalist wrote that Diestelmann was able to shake things up and mobilize “our feeling of responsibility,” “because he doesn’t gloss over anything or paint a gloomy picture, he doesn’t romanticize it or complain, he doesn’t give up or moralize;

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he just says what is happening and talks about what he expects from each of his listeners: more understanding for one another, respect for others, kindness” (Hönig 1981: 35 and 36). Stefan Diestelmann’s success was unique in the blues sector. The album Hofmusik had an impressive print run, selling over 155,20096 copies, significantly more than other East German blues idols—although, it must be noted here that all the other musicians were selling in relatively high volume, considering that this was East Germany, a small country of only 17 million inhabitants. The band Engerling sold a maximum of 85,100 units97 per LP, the Hansi Biebl Band 81,025,98 Jürgen Kerth 52,000,99 Monokel 35,575,100 Zenit 26,200101 and the Jonathan Blues Band 23,300.102 One which in a sense stands apart from the others in the ranking is the Amiga Blues Band, with 149,850. It was a short-lived, all-star group that played covers of the standards. Alongside the well-known blues musicians, notable rock VIPs also contributed, such as Peter Gläser, Frank Gahler, Gerhard Laartz, Georgi Gogow, and Herbert Junck.103 In spite of his triumphal career, Stefan Diestelmann did not fit into the socialist entertainment industry’s image in the end. The blues’ worldview was too unaccommodating; it remained ideologically incompatible. Either the blues had to be played with complete resolution, thereby creating social friction, or be damned to irrelevance. Diestelmann demonstrated his penchant for kicking against the pricks and acting out against his own status in the media by performing live shows at the scene’s strongholds—where there were no flashing cameras. There, the songs unfolded with an enthralling effect. A Ministry of Culture report on a May 1979 event in Ilmenau in the East German county of Thuringia included the following rebuke: “Diestelmann took advantage of the alcohol-induced mood in the room, exploiting it with a kind of politically-critical singing.” He played the same exact songs that would appear on the Hofmusik LP a year later. “The content of these songs was unacceptable. They described the presumably degenerate life of a musician in the Prenzlauer neighborhood of Berlin (the room stinking, because there was a pile in the corner, and next to it the window was open, and they always did it by an open window)” (all citations: Wagner 06.11.1979: 1). Between songs, Diestelmann would pepper in a heretical comment here and there. He explained, “that it was very difficult for a young musician and writer here in East Germany, constantly having to expect stage bans.” He told the audience, and not without a hint of “a certain amount of pride,” that he himself had “already been banned from seven counties in the Republic.” Diestelmann, according to “in-

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Figure 4.5. Stefan Diestelmann, 1980 (photo by Stefan Hessheimer).

dividual attendees,” resembled a “Biermann copy” (all citations: ibid.: 2).104 They claimed he was an agent provocateur, “a representative of questionable professional artists who abuse their public activities to influence youth in a harmful way.” Time and again, he would get car-

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ried away and demonstrate overt political hostility such as the claims “that whoever listens to the Puhdys and watches the television show rund,105 also eats small children” or “that our state is a ‘shit-state’” (all citations: Wagner 07.06.1979: 2). The situation escalated. Officials were continuously summoning the intractable artist to face criticism and he quickly became a symbol of provocation for them. There were others who protected him for as long as possible. On 22 May 1981, Diestelmann was permitted to comment on the rampant prohibitions in a long Wochenpost article. His friend and official mentor106 Bernhard Hönig worked as the paper’s cultural editor and pushed the topic through—he was also the presumed author of the piece.107 Upon careful reading, it becomes clear the column was about more than just this specific case; the scope was much broader and included questions of principle. The article was a reaction to a letter, sent from the vaguely-named Rat der Stadt [municipal council], which had announced the cancellation of a concert under a dubious pretext. It began with the address line: “Dear esteemed colleague Diestelmann” and continued, “After speaking to local officials, we would like to refrain from holding the event, as other things are planned on that election Sunday” (Diestelmann 1981). Diestelmann responded by expressing his regrets and retorting: Election day and the blues, the way we play it, go well together. Indeed, I would be a bad citizen if I put myself and everyone who plays the blues and everyone who likes the blues out on the margins of society. Because the blues has never been there—not in the beginning, when it articulated the hard life and protest of hard-working, socially degraded and discriminated African Americans, and not here and now. (Ibid.)

The musician cited Erich Honecker and the tenth SED party convention, asserting that, “I don’t write a song ‘just for the heck of it’ these days. I have lived, seen, and experienced what I talk about. If someone doesn’t like some of those stories, well, I didn’t either—but I am telling people about them so that we can all have better experiences with each other (ibid.). With that newspaper article, Diestelmann was taking the bull by the horns. The text was both a loyalty pledge and the presentation of the case of an artist threatened with character assassination. Many other artists were treated in a similar way. Careers were consistently ruined; stars fell into disgrace and left the country disillusioned, crushed by limited possibilities and a manipulative system requiring them to engage in duplicitous cultural politics. In contrast to the SED’s claims, the system was not a monolithic construct. The central guidelines

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were exercised differently regionally and institutionally—and in many cases, simple pragmatism was what prevailed (in detail: Wicke and Müller 1996). Music commercially interesting to the company VEB Deutsche Schallplatten did not automatically have to work within the ideological confines of radio. A song might be sold a thousand times over, but never broadcast. Some doors remained closed even to those musicians who had been granted the government vocational certificate, the highest qualification. If they went against the state’s approved aesthetic parameters in the expression of their art, or infringed upon any ordinary citizen’s right to quiet, despotic officials would revoke their performance permit. Any objections to those rulings were countered with the “safety concerns” argument, namely the claim that the cancellation was about their inability to guarantee “order and security.” The “blocking” of artists on a county basis, a euphemism for what was actually a ban, was practiced widely. It was a good way to get rid of a “Pied Piper”108 such as Stefan Diestelmann and his large, hard-tocontrol fan base. And even though he played in front of the television cameras at the Festival des politischen Liedes—he was not permitted to play in Magdeburg and Karl-Marx-Stadt. Diestelmann’s career illustrates the schizophrenic nature of the machine. He was simultaneously celebrated and vilified, assisted and impeded. In August 1980, the Stasi placed him under Operative Personenkontrolle (OPK), an operation assuring around-the-clock surveillance of individuals.109 The justification provided was that his lyrics demonstrated “politically negative tendencies. He maintains extensive connections to the West and to privileged people from West Germany; journalists, for the most part.” He had also performed several defiant titles during one of the Bluesmesse [blues masses] at the Samariterkirche, a church in East Berlin. The OPK set its objective: “to work out the true motives for D.’s public performance. His connections and their nature are to be clarified. Measures for the restriction of his negative political effectiveness on the public are to be introduced” (all citations: Übersichtsbogen zur operativen Personenkontrolle 08.14.1980: 6). Diestelmann was supposed to be brought to his knees through “discipline” (Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Berlin, Abteilung XX/7 12.13.1981: 239). Due to his contacts with West German media such as the stations ZDF, RIAS, and NDR, as well as the weekly magazines Stern and Die Zeit, he was deemed dangerous as “outpost support for the opponent” (Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Berlin, Abteilung XX/7 06.14.1982: 371). It had also not escaped the Stasi’s notice that he repeatedly brought his musician friends from West Germany up onto the stage illegally,

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without revealing their identities. For example, he announced the Hamburg boogie-woogie pianist Gottfried Böttger as “Hans from Rostock.” To avoid making a big stir, they wanted to charge the delinquent musician with tax evasion, to file this tricky case away “with the initiation of criminal proceedings” (all citations: ibid.). According to the logic of the secret service, Diestelmann would lose credibility and be discredited as a criminal once and for all. “The steps taken against him must be such that they are designed to palpably diminish his public profile, to effectively degrade his personal reputation in his own circles, to prevent the emergence of any undesired solidarity with him” (Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Berlin, Abteilung XX/7 06.18.1982). In the West, they paid court to Diestelmann as an artist criticizing the system—but he was also noticed by the specialist and insider press. The German Blues Circle newsletter reprinted a self-portrait from the magazine Melodie und Rhythmus (“Stefan Diestelmann aus Melodie und Rhythmus 9/80 [DDR]”) and published a rather guarded review of the first album. The author found a lack of musical homogeneity but nevertheless concluded that, “Even just the release of this record is a success! It has taken us to new frontiers, which it will hopefully continue to develop” (“Stefan Diestelmann Folk Blues Band”: 26). The author knew what he was talking about, as he was also from East Germany. Bernie Ringe, a blues harpist from the West German city Hildesheim, had a more profound perspective as well. He had worked with Diestelmann many times in spite of all the barriers; and came to his defense when a colleague condescendingly criticized him for not being “authentic” enough. Ringe replied, “And so what do you think musicians in East Germany should sing about? About how they would like to tear down the wall? Or that what they’d like best is to pee on the Lenin Memorial? That is what the West Germans like hearing most, I think.” And yet Diestelmann “does not think about becoming a martyr for some West German blues Freak. And that’s a good thing!” (Ringe 1982). On 13 June 1984, Stefan Diestelmann defected to West Germany. The events leading up to his changing of sides demonstrated once again the extent to which the power structure was divided. In 1982, the Stasi announced a “ban on any trips to non-socialist countries or West Berlin.” It wanted to prevent the Cultural Ministry “from sending him to WB110 to study abroad” (all citations: Ministerrat der DDR 03.05.1982: 262 and 263). In the Stasi’s opinion, that would be a bad decision; after all, the musician was considered a dissident and potential escapee. Due to his “unexplained links to the political under-

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ground and to West German correspondents” (MfS, Hauptabteilung XX/7 11.24.1983), all Western concerts were cancelled. Diestelmann, who had received several requests to perform, defended himself in a petition to Erich Honecker in October 1983. His appeal was successful, granting him official authorization to travel in the West. He performed solo in several West German cities starting in March 1984. After performing at the Hildesheimer Festival Jazztime, he never returned to East Germany. Western media reported extensively on Diestelmann’s Republikflucht, his defection from East Germany to the West. They spread unverified legends about him, embellishing them with stories of alleged contacts in Hollywood, stylizing him as a “Prague Spring” barricade fighter (see Bockhoff 1985), and a “high-income earner of East Germany” (“Stefan Diestelmann” 1984). The newspaper Die Bild described his situation as “a German fate” (“Bester Blues-Sänger der ‘DDR’ bleibt bei uns” 1984), marked by that “unjust state,” whose acronym DDR was consistently put in quotations. When Diestelmann was asked about his explanation for traveling out of the country, he primarily provided artistic reasons. He did indeed have “a lot of freedom of movement” in the East, he said, and could “not really complain” in principle, but the institutions’ despotism, inertia, and incompetence would paralyze any creativity in the long run—so he had to pull the plug.111 While there was a flurry in the Western press, media in East Germany fell deliberately silent. The once celebrated musician was downgraded to persona non grata. His third Amiga LP112 was cancelled and the pressing plant’s 30,000 copies destroyed; any already distributed audio cassettes were pulled off the shelves.113 It was Diestelmann’s best work—it was coherently produced, had relevant lyrics, and was artistically mature—but it ended up in the shredder. He wanted to continue “singing about things up close. Things that are changeable” (cited in Hönig 1990: 3). By the time Folk Blues & Boogie was released on CD in the year of reunification, almost no one was interested in it anymore,114 and sales stayed in the fourfigures.115 Diestelmann vanished quickly from the scene in the West; soon thereafter, he took his leave from the music business entirely. In West Germany, people were ambivalent about bands who sang in German. For orthodox fans, they were considered second-rate, less “authentic.” Nevertheless, time and again, artists felt compelled to express themselves clearly in their own language. Gerhard Engbarth, the Charly Schreckschuss Band, Willy Michl, the Delta Bluesband, Williams Wetsox, and the Blues Company produced quite a few interesting songs and records in their German mother tongue or dialect. The most popular of all, however, was Das Dritte Ohr [The Third Ear] from

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Figure 4.6. Das Dritte Ohr: Udo Wolff (left) and Tom Schrader, Blue Note, Göttingen, 1980 (photo by Axel Küstner).

Hildesheim. Formed as a duo in 1968, the band quickly grew into a quartet116 and deliberately opted for a German name. They thought of it as an identity marker, as a coded statement. The singer Udo Wolff said the decision came at a time, “when you needed a third ear because the other two were all clogged up with psychedelic stuff” (cited in Albold and Bratfisch 1987: 274). While their first LP contained only English lyrics, Wolff later explained that “during those big printing industry strikes in the early 1970s, I discovered I had no desire anymore to sing in front of union colleagues in a language remote to them. . . . Things were too real for that” (Wolff 2008: 104).117 He called the blues “black music for the workers” (Wolff 1976), which could never be copied—but it could be referenced in order to apply it imaginatively to one’s own situation: “The blues has something to do with experience” and even though “we don’t have any cotton fields, we do have assembly lines” (Udo Wolff, cited in “Das Dritte Ohr” 1979). You get your kind of blues when your woman or your man leaves you, when you don’t have any money or are being pressured at the factory. And that kind of blues also grows a lot in the turnip fields of Lower Saxony. One guy gets drunk and the other lashes out (two strong traditions

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in Lower Saxony), the third runs away, and the fourth gets organized. We want to share some of these things with our music. (Ibid.)

In the process, the artist wanted to “entertain by all means, just not at any price.” Wolff described the blues as being, at its core, “a matter of skepticism” (ibid.). The second album, published by Teldec in 1980 and called Zahltag [Payday],118 took a linguistic U-turn. It established the band’s reputation with specific depictions of everyday life and socially-critical lyrics in their mother tongue that questioned West Germany’s social reality. The title song gave the underdog a voice: “On payday I go down to the station / to buy my cigarettes / Said I’ll be right back / It took two days / Cuz I started drinkin’.”119 Das Dritte Ohr scoffed at the song “Disco Fuzzies,” and sang instead of empty beds and broken hearts. “Kalte Wut” [Cold Fury] called out the hypocrisy of highly polished propaganda: “In school they tell you / Everything here is free and fair / No reason to celebrate my boy / Or do you know a jobless millionaire?”120 The crude language and the “weatherproof blues & boogie” that Zahltag promised in the subheading were too risky for some radio producers. Southern German stations even put the song “Mordwest-Stadt” on the blacklist, for, as noted sarcastically by Wolff, the song contained “a touch of overly resolute atheism” (Wolff 2008: 105). The following lines were the cause: “If there were a God / He must have stretched his ass out of the clouds long ago / To shit all over this neighborhood / Where people are dying wretchedly on the street.”121 Their next LP, Himmel oder Hölle,122 introduced political topics in a somewhat more controlled manner. One of the songs, entitled “Wo stehst Du” [Where do you stand], was particularly notable: “Even without big books I get it / It’s never the presidents / who croak in a war / And what are you?”123 Although Das Dritte Ohr caused offense and stirred up trouble, they had influential supporters backing them. Wolfgang Michels was at their side as producer124 and Manfred Miller wrote the liner notes for Zahltag. He raised a dilemma, which the band from Hildesheim had stubbornly defied: “Anybody who wants to play the blues in this country finds themselves confronted with the uncomfortable fact that almost nobody is listening—some aren’t because they don’t want to know anything, and others aren’t because they already know everything.” Das Dritte Ohr rejected the path of least resistance and instead decided to serve up “the hard, undiluted, nasty stuff” (all citations: Miller 1980), a propulsive, electrical blues learned from artists such as Elmore James, John Lee Hooker, Bo Diddley, and Little Walter. Zahltag received the “Preis der deutschen Schallplattenkritik” [“German Record Critics’

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Award”] and proceeded to become the “top seller of all West German blues productions” (Wolff 2008: 104–5) with 32,000 units sold. Although popular music magazines wrote rather mockingly about “this bunch of blues maniacs,” criticizing their work as “clumsy” and having “a certain homemade feel” (“Zahltag” 1981), with one even reprimanding them for being a “band of drunks,” “for whom 100 years of John Mayall went in one ear and out the other” (cited in Ehnert and Kinsler 1984: 86), the specialized press recognized their work. Even if their sound was “certainly not for purists,” (Meier 1981: 39) they were still an “exceptional phenomenon” (“Das Dritte Ohr” 1979) and were counted “among the best blues bands of Europe” (Meier 1982). “Germany’s Original Blues Band”125 gave live performances that had the “dancefloor jam-packed” (Seitz 1978), demonstrating that their concept was “completely” successful (Paul 1981). Even though the four musicians toured incessantly, they remained stuck in their niche. “With blues, you’re not going to cash in big. All in all, a well-organized laborer has a better income than a touring band member on the streets,” stated Udo Wolff. He gave the following advice to novices, “Try to make your own mistakes and watch that you don’t fool yourself. Or just become someone respectable, a specialized butcher with an official permit to produce minced meat, for example. Otherwise you run the danger of singing in front of high walls with empty pockets” (all citations: Wolff 2008: 98 and 107).

Far from the Mainstream: L+R Records The fact that a powerful corporation such as Teldec signed Das Dritte Ohr without demanding substantial compromises was an exception to the rule. German-language blues bands normally entered into contracts with independent labels. Their investment was redeemed without large-scale sales or publicity campaigns. L+R Records, Lippmann and Rau’s recording company, harbored a particular ambition. They were “in principle” (Lippmann 09.22.1981b) interested in acquiring the production rights to the East German artist Stefan Diestelmann’s second album, or in an in-house production (see Lippmann 09.22.1981a: 2).126 In 1983, during a peak phase in the arms race, they released Gerhard Engbarth’s LP Blues vom Frieden.127 The singer, guitarist, and harmonica player, who called himself a “bluesician and one-man band” (“Gerhard Engbarth” 1976) brought the existential question down to a personal level: “Hmm, I’d like to love every person / to lie and cheat no more / I don’t want to fight with anyone / I’d like to be at peace with

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everyone.” His understanding for others also included environmental concerns, “And I don’t need nuclear energy / What I need is warm feet / And I’d like to be able to fish someday again / in the Rhine and other rivers.”128 L+R Records attached tough conditions to the release of the LP, thereby minimizing their own financial risk. Engbarth was responsible for the studio costs and received “a one-time gross payment” of 1,000 DM (Vertrag zwischen L+R Records und Gerhard Engbarth 02.09.1983: 2 and 1). With the prominent Louisiana Red accompanying him, his marketing potential increased.129 Lippmann and Rau refined their company concept with L+R Records. In 1964, they left the institutional environment of the Deutsche Jazz-Föderation130 and founded the Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro GmbH + Co. KG.131 Rau succinctly described their division of labor: “Horst was the buyer, I was the seller” (cited in Brigl and Schmidt-Joos 1985: 146). Or as Siegfried Schmidt-Joos put it: “Lippmann was the visionary, Fritz Rau the practitioner” (Schmidt-Joos 2002). The idea of preserving the music, not just bringing it to the stage, came up quite early on. Horst Lippmann recorded the AFBF and produced some of the artists on days off. Sonny Boy Williamson and the Yardbirds’ collaboration, recorded 8 December 1963 in London’s Crawdaddy Club, enjoys a legendary reputation to this day. The line-up included an eighteen-year-old “Mister Nobody” (Lippmann 1980) as the guitarist, a man who would later become world-famous, subsequently increasing the recording’s commercial value: Eric Clapton. Lippmann had negotiated the record contract with Giorgio Gomelsky, the Yardbirds’ manager. There were two drafts of the agreement, both signed.132 The first version budgeted for a compensation of £20 for each young musician, with all rights covered (see Contract between Horst Lippmann and Giorgio Gomelsky 12.07.1963a), the second guaranteed each of the Yardbirds £10 per title. Exclusive rights in Great Britain were accorded to the band, in return they were required to assume half the production costs. The Yardbirds were also forbidden from recording the songs with any other record or media company for a six-year time period. Lippmann retained the exploitation rights for America and Continental Europe (see Contract between Horst Lippmann and Giorgio Gomelsky 12.07.1963b: 1). Sonny Boy Williamson, the blues master and the real reason for the recording, was also paid in one lump sum.133 Philips began marketing the opus directly after Williamson’s death.134 In return for a six percent share in the profits, Lippmann ceded his rights for a ten-year period (see Vertrag zwischen Lippmann & Rau GmbH & Co. KG und Philips Ton Gesellschaft mbH 09.09.1965: 1–3). The club recording had been stored

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in a safe unused for a long time, and Lippmann said he was “happy at last” that he “could sell it to Philips and make up at least some of his costs” (Lippmann 03.16.1966). The timing turned out to be unfavorable, however: in the wake of the Yardbirds’ international success, the recording turned an unexpected profit—and Lippmann + Rau would now only receive a fraction of those earnings. That lesson may have been the impetus to establish their own label. In 1966, Scout Records was launched—a rather humble and short-lived pilot project, which produced only a handful of blues records and a jazz sampler.135 Toward the end of the 1970s, these entrepreneurs founded L+R Records; a new approach with a much larger scale. By that time, Horst Lippmann had almost completely removed himself from the routine daily organization of concerts. In 1974, Rau took over the sole management of the joint agency, as his partner only held a ten percent share at that point.136 Explanations for Lippmann’s professional withdrawal included health problems and a desire to spend more time managing his parents’ hotel, which he had inherited. In actuality, it was a conscious renunciation of business gigantomania. Lippmann + Rau had adopted the industry’s faster-higher-further approach; they had been putting on shows with rock and pop megastars in huge concert halls and sports stadiums. Lippmann decided to pull the emergency break and turn “back to the roots.”137 In an interview he said, “I disengaged, and also felt that I was being disengaged because Fritz had an entirely different concept. It didn’t speak to me anymore, I didn’t feel challenged anymore” (cited in Rieth 2010: 203). He began concentrating on the original core business of jazz and blues again, searching outside the mainstream, and providing creative support to artistic processes. In September 1979, L+R Records became legally certified. Lippmann had invested about one million DM in seed capital (see “L+R Records” 1980: 4). The office address was the same as his private residence in Dreieich-Buchschlag in the suburbs of Frankfurt. He took on the position of executive producer and creative director. A former CBS colleague, Heinz Hartmann, joined the team as manager while Günther Kieser came on as graphic designer. Lippmann and Rau started to buy back some of their old studio and live recording licenses from the 1950s, which formed the basis for the new label.138 The back catalogue contained “around one hundred LP productions” (Hartmann 06.12.1979: 1), among them AFBF clips, albums by J. B. Lenoir, Hubert Sumlin, and Eddie Boyd, as well as the Yardbirds and Sonny Boy Williamson collaboration. The latter was recompiled in 1980 with a different song selection and the addition of the words “with Eric Clapton” on the cover.139 The Yardbirds LP London 1963. The First Recordings!140

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also went back to that historical encounter, combining live takes from the Crawdaddy Club with studio versions. The specialist press had high expectations of L+R Records, with the promoters’ names acting as a quality guarantee. “Good music” was the focus, meaning jazz and blues first and foremost, but also folk, gospel, R&B, soul, and rock. In addition to the reissues, artists “were also given a chance who have only been able to demonstrate their creativity on records a little bit, or not at all, up until now” (all citations: “N eues deutsches Plattenlabel: L & R” 1979). Horst Lippmann and Heinz Hartmann planned on releasing thirty LPs a year (see Hartmann 06.12.1979: 2). As an independent label, L+R Records was dependent on external distribution channels.141 They were interested in reaching the broadest public possible, so they made offers to various cooperation businesses in Europe, the US, and Asia.142 After a year and a half, however, they had to concede there were limitations to all of their hard work: L+R Records would only be “exclusively represented”— in other words, tied long-term to a partner company—in West Germany, Switzerland, Austria, France, and Spain. Furthermore, it was declared that “we do export non-exclusively to, for example, Great Britain, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxemburg, Italy, Denmark, and the US, which should not prevent us from finding more purchasers there” (Hartmann 01.16.1981: 1). Before its legal establishment, L+R signed a “marketing and licensing contract” with Bellaphon Records on 1 August 1979.143 Bellaphon covered West Germany, Austria, and Switzerland and possessed “the international export rights,” as long as no other agreements were affected (all citations: Vertriebs- und Lizenzvertrag zwischen L+R Records und Bellaphon Records 08.01.1979: 1). L+R Records was required to produce at least ten LPs per year. For the same period, Bellaphon guaranteed “the purchase of a total of 30,000 albums.” Both were in charge of promotion. If Bellaphon received the records directly from the pressing plant and carried the manufacturing costs and the GEMA fees, it had to pay L+R a “net fee of 5.50 DM per LP and 4.80 DM for music cassettes” (all citations: ibid.: 4 and 6). Exports were sold to Bellaphon at 2.70 DM per LP (ibid.: 7). After two years, they renegotiated the contract, extending it to 30 June 1986.144 It strengthened Bellaphon Records’ position, giving them control over “exclusive worldwide” distribution and all logistics and production. L+R ensured an annual output of six LPs, the cost and revenue shares were adjusted, and Bellaphon took over the advertising (citation and information: Lizenzvertrag zwischen L+R Records GmbH und Bellaphon Records GmbH & Co. KG 07.01.1981: 2 and 5–6).145

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In order to be better able to protect and control his own rights and those of his artists, Lippmann founded the music publishing company Edition Lipra,146 which was involved in new projects and took care of clearing up difficult cases in the back catalog. The authorship of some of the songs was disputed in the case of the blues in particular. Recordings from the 1960s often found themselves in ambiguous legal territory. Lippmann checked old contracts and copyrights, contacted descendants, secured publishing rights—and retained his principles of high quality and integrity in the process. L+R Records maintained a dignified corporate identity; they placed value on uniqueness and class. Horst Lippmann often wrote the liner notes himself, Günther Kieser provided an attractive design. The records’ sound quality conformed with “the general standard for classical music pressings” (Vertriebs- und Lizenzvertrag zwischen L+R Records und Bellaphon Records 08.01.1979: 4). To generate publicity, the marketing department sent out samples to editors, freelance writers, and all kinds of multiplicators, including some East German journalists. Ten percent of each circulation was written off for review copies. Hit men or unobjective critics ran the risk of being taken off their list. Horst Lippmann considered stopping all collaboration with “detractors.”147 L+R productions were generally considered to be of high quality by specialists and fans. They praised their non-conformist drive, one which should be appreciated by any youth that has “had enough of two-chord rock, for whom the disco sound has become so pathetic, so stupid.” One commentator wrote that, without exception, the releases had an “outstanding recording and pressing quality” and were “notable for their knowledgeable liner notes and good photos.” The material was said to be “overall magnificent” (all citations: Blues auf L+R Records—Pressestimmen, n.d.: 1 and 2).148 West German blues fans rejoiced. A label in their own country was finally taking their music seriously, one that honored the spirit of tradition, one that did not flirt with streamlined sounds. Over the decades, Lippmann had maintained his affinity for the blues, which he felt was an expression of his “joie de vivre.”149 And the results were impressive. Alongside the AFBF samplers, his record company released numerable portrait LPs, for example: Piano Red, Big Joe Williams, Willie Mabon, Lurrie Bell & Billy Branch, Margie Evans, Eddie Taylor, Magic Sam, “Philadelphia” Jerry Ricks & Oscar Klein, Sunnyland Slim, Eunice Davis, and Al Rapone & The Zydeco Express. In spite of all the acclaim, their commercial success was limited.150 In 1981, Lippmann described the state of affairs as being generally quite dramatic, “At the moment, the record industry is in a very bad

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state and hardly selling any records” (Lippmann 09.11.1981: 2). Their bestseller in blues was the AFBF recordings and their most lucrative artist was Louisiana Red, although even those proceeds were relatively modest. In the primary marketing stage directly after their release, the LPs New York Blues151 and Reality Blues152 made 2,170.13 DM in royalties in 1980 (see Gawlitta 03.30.1981).153 Louisiana Red had been tied exclusively to L+R Records since 24 June 1979.154 According to his contract, he was required to play at least one album per year and be available for further recordings. Red was promised a seven percent profit share in West Germany and half that in the other countries (all information: Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Iverson Minter 06.24.1979: 1–2).155 L+R Records’ clients usually received a lump payment, which ranged from US$400 (see, for example, Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Doctor Joseph “Washboard Doc” with Lucky & Flash 02.04.1980: 1)156 to US$1,000 (see, for example, Contract between L+R Records GmbH and “Doctor Feelgood Piano Red” Willie Perryman 10.18.1980: 1) for an LP recording, accompanists could expect around US$300 (see, for example, Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Hubert Sumlin 01.23.1980: 1). Established names and up-and-coming artists obtained better conditions. Margie Evans, who created quite a stir on the German stage, was offered US$600157 plus four or two

Figure 4.7. Louisiana Red, Blues & Boogie Festival, Cologne, 1983 (photo by Axel Küstner).

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percent royalties, depending on the country,158 payable as of 7,500 copies (see Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Margie Evans 07.05.1982: 1; Rider to Contract between L+R Records and Margie Evans 07.05.1982: 1). Lippmann attested, “There is no other female blues singer who can be compared with her” (Lippmann 1982). They found some catchy words for Louisiana Red’s advertisement campaign as well: He “is like a natural phenomenon. Red never ‘plays’ the blues. Red has the blues, or rather, the blues has seized him, always and everywhere” (Engbarth 1983). Marked by a hard destiny, but not broken, he was called “a ‘roaming stranger,’ with no place to go and no place to stay.” His songs were said to possess a powerful poetry, to be full of “a sense of form, dynamics, and intensity which no one before him has ever achieved” (Lippmann 1979). Lippmann put a lot of energy into the collaboration and solved any disputes. The musician broke his exclusive contract with L+R Records several times, offering his services to American and British labels (see Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Iverson Minter 02.09.1983: 1). Due to his growing fan base, Lippmann held onto him.159 By the 1980s, Louisiana Red had risen to become “the busiest and most well-known blues musician in Europe” (Concert Büro Rolf Schubert 06.01.1984: 1). L+R arranged joint tours with Eric Burdon and Klaus Doldinger’s Passport, they booked him for jazz festivals and the AFBF. Fritz Rau had the singer and guitarist, who had moved from the US to Hannover in 1981,160 performing at election rallies for Die Grünen [The Green Party].161 Red traveled several times to East Germany. He appeared in small, informal clubs as well as at the big open-air shows, and was accompanied by Diestelmann at the Rock für den Frieden festival at the Palast der Republik in 1984. One fan gushed over his first performance in East Berlin, 23 November 1977: “It is difficult to describe my state, mental as well as physical, after the event. It was the completely unexpected fulfillment of my dream” (Freyer 1979).162 Before L+R signed Louisiana Red, industrious fans and small agencies in West Germany had gotten his music out to the public. They made private recordings and organized concerts, wrote reviews and profiles. These groups—which held considerable expert knowledge and maintained extensive contacts— provided an invaluable service in laying the groundwork for the blues. Without their commitment, this small, yet vibrant and colorful scene, would never have been viable. Lippmann recognized that in order to survive such a niche existence they needed willing fans to help advertise, gather information, and provide counsel. He soon began networking; hiring individuals to organize the events, manage the tours, and record the concerts. A spe-

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cial kind of teamwork united him with Siegfried Christmann and Axel Küstner. Christmann possessed the relevant expertise, as he had run the agency Ziggi Music since 1971 and founded the blues label Ornament Records in 1976.163 Küstner was known for his sensitive photos of artists, taken during prolonged trips abroad. In 1978, he spent six months crossing the US to find out what remained of country blues. Once back in Germany, he would evaluate the audio recordings together with his friend Siegfried Christmann. They were so “powerful,” that they decided “to find a sponsor for the next trip, which would be better organized and have professional technical support,” remembers Christmann, who goes on to say, “that it could only have been Horst Lippmann, which should be clear to anybody who knows him as an enthusiastic blues fan, tour organizer, and record producer unencumbered by superficial commercial interests” (Christmann, n.d.: 1).164 In the fall of 1980, Küstner and Christmann traversed the United States for L+R Records.165 They were searching for the musicians who were adhering to that “authentic” sound but being ignored by the media. Unlike numerous fans and researchers before them, they did not think of it as the conservation of a dying culture. Küstner described his motivation in the following way: “From the beginning, it was our intention

Figure 4.8. Champion Jack Dupree with an LP produced by Siegfried Christmann, Blues & Boogie Festival, Cologne, 1983 (photo by Axel Küstner).

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not to undertake a dry, scientific research, which would probably only reach a few insiders, but rather to present an entertaining collection of good Country Blues that would appeal to the record buying public.” At the same time, they wanted to sharpen people’s sense of tradition, their ancestral awareness. The crux of the idea was to record musicians in their home environment with mobile equipment instead of in the studio (citation and information: Küstner 1981).166 Küstner and Christmann spent two and a half months driving a total of 16,000 km [almost 10,000 mi]. They took hundreds of photographs and immortalized thirty-five artists on 54 km [about 34 mi] of recording tape.167 Lippmann released the recordings as the Living Country Blues USA series. First came the double LP in 1981, which covered the entire spectrum and was planned as an introduction to the music that would generate sales interest. From that time until 1983, twelve volumes were released. Each one was dedicated to a different state, region, or city168 and went by a particular thematic title, for example, The Road Is Rough and Rocky, Afro-American Blues Roots, and Mississippi Moan. Carefully structured and with expert liner notes, Küstner and Christmann had created an acoustic map of country blues in the United States. Most LPs were considered samplers; a couple provided complete artist portraits. The spectrum of performers ranged from older veterans such as Sam Chatmon and Hammie Nixon to the duo Cephas & Wiggins, which transported country blues to the here and now. Othar Turner & The Rising Star Fife and Drum Band took the listeners back to African roots; Flora Molton, Boyd Rivers, and Cora Fluker struck a chord with their gospel music. Walter Brown, Joe Savage, and Lonnie Pitchford brought the blues back down to its archaic essence, while Lottie Murrell, Guitar Slim, and Arzo Youngblood coaxed a rollicking “country boogie” out of their instruments. In the US, these musicians were barely even noticed; they were thought of as antiquated and unmarketable. Lippmann took the risk and gave these unknown, forgotten, or obscure artists a forum. He was perhaps hoping it would have the same effect for him as did the American Folk Blues Festival. With the series Living Country Blues USA, Lippmann once again took up that old principle of “authentic documentation” and followed it consistently. Directed at an international audience, the records were sold as “original field recordings.” The compelling, profound nature of the design was impressive. Küstner’s black and white cover photography showed the musicians submerged in the music; they captured the hard life in the rural South, one full of deprivation, in a kindred way. His pictures exuded dignity and worldly wisdom, revealing a particular eye for substance, for the nitty-gritty.

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Attentive observers could find themselves in those images. Küstner was also responsible for the expert liner notes, which favored sober facts over a shiny patina, and took the reader along with them on the trip. He reminded people that the blues musicians’ skills came from their social experience. About Memphis Piano Red, “an easy-going, massive man of seventy-seven years and an excellent barrelhouse piano player,” he wrote, “He is forced to lead the same hand-to-mouth existence he experienced fifty years ago when he was hopping freight trains.” James “Son” Thomas from Mississippi “is still living ‘across the tracks,’ behind the railroad in the black section of Leland, a run-down and rough part of town.” Many, who have to lead their existence there, “have no other way to escape the hopelessness and misery of the daily existence than to get drunk or high. This is where the blues comes from, and there is nothing romantic about it” (all citations: Küstner 1981). L+R Records wholeheartedly promoted Living Country Blues USA as “a minor sensation.” In a distortion of the facts, they claimed, “There hasn’t been anything comparable to this since Alan Lomax’ ‘Field Recordings’ project more than twenty years ago, which is already legendary today” (all citations: L+R Records News, n.d.: 1). The record company also proclaimed it as “one of the most expensive projects ever undertaken to document the living ‘country music’ of the black population of America;” it was “unique” (all citations: ibid.: 1 and 2). Lippmann’s demonstrative emphasis on the idea that the series constituted a pioneering ethnological work suggests that the project was an object of prestige for them, rather than primarily a commercial project. Whether they recouped their costs remains unclear. There was a budget of 1,900 DM for each LP. With that, they had to cover all expenses up to the physical production, that meant Christmann and Küstner’s services, all artists’ fees, publishing rights, trips, cover art, and texts. Christmann, who functioned as the producer and contract partner,169 received a revenue share from two or one percent, depending (information: Produzentenvertrag zwischen L+R Records GmbH und Siegfried Christmann 09.11.1980: 2 and 3).170 In light of the small budget, the musicians’ wages seemed almost generous.171 They ranged from US$100 (see, for example, Agreement between Siegfried A. Christmann and Arzo Youngblood 11.11.1980)172 to US$400 plus royalties, up to US$0.40 per LP sold (see, for example, Agreement between Siegfried A. Christmann and Archie Edwards 11.30.1980).173 There was a total remuneration of US$5,400 (see Christmann and Küstner, n.d.).174 Siegfried Christmann repeatedly objected to the limited financial resources. From the US, he wrote that the money “is nothing like enough” to cover expenses, and that “the cost for gas alone has doubled since we made our cal-

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culations” (Christmann 10.15.1980). He and Küstner had invested 29,144.30 DM—with ten thousand of that out of their own pockets (see Christmann and Küstner, n.d.). Horst Lippmann began feeling frustrated with their progress. Although they had the contract option to release at least ten more LPs after the first installment of Living Country Blues USA (see Produzentenvertrag zwischen L+R Records GmbH und Siegfried Christmann 09.11.1980: 5), they decided to abandon it. Internally, Lippmann admitted he was not satisfied with the material: “the quality ranges from good to average.” Moreover, he complained of poor collaboration with Christmann and Küstner, which had cost him a lot of strength, claiming that “everything” proceeded much too “haltingly,” that agreements were ignored, and that Christmann had actually “possessed the nerve to release recordings from his American trip on his own label, Ornament” (all citations: Lippmann 09.10.1981: 2). He was talking about an LP with Memphis Piano Red and Guitar Slim.175 Lippmann felt it was “macabre” that he “had waited almost a year for the tapes, texts, and photos for the publication of the series,” while “at the same time Ornament had already put out a record from this production trip” (Lippmann 08.31.1981). For him, it was a “flagrant breach of contract” (Lippmann 01.08.1982: 3), which violated his exclusive rights. Christmann defended himself and pointed out that things had become difficult in general. Enthusiasts such as himself were abused as “useful idiots.” “Naturally, it is generally the case that the (blues) business is primarily sustained by people who are either paid insufficiently or barely at all; and I am sick of it” (all citations: Christmann 12.21.1981: 1 and 2). Under unfavorable terms, he and Küstner had: . . . taken on so much hard work, as only real fanatics (or maybe: fools) do. We had to economize so much that we even slept in the car many nights and recorded under conditions no professional would have accepted (to say nothing of the fact that we had almost no days off during those three months.) For that, we are not asking anyone to kiss our asses, but we should not be expected to save costs at our end to make the project financially feasible. (Ibid.: 1)

The idea of the disputed Ornament LP originated when it became clear “that we would (once again) be the ones supposed to chip in financially.” “With this, we had hoped to at least recoup a small part of the additional expenditures in the short term that we had spent in the States from our private money” (all citations: ibid.: 2). In spite of his disgruntlement, Christmann underscored that he “in no way found that things had gone too far off the tracks for fruitful collaboration to

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be possible,” and thought “that we can all clear it up soon” (ibid.: 3). Lippmann relented and took no legal action. He also promised not to make the matter public to his distribution partner Bellaphon Records, to which he was accountable. The concluding sentence sounded conciliatory, “I am glad that the first part of our series has come to a joyful and positive end for all participants; and that we will collaborate closely at every opportunity in the future as well” (Lippmann 04.07.1982: 3). And their paths did indeed cross once again176—although they never worked together on large-scale projects again. Their tension-filled cooperation revealed different concepts of professionalism, integrity, and business practices. They loved the same music—but were not playing the same tune.

Notes 1. Berendt 1968: 316. 2. On the early 1960s British Blues Revival, see Schwartz 2007a: in particular 73–184. 3. Full page advertisement in Der Musikmarkt 1/1970: 17. 4. Commercial label for the German-language variety of new wave influenced by British punk rock. 5. In addition to the event series named in the following, the blues held a permanent spot in the line-up at Jazz Life in Dortmund, the Jazzfestival Balver Höhle, the Jazz- und Bluesnight in Schwalbach am Taunus, and as part of the Frankfurt Hot Jazz & Blues Weekends, the Internationale Jazzwoche Burghausen, and the Münchner Jazzfest. 6. The Berliner Jazztage was launched in 1964 and has been held annually in the Western part of the city ever since. Joachim-Ernst Berendt acted as artistic director up through 1971. In 1981, the series was re-named Jazzfest Berlin. 7. British festival series, which has toured through various cities in West Germany since the 1970s. 8. Starting in 1974. 9. First held in March 1977. 10. First held in Ludwigshafen in 1978. 11. This series came out of the Festival Jazz Lights, which began in 1977. 12. Festival program that went on tour across West Germany starting in 1980. 13. First held in March 1981, called the Hamburger Bluesfestival starting in 1987. 14. Since 1983. 15. Both starting in 1984. On the history, aspirations, and dimensions of the Blues in Lehrte festival, see Verein zur Förderung der Musik- und Jugendkultur—Blues in Lehrte e. V. 2008. 16. Since 1986.

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17. For impressions, pictures, and a summary of all the Gaildorfer Bluesfest programs, see Kulturschmiede Gaildorf 2007. For a historical outline, see Eichele and Karcher 2010. 18. For a complete list of all mottos and artists, see Schroeder 2008: 394–95n1. 19. For a long time, Jazz Podium remained the leading voice. Occasionally, modern blues records by Buddy Guy, Otis Rush, Alexis Korner, Janis Joplin, and Johnny Winter were reviewed. 20. The laudable book series Rock Session. Magazin der populären Musik, which appeared as a Rowohlt paperback series starting in 1977, should be noted here. The seventh volume was devoted to “black music” (see Frederking and Humann 1983). 21. Teldec Import Service, abbreviated TIS, had been part of the company since 1975. 22. The rock musician Wolfgang Michels was responsible for compiling and producing the music; the liner notes were written by Manfred Miller. 23. Information according to Wolfgang Michels, cited in Hess (1981: 49). 24. Ornament Records was founded in 1976 by Siegfried Christmann in Coblenz. 25. Taxim Records was founded in 1977 in Bremen by Hans-Hermann Pohle and Bernd Jürgen Link. 26. CrossCut Records was founded by Detlev Hoegen in Bremen in 1981. On the history of the label and distribution, see “Der Blues ist keine Weltmusik” 2010. 27. Even the record company pläne, which had a leftist political orientation and specialized in songwriters and world music, had several blues LPs in its import series, which were primarily recordings by Folkways Records. 28. This development can be broadly reconstructed based on information in the section Jazz im Funk, printed regularly in Jazz Podium. For a time, this service was also called Jazz-Rundfunkprogramme, Funk-Jazzprogramme, or other similar titles. Furthermore, notices and summaries in the Blues Forum, the GBCI, and the GBG provide additional clues. 29. Alongside the AFBF recordings, various blues slots at jazz festivals and in the concert series Ohne Filter, which was produced by SWF starting in 1983, the blues was most at home at the Rockpalast. The television series was begun in 1976 by WDR and broadcast performances by artists that could be categorized as “blues” or “blues rock,” including Muddy Waters, Bukka White, Albert Collins and The Icebreakers, Champion Jack Dupree, Rockin’ Dopsie and His Cajun Twisters, Alexis Korner, Louisiana Red, Rory Gallagher, the Paul Butterfield Band, Johnny Winter, Joe Cocker, ZZ Top, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Van Morrison, Eric Burdon, Little Feat, Roger Chapman, Dr. John, The Fabulous Thunderbirds, John Hiatt, Mitch Ryder, George Thorogood and The Destroyers, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Taj Mahal. A complete list of the artists of the first decade, which is generally considered the “classic” phase of the Rockpalast, can be found in Rüchel and Wagner (1985: 17). On the history of the Rockpalast, see Rüchel 2008. 30. The show’s scripts, which discuss the development of popular music up until 1947, were published in book form in 1976 (Kuhnke, Miller, and Schulze 1976). On the origins of the series, see Miller 2008: 36–37.

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31. The written version including fifty-two CDs released 1998 (Kuhnke, Miller, and Schulze 1998). 32. According to the authors, “applying historical and dialectical materialism to music history” was the fundamental principle of Roll Over Beethoven (Kuhnke, Miller, and Schulze 1976: 5). 33. Biographical details can be found in Schmidt-Joos 1986. 34. All transcriptions from a private recording from the two transmissions. 35. N ame of a 60s youth subculture, which stood out due to the members’ long hair, idleness, alcohol and drug use, as well as their cool attitude and fanatical love of rock music. On the West German Gammler phenomenon, see Siegfried 2006: 399–428. 36. On the political evaluation of African American music in East Germany, see Rauhut 2011b. 37. That was the name of a show broadcast on the stations Deutschlandsender, MDR Leipzig, and Berliner Rundfunk five days a week beginning at the end of the 1940s. The monthly magazine USA in Wort und Bild, put out by Deutscher Funk-Verlag starting in 1950, also engaged in antiAmerican propaganda. Both media formats were closely linked to one another and were regularly cited by the programming guide Der Rundfunk either per the advanced copy or the reprint. 38. From the title of a picture, which illustrated the regular partial reprint of the journal USA in Wort und Bild in Der Rundfunk (see “Die im Schatten leben” 1950). 39. On the international role of Paul Robeson, see, for example, Creighton 2007. The creative works and political perception of the artist during the Cold War is the topic of a comprehensive study by Perucci (2012). 40. Paul Robeson’s strengths lay in his concert style; he was not a blues singer. “When he recorded the bluesy ‘King Joe’ backed by the Count Basie Orchestra, Basie commented that Robeson could not sing the blues” (Creighton 2007: 127). 41. See also Robeson 1958. 42. This slogan was used as the title of the German translation of Paul Robeson’s biography Here I Stand. Both editions, the original and the licensed one, published in 1958. 43. Pankey had lived in France and Great Britain, starting in 1950. Both countries deported him due to his political activities (see Adam-Beyer 1962). 44. Lyrics and music: Aubrey Pankey. 45. According to legend, Etta Cameron lost her American passport (or it was stolen) on a concert tour in 1968, and for that reason she was unable to leave East Germany for the next five years (see, for example, Østlund 2008: in particular 119–71). It is highly probable, however, that hidden behind that were both personal reasons and a secret service plot. William Flyckt, Etta Cameron’s husband and manager, and adviser to many East German artists, began collaborating with the State Security Service in 1965. Two years later, the Danish citizen was recruited as an unofficial collaborator by Hauptabteilung XX/4, which monitored churches and religious communities. Flyckt’s code names were “Bill” or “Henry” on the Stasi’s payroll. He was deployed “to observe political-clerical activities stemming primarily from West Germany and directed against East Germany.” Because he

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46. 47. 48.

49.

50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55. 56. 57.

58. 59. 60.

61. 62.

63. 64.

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“did such excellent work in this area,” they were interested in long-term cooperation with him (all citations: MfS, Hauptabteilung IX/2 10.08.1973: 144 and 145). On the political and social function of popular music in the safe spaces created by East German churches, see Rauhut 2017. The reasons for the desertion were of a private nature, not political. James W. Pulley had fallen in love with a woman from Sachsen-Anhalt. This label was even applied to the small number of vocalists with media presence who had already integrated blues elements into their repertoire in the 1950s and 1960s. For instance, Fred Frohberg was praised for the fact that he popularized “the music of the American Negro, the music of the other, the real America” (Malsch 1962) in East Germany. The actor and songwriter Reiner Schöne performed in the sixties as a folk/blues interpreter. For Amiga, he produced the “Ledernacken-Blues,” an agitprop song against the Vietnam War rendered in Dixieland style. Reiner Schöne/ Jazzin’ Kids: Pauls Traum c/w Ledernacken-Blues (Mr. President), Amiga 4 50 582, DDR 1966. Asriel’s study, published in West Germany as well in 1968, was accused of having, among other things, a “poor understanding of jazz” (Straka 1979: 215). Published simultaneously in East and West Germany as Negro Spirituals. The book came out in 1981 in West Germany as well. On its development, see: Lehmann 2007: 79–82; Lehmann 2009. For example, the Deutsche Staatsbibliothek in East Berlin, the Deutsche Bücherei in Leipzig and the Sächsische Landesbibliothek in Dresden. Interlibrary loans were also possible to some extent. The library at the Center for Popular Music Research at Humboldt University Berlin had a relatively good selection. Private imports of printed materials from the West were regulated. Books were mostly smuggled into East Germany (see Goll 2008). On its development, see Albold 2010: in particular 485–88. The GBCI printed the same review 8/1988: 4–6. The interviews with Wolfram Bodag, the head of the band Engerling, and Jürgen Kerth, which were published in Jürgen Balitzki’s book Rock aus erster Hand were revealing. They provided rare insights into the East German blues scene (see Balitzki 1985: 39–47 and 59–67). See the entry “Blues” in Wicke and Ziegenrücker 1985: 65–76. See the section “Blues und Rhythm & Blues” in Wicke 1987: 22–30. Muddy “Mississippi” Waters: Live, Blues Collection 1, Amiga 8 56 128, DDR 1984 [released 1985]; B.B. King, Blues Collection 3, Amiga 8 56 180, DDR 1985 [released 1986]. Information provided by Sony Music Entertainment Germany GmbH. Email to the author, 12 June 2014. James C. Booker: Let’s Make a Better World! Live in Leipzig, 29. Oktober 1977, Amiga 001–91, BRD 1991. The LP was only released as a “white label.” On its origins: Heinicke 1991. VEB Deutsche Schallplatten was responsible for the music selection in the intershops. For example: Jazz vor zehn (Radio DDR I), Blues—Jazz—Rock (Radio DDR

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65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74.

75.

76.

77.

78. 79. 80.

81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88.

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II), Das Jazz-Panorama, Stars—Sounds—Hits (both Stimme der DDR) as well as Mitternachtsblues (Jugendradio DT 64). You could hear the broadcast Trend—Forum populärer Musik on DT 64 as well, with the series Blues-Geschichten put on their program at the end of the 1980s. All transcriptions from a private recording of the broadcast. The premiere on East German television was 19 May 1980. Concerts in Leinefelde, Halle, and East Berlin, 3 to 5 April 1987. East Berlin, Palast der Republik, 5 and 6 April 1987. East Berlin, Insel der Jugend, 12 July 1987. Concerts in East Berlin and Halle, October 1987. East Berlin, Palast der Republik, 17 January 1988. East Berlin, Palast der Republik, 18 January 1988. Open air concerts in East Berlin and Dresden, 1 and 2 June 1988. East Berlin, Werner-Seelenbinder-Halle, 5 October 1989. With Solomon Burke, Johnny Adams, Irma Thomas, Barbara Cole, and the N eville Brothers. East Berlin, Werner-Seelenbinder-Halle, 17 and 18 March 1987. DT 64 Jugendkonzert Blues-Geschichten, East Berlin, Palast der Republik, 15 October 1981. Angelika Weiz, Stefan Diestelmann, and Jürgen Kerth were also there. DT 64 Jugendkonzert Blues & Rock, East Berlin, Palast der Republik, 3 June 1982. The East German scene was represented by the Hansi Biebl Band. Roger Chapman performed several times in East Germany up until 1985. DT 64 Jugendkonzert Big Band aktuell, East Berlin, Filmtheater Kosmos, 24 October 1983. Albert C. Humphrey, who moved to Munich in 1974, performed repeatedly in East Germany. DT 64 Jugendkonzert Die Geige in der Rock- und Jazzmusik, East Berlin, Palast der Republik, April 1985. Email from Rolf Schubert to the author, 11 August 2014. Schubert acted as a booker for Louisiana Red, Little Willie Littlefield, Robert Jr. Lockwood & Johnny Shines, Errol Dixon, Dr. Ross, Archie Edwards, and Al Rapone & The Zydeco Express, among others. Email from Rolf Schubert to the author, 11 August 2014. Electric Blues Duo: Colin Hodgkinson and Frank Diez. The International Blues Duo: “Detroit” Gary Wiggins and Christian Rannenberg. Original line-up: Stefan Diestelmann (voc, g, bj, harm, perc), Rüdiger Philipp (b), Dietrich Petzold (v), Bernd Kleinow (harm). Stefan Diestelmann Folk Blues Band, Amiga 8 55 633, DDR 1978. Design: Bernd Scheubert. Information according to Sony Music Entertainment Germany GmbH, email to the author, 12 June 2014. Benefit concert series started in 1974 to support the state’s foreign policy and socialist development aid in so-called developing countries. The proceeds were made available to the East German Solidarity Committee. Neue Berliner Illustrierte (NBI) and DT 64 functioned as the main organizers until 1981; after that it was the Generaldirektion beim Komitee für Unterhaltungskunst [Directorate General for the Entertainment Arts Committee].

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89. A thematic rock festival held annually between 1982 and 1987 at the Palast der Republik. Promoter: Palast der Republik, the Generaldirektion beim Komitee für Unterhaltungskunst [Directorate General for the Entertainment Arts Committee] and, starting in 1983, the Zentralrat der FDJ. 90. Annual East Berlin international event series started in 1970 under the direction of the FDJ. 91. Stefan Diestelmann Folk Blues: Hofmusik, Amiga 8 55 793, DDR 1980. 92. From the song “Blues Geschichte” T/K/A: Stefan Diestelmann. Lyrics printed courtesy of Amiga, Sony Music Entertainment Germany. 93. From the song “Hof vom Prenzlauer Berg.” T/K/A: Stefan Diestelmann. Lyrics printed courtesy of Amiga, Sony Music Entertainment Germany. 94. See the song “Der Alte und die Kneipe.” T/K/A: Stefan Diestelmann. 95. From the song “Blues von der guten Erziehung.” T/K/A: Stefan Diestelmann. Lyrics printed courtesy of Amiga, Sony Music Entertainment Germany. 96. This and the following information is from Sony Music Entertainment Germany GmbH, email to the author, 12 June 2014. 97. Engerling, Amiga 8 55 597, DDR 1978. 98. Hansi Biebl Band, Amiga 8 55 716, DDR 1979. 99. Jürgen Kerth: Komm herein, Amiga 8 55 780, DDR 1980. 100. Monokel: Fünf nette, junge Herren, die 1a Kraft-Blues machen!, Amiga 8 56 233, DDR 1986. 101. Zenit und Big City Blues Band: Dr. Blues, Amiga 8 56 115, DDR 1985. 102. Jonathan Blues Band: Überdruck, Amiga 8 56 297, DDR 1987. 103. Amiga Blues Band: Not Fade Away, Amiga 8 55 991, DDR 1983. 104. Wolf Biermann: songwriter and dissident who was expatriated from East Germany in 1976. 105. Political East German TV youth show that used rock music as a lure. 106. Mentors were supposed to support artists with cultural-political guidance. They worked mostly in media and were paid for these extra responsibilities. Bernhard Hönig was hired by the Generaldirektion beim Komitee für Unterhaltungskunst to look after Stefan Diestelmann. 107. One can only speculate on the extent of the Stasi’s involvement. Bernhard Hönig, who “up until 1981 collaborated unofficially with the HVA [Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung],” asked state security for assistance with Diestelmann’s case. They agreed to make sure to forge “genuine ties between Diestelmann and East Germany” together. “St. Diestelmann must feel like he can work in East Germany. However, it must also be made clear to him that he has to follow the laws of East Germany, for example, the event regulations” (all citations: Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Berlin, Abteilung XX/7 06.22.1982: 373 and 374). 108. A wry self-assessment (see Wagner 07.06.1979: 1). 109. On the OPK as a state security strategy, see Suckut 1996: 271–72. 110. WB = West Berlin. 111. Transcription of an interview with Stefan Diestelmann, broadcast by Deutschlandfunk on 15 June 1984 at 6:05 a.m. (Staatliches Komitee für Rundfunk 1984: 13). 112. Stefan Diestelmann: Folk Blues & Boogie, Amiga 8 56 042, DDR 1984.

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113. 7,000 cassette tapes were produced—of those, 1,500 were sold before the recall. All information according to Sony Music Entertainment Germany GmbH, email to the author, 12 June 2014. 114. Stefan Diestelmann: Folk Blues & Boogie, musiCando 2160 025, BRD 1990. 115. Information according to Sony Music Entertainment Germany GmbH, email to the author, 16 July 2014. 116. Das Dritte Ohr: Udo Wolff (voc, harm), Tom Schrader (g, voc), Helmut Meyer (b), Ferdi Peters (dr). 117. Udo Wolff later clarified his remarks: the strike took place in 1976, Das Dritte Ohr composed “Drucker-Blues” especially for the occasion (see email from Udo Wolff to the author, 25 September 2014). 118. Das Dritte Ohr: Zahltag. Wetterfester Blues & Boogie in unserer Sprache, Teldec 6.24397 AP, BRD 1980. 119. From the song “Zahltag.” T: Udo Wolff, K: Traditional, A: Tom Schrader/ Udo Wolff. Lyrics printed courtesy of Udo Wolff. 120. From the song “Kalte Wut.” T: Udo Wolff, K/A: Udo Wolff/Tom Schrader. Lyrics printed courtesy of Udo Wolff. 121. From the song “Mordwest-Stadt.” T: Udo Wolff, K/A: Udo Wolff/Tom Schrader. Lyrics printed courtesy of Udo Wolff. 122. Das Dritte Ohr: Himmel oder Hölle, Teldec 6.25140 AP, BRD 1982. 123. From the song “Wo stehst Du.” T/K: Ellas McDaniel, German lyrics: Udo Wolff. Lyrics printed courtesy of Udo Wolff. 124. Wolfgang Michels remembers debates lasting months before they signed the deal to have the company Teldec as their partner: “As I was the deal negotiator—and was supposed to be and wanted to be the producer—I insisted that we retain full artistic freedom. I helped a lot by doing that. There was no compromise. When the first Teldec LP, Zahltag, was finished, those responsible almost didn’t know what to do with it; they seemed rather shocked. And they were then completely surprised by the good sales figures and media reaction” (email from Wolfgang Michels to the author, 20 July 2014). Udo Wolff added, “They accepted German because Lindenberg was their top seller, which gave us a jumpstart.” (Udo Lindenberg: the most commercially successful West German rock musician at the time.) The rock singer probably put in a good word for Das Dritte Ohr. Otherwise, Wolff “always had the feeling that, at the core, the Teldec apparatus didn’t understand what we were doing” (email from Udo Wolff to the author, 25 September 2014). 125. Das Dritte Ohr’s self-promotion. 126. In addition, they wanted to present “new East German artists in the songwriting field and for German-language rock on the L+R-Label” (Rau 09.06.1982a). 127. Gerhard Engbarth: Blues vom Frieden, L+R Records, LR 44.011, BRD 1983. 128. Both citations: from the song “Blues vom Frieden.” T/K/A: Gerhard Engbarth. Lyrics printed courtesy of Gerhard Engbarth. 129. Louisiana Red participated on eight tracks as the guitarist and harmonica player. He received a one-time payment of 400 DM (see Contract between L+R Records and Iverson Minter 02.09.1983: 2).

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130. Horst Lippmann and Fritz Rau headed the DJF’s concert department. 131. On the history of the company, see Hennessey 1980. 132. It remains unclear which of the contracts was binding in the end. The cited amounts are meant to provide some idea of the financial magnitude. 133. The contract copy is damaged, making it impossible to ascertain the amount of payment beyond doubt. However, it is obviously a low, threefigure amount (see Contract between Horst Lippmann and Sonny Boy Williamson 12.07.1963). 134. First editions in Europe: Sonny Boy Williamson & The Yardbirds, Fontana SFJL 960 (stereo) and TL 5277 (mono), UK 1965. In the US and West Germany, the LP came out in 1966. 135. The distribution was organized by CBS. 136. Fritz Rau later brought on different “junior partners” to the management team, including: Mike Scheller, Rüdiger Hoffmann, and Hermjo Klein (see Rau 2005: 132–34). 137. Even though the company’s unity and cohesion were outwardly preserved, Lippmann and Rau’s ambitions developed in different directions. Many sources describe them as having opposing personalities: Lippmann was “rather introverted” (Rieth 2010: 164), while Rau was rugged and choleric, “a money maker at heart” (Adelt 2010: 97). From a positive perspective, Fritz Rau was seen as having the “right combination of music and business” (Hess 1987). 138. There is documentation of the agreement with Phonogram. For the re-transferal of all usage rights, L+R Records had to pay “1,000 DM per LP plus sales tax” (Kommerell and Schmökel 06.28.1979: 2). 139. Sonny Boy Williamson & The Yardbirds with Eric Clapton, L+R Records, LR 42.020, BRD 1980. 140. The Yardbirds: London 1963. The First Recordings!, L+R Records, LR 44.001, BRD 1981. 141. Artists were also encouraged to sell their records at the concerts. They had to pay 12.50 DM plus sales tax per LP to L+R Records. The recommended store price did not go “under 17.90 DM” (Hartmann 10.17.1980). 142. Their contacts ranged from large, renown companies to enterprising small labels. They included the Vanguard Recording Society and Flying Fish (US), the Société Française de Productions Phonographiques (France), EMI, and Flyright Records (Great Britain), EDIGSA (Spain), Young Records (Italy), Hilversum Music (The Netherlands), and Victor Musical Industries (Japan). 143. German record company with headquarters in Frankfurt am Main and Vienna. 144. Starting in 1986, L+R Records is run as an imprint of Bellaphon Records. 145. A later supplementary agreement expanded the contract to include the CD as a new medium (see Anhang zum Vertrag vom 01.07.1981 zwischen L+R Records und Bellaphon Records 04.16.1984). 146. Lipra was affiliated with the MOP-Musikverlag Hans Sikorski KG. 147. The catalyst was a polemic against the AFBF written by Manfred Miller (see Lippmann 09.21.1981b: 1).

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148. The citations were ascribed to the following publications: Main-Echo, German Blues Circle Info, tip and Jazz Podium. 149. Statement on the cover of the LP American Folk Blues Festival ’85, L+R Records, LR 50.003, BRD 1985. 150. Even prestigious productions had poor sales. The Yardbirds LP London 1963. The First Recordings! and Sonny Boy Williamson & The Yardbirds with Eric Clapton were the top L+R Records’ exports during the first half of 1981, directly after release. During that time period, the first sold 717 and the second 610 units (see Exporte 1. Halbjahr 1981 07.30.1981). 151. Louisiana Red: New York Blues, L+R Records, LR 42.002, BRD 1979. 152. Louisiana Red with Sunnyland Slim Blues Band & Carey Bell: Reality Blues, L+R Records, LR 42.011, BRD 1980. 153. According to estimates, Louisiana Red sold around 4,000 LPs in the first year and a half (see Hess 1981: 49). 154. It was a three-year contract renewed several times; the last (verifiable) contract extended it until June 1986 (see Agreement between L+R Records GmbH and Iverson Minter 06.24.1984: 1). 155. The royalties were calculated based on the wholesale price minus production costs, taxes, and other charges. Louisiana Red was guaranteed a minimum of US$1,000 per LP. 156. Each of the three artists received US$400. 157. Her six accompanists took in a total of US$1,600. 158. For West Germany, four percent, and two percent for all other countries. The calculation was based on the wholesale price, which was estimated at fifty percent of the retail price. 159. In the beginning, Lippmann + Rau held events with Louisiana Red in addition to his studio duties. Concerts remained his primary source of income. For example, he received US$4,800 for a twenty-four-day tour in April and May 1980 (see Agreement between Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro GmbH & Co. and Iverson Minter 07.16.1979: 1). 160. Starting in the 1960s, some American and British blues musicians made West Berlin or West Germany their home, including: Eb Davis, Sidney Selby, Nick Katzman, Queen Yahna, Curtis Jones, Rosay Wortham, Gary Wiggins, Champion Jack Dupree, Willie Mabon, Jim Kahr, Albert C. Humphrey, Jerry Ricks, Tom Shaka, and Steve Baker. 161. Louisiana Red took part in a 1983 series of election events across West Germany called Grüne Raupe. Alongside politicians, artists from the environmentalist and peace movement participated. Fritz Rau was responsible for its organization. 162. Together with Doctor Ross and Tommy Tucker, Louisiana Red performed the full-length program Blues USA, held on 23 and 24 November 1977 in the main lecture hall of the East Berlin Hochschule für Ökonomie. The promoter was the Kreiskulturhaus Berlin-Mitte. 163. In the early years, Ornament released LPs by John Lee Hooker, Blind John Davis, Sunnyland Slim & Big Time Sarah, Louisiana Red, Doctor Ross, Willie Mabon, Memphis Piano Red & Guitar Slim, and Richard Bargel, among others. Their bestseller was Champion Jack Dupree. His

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165. 166.

167.

168.

169. 170.

171. 172.

173.

174. 175. 176.

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record Alive, “Live” and Well had sold about 4,500 exemplars by 1980 (see Christmann 02.27.1980: 1). Champion Jack Dupree: Alive, “Live” and Well—Oh Lord, What Have I Done . . . , Chrischaa CB–30.3302, BRD 1976. Christmann expressed similar praise about Lippmann at another point, saying he was “now as ever a passionate blues fan without any of the attitude of a ‘hard’ business man” (Christmann 1978). They had submitted their concept to Horst Lippmann seven months before (see Christmann 02.27.1980). The equipment included a tape machine, a mixing console, microphones, and various cables; it weighed 86 kg (see Christmann Living Country Blues USA—Introduction, n.d.: 1). Information from an editorial note printed on the record jackets of the series Living Country Blues USA. According to Siegfried Christmann, there were 56 km [about 35 mi] of tape, and therefore about 43 hours; and about 7,000 images (see Christmann Living Country Blues USA—Introduction, n.d.: 3). Among others: Virginia, Highway 61, Washington, D.C., Tennessee, Arkansas, the Mississippi Delta, Louisiana, Delaware, N orth Carolina, Maryland, and the East Coast. According to the legal notice, Axel Küstner was the assistant producer, Horst Lippmann ranked as “executive producer.” There was a one percent profit share outside of the country, two percent in West Germany. The rates were halved “for sales in the low-price category,” meaning “if the administered retail price is over 25 percent under the full price” (Produzentenvertrag zwischen L+R Records GmbH und Siegfried Christmann 09.11.1980: 3). In interpreting the monetary amounts listed in the following, note that the US$ to DM rate of exchange was 1:1.9 at the time. Over the course of a year, the artist had to be available for the recording of “diverse selections” (Agreement between Siegfried A. Christmann and Arzo Youngblood 11.11.1980). Sales outside of West Germany, in the low-price segment, by mail order, through book clubs or the like, were compensated with fifty percent of the royalties (see Rider to the Contract Dated November 30, 1980 between L+R Records GmbH and Archie Edwards 11.15.1982). Musicians who only made a small contribution, or who played exclusively as accompanists, were paid US$40 to US$80. Memphis Piano Red & Guitar Slim: Play It a Long Time, Daddy. Old Time Barrelhouse Blues, Ornament CH–7.516, BRD 1981. Horst Lippmann released Big Joe Williams’ Field Recordings, produced by Axel Küstner between 1973 and 1980. Big Joe Williams, L+R Records, LR 42.047, BRD 1983. For the master tape, liner notes, and images, Küstner received a one-time payment of 2,500 DM (see Vertrag zwischen L+R Records GmbH und Axel Küstner, n.d.: 1).

CHAPTER 5

I’m Drifting and Drifting Daily Routines

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Imagine You are standing at a window And you stretch your arms out wide And the air around you gets all soft And then you fly And then you fly Simply away —Hansi Biebl Band/Thomas Schmitt1

Niches and Biotopes: Scene Action Spaces Every now and then, West German media would announce the arrival of a blues wave—one that would wash out target group thresholds and pull in a rock audience with an eye to tradition—yet, this musical culture remained a niche phenomenon. As it went widely unnoticed by the industry, the scene organized itself. Committed fans, artists, and small business owners created cohesive and tenacious networks, arranging for their own record productions and concerts. They worked self-sacrificingly and effectively, renouncing high profit margins and a costly administrative apparatus, thus remaining relatively crisisresistant. Siegfried Christmann let it be known that his goal was to “connect authentic blues musicians with clubs and promoters for an acceptable price” (“Folk Blues Stars in Deutschland” 1972). Similar to Ziggi Music, the agency operated by Christmann since 1971, the concert bureaus of Rolf Schubert2 and Norbert Hess,3 filled any significant remaining gaps outside of the commercial horizons of the multinational industry:4

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The 1970s and 1980s was a grand era for the blues in Germany. There were innumerable performance opportunities. The cities had money and were still maintaining real culture departments. It was not rare to see tours with thirty to fifty scheduled events. The first blues festivals were held. For a solo appearance—many pianists, some guitarists—local promoters paid between 500 and 1,000 DM. The musicians received US$150 to US$300 per concert. I compensated the road manager (not very well), and somehow there was enough left over for me. (Schubert 2008: 356)

Even though the business amateur lived on the brink of self-exploitation, he felt “privileged”: “I could meet all of these great musicians and hear their stories” (Schubert 2008: 356). Rolf Schubert’s positive retrospection, based on a comparison to later years of famine, is relativized by numerous contemporary critiques. A 1979 German Blues Circle observation stated that, “There were almost too many live events, and, in terms of time and money, it was barely possible to go to all of them.” Artists and agents “do good business, as a rule, however, those booking the musicians take a loss.” There were considerable risks, as illustrated by the following example: A concert in Frankfurt with Homesick James and Snooky Pryor would have cost between 3,000 and 4,000 DM, in a hall for 500 people. Admission would therefore have to cost between 6 and 8 DM in order to close out at ± 0, assuming the concert is sold out. In the Frankfurt scene, however, that admission price is impossible with musicians of that level of name recognition, in a place saturated with music. Besides, it is more than uncertain whether the hall will fill up. A loss of around 500 to 1,000 DM must be calculated from the onset. (“Editorial” 1979e: 1)

There are plenty of devastating stories. For instance, Doctor Ross in Kaiserslautern and Mainz attracted just fifteen attendees. The German Blues Circle reported pessimistically, “The state of the blues in Germany is due to the economic situation in the cultural sphere, which is not very good” (information and citation: “Protokoll der 2. ordentlichen Mitgliederversammlung des German Blues Circle” 1979: 103). Over and over, promoters found themselves in the critics’ crosshairs. For instance, Schubert was accused of unscrupulousness when he called Willie Mabon’s reasons for canceling an early 1979 tour “threadbare.” Although Mabon had used family problems as an excuse, it was clearly only so that he could play more lucrative shows in Switzerland and Italy. One colleague got publicly worked up about Schubert’s alleged greed, threatening he would “not fail to warn musicians about him.” His attacks hit below the belt: “It is intolerable to see how black musicians are hounded on tour, without any consideration for their

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personal well-being, and how white masters once more rake in the money without giving a damn about the welfare of the musicians who are making money for them” (all citations: Köhsel 1979). Schubert replied with an extensive counter statement that provided a glimpse behind the scenes of this kind of blues tour’s organization: The respective musician is engaged for a fixed fee over a certain period of time, usually three or four weeks. This fee is between US$600 and US$1,100 per week for six concerts. For a three-week tour therefore, the musician is obligated to play eighteen concerts with three days free. The musician receives the fixed wage regardless of whether all eighteen concerts are played. (Schubert 1979b: 3)

On top of that came: flight tickets, hotels and transport, advertising, a road manager, and the agency’s considerable office and administration costs. “Most clubs,” continued Schubert, “take in 100 to 200 attendees, for the large part young people, secondary school and college students, which also limits the price of tickets. The fees negotiated with the clubs are therefore anything but rosy.” He claimed it was senseless to believe “one could get rich in this business” (all citations: ibid.: 4); and that the suffering artist cliché defied reality: The story of the white master exploiting the poor, black musician, has not been true for a long time now, at least not here in Europe. Most musicians who come on tour earn more here in three or four weeks than they would see in a year in the States. There is not a single musician who I have “hounded” on tour, it was much more the case that musicians were soliciting me, imploring me to take them on tour again as soon as possible, as they continue to do. (Ibid.)

Following Rolf Schubert’s “open letter,” Willie Mabon’s management joined in and lodged serious accusations against him (see Leiser 1979), which he again refuted in a rebuttal (see Schubert 1979c). It was their word against his. The German Blues Circle Info, which had printed “Willie Mabon’s war of the letters to the editor,” regretted that “no ceasefire” had been reached and ended the debate between the disputing parties (see “Editorial” 1979e: 2). The agency Christmann & Schaaf received a similar public scolding after a John Lee Hooker concert tour, illustrating the lack of productive debate culture affecting wide sections of the West German blues biotope. Fans divided themselves up into factions and fought heated trench warfare. They created absurd regulations, stipulating down to the last detail who was allowed to play the blues, how it should sound, and who was permitted to make money from it. There was a question-

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able flipside to their deep love for the music, one governed by hypersensitivity and intolerance, which Christmann & Schaaf experienced when they brought John Lee Hooker over to Germany in June 1976. The diverse opening line-up kept the public on tenterhooks, but once the star of the evening finally stepped up to the microphone, many were disappointed by Hooker’s “commercial” transition. They wanted to hear the bleak sounds of a lonely bard, not the loud Coast to Coast Blues Band accompanying him. One critic was appalled at the “cold, deafening electro terror” and blamed John Lee Hooker: “It is remarkable how quickly he has joined in with the rock scam that is so common now, one which forbids the provocation of before, diminishing it to an aesthetic principle. Rock, indeed blues as fascism—blues and jazz fans’ hair is standing on end.” According to him, Hooker had celebrated “the blues on the edge of scandal,” with “domineering gestures” and “the cold obsession of a mob leader.” The reviewer’s final judgment was devastating, “Today’s electrified popular music has initiated a naked lust for power, which is not satisfied by economic profit alone, for here, power itself appears to savor its own escalation and irrationality” (all citations: Bachmann 1976). More restrained critics expressed their hope, “that Mr. Christmann will appeal to Hooker during the upcoming tour to not completely adhere to the style of the earlier concerts. Maybe he should play alone one time, and ask the audience for requests, and not let the ‘warm-up musicians’” abuse their instruments “for too long” (“Konzertberichte” 1976). Siegfried Christmann dismissed those allegations, calling them overblown. “Of course, Hooker is commercial, of course he adapts to the trends, plays rocky and funky. . . . Social romanticists are out of place at a Hooker concert.” One should never lose sight that, “what the public expects from people like Hooker, and rightfully can expect is ‘fun’! Are joy, boogie, pleasure, etc. counter-revolutionary? It is high time for public reflection on the underlying racism of professional ‘blues fans’!” (all citations: Christmann 1976). Attendees who did in fact have fun at the concerts took Christmann’s side. They deplored the aggressive wording, the ignoble accusation of fascism, and held up a mirror to the firing squad: “German blues fans sometimes seem ridiculously stiff— in comparison with the audiences in other European countries—but there is a certain pathetic humor to the idea of determining their expectations based on that as a principle” (Gebhard 1976). Some also expressed reservation and opposition to the artists born in Germany. Those purists, mocked by more liberal music lovers as the “blues police,” maintained a narrow understanding of authenticity and demoted those bands to second class. As far as they were concerned,

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those performers lacked the motivating social force of African American suffering out of which “real” blues emerged. And yet a respectable scene had developed in the 1970s, with names at the forefront such as Das Dritte Ohr, the Blues Company, Abi Wallenstein, Lösekes Blues Gang, Richard Bargel, the Frankfurt City Blues Band, Christian Rannenberg, the Pee Wee Bluesgang, Axel Zwingenberger, and Vince Weber.5 They occupied a significant part of the niche and were on the road incessantly. By their own account, the Osnabrücker Blues Company, one of the busiest bands, held around three thousand concerts within just thirty years (see Todorovic 2004: 7).6 Das Dritte Ohr played 117 gigs in 1978, which brought in an average monthly net wage of 800 DM per member (see Rüb 1979). Now and again, musicians would form associations in order to build networks and better protect their interests. The Action Issue Network (founded in the early 1980s by Manfred Paul Galden in Wuppertal) and the Blues Cooperative Berlin (launched by two local bands in 1979) had a relatively long lifespan. The latter’s goal was: To get to know each other outside of the dreary bar atmosphere and infighting, to collectively defend ourselves against the exploitation and underpayment by some promoters, to exchange experiences and information, to abolish competitiveness, to make music together, to avoid the infighting about performances and wages, to be able to advertise ourselves better, and to organize events ourselves. (Donisch 1980: 13)

Within one year, the cooperative had recruited thirty artists as members, which adequately represented their city. They provided “regular blues programs in different Berlin bars” as well as various concerts; they brought their first festival to the stage—the Blues Tage 1980—from 20 to 22 June. The roughly six hundred daily attendees had the opportunity “to meet all of the Berlin blues musicians” (all citations: ibid.). The idea was to break open communication barriers and strengthen the feeling of community. To that end, there was “a free blues workshop” every afternoon, where “experiences between beginners, interested parties, and musicians” were exchanged (ibid.: 14). Personal initiative was also required for the media sector. In the larger music journals, the blues was dealt with as a side note; they only devoted space to playing styles situated at the interface between rock and soul. For more specific information, one had to look to alternative channels. In November 1980, the first German journal exclusively reserved for the genre, Blues Forum, was released.7 Although it was run by music fans with no education or professional experience in the magazine publishing industry, its aim was to assert itself in the com-

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mercial sector, to differentiate itself from the consciously unprofessional character of fanzines with their democratic intentions. A West Berlin chemistry student named Thomas Gutberlet took up the position of editor. Norbert Hess came on to assist with the editorial responsibilities starting with the fourth issue. The Blues Forum appeared on the market quarterly and won people over with its diverse array of topics, expert perspective, and attractive layout. Distinguished authors, musicians, and photographers were counted among its freelance contributors, such as Axel Küstner, Teddy Doering, Klaus Kilian, Götz Alsmann,8 Tiny Hagen, Udo Wolff, Fritz Marschall, Siegfried Christmann, Manfred Miller, the Belgian blues researcher Robert Sacré, as well as the renowned musicologist and ethnologist Alfons Michael Dauer, professor of African American Studies at the Kunstuniversität Graz. In the first edition’s editorial, Thomas Gutberlet presented the journal’s motivations and aspirations, writing that, despite its significance in music history and current popularity, the blues was “the least observed style” of all; there was a lack of “comprehensive and more detailed information.” The publication wanted to respond to that deficiency (see Gutberlet 1980a). Readers were offered thirty to sixty black and white A49 pages with extensive artist portraits, historical treatments, travel reports, as well as reviews of concerts, records, and books.10 They would learn about upcoming releases, tours, radio and television broadcasts.11 Gutberlet and his colleagues followed a broad understanding of the genre, emphasizing diversity and pluralism. Pioneers and veterans had their place within its pages just as much as promising young talent. In terms of form and content, the Blues Forum was a modern magazine.12 It put the focus on contemporary blues, distancing itself from the usual retro mania, which was made clear from the onset in the first edition with its depiction of Albert Collins on the cover: a musician pointing the way toward a new era. In contrast to the traditionalists’ insider platforms, the journal opposed all aesthetic fatalism and celebrated evolution instead. Instead of being ridiculed contemptuously and written off as calculating sellouts, the succeeding generation of artists was treated with respect. Robert Cray was “the most important blues innovator of the 1980s”13 in the magazine’s opinion. A 1984 record review defined the front lines: This Orwellian year is not the first in which the question has often been broached: Does the blues have a future? Many will already have dug the grave for the blues, their eyes wet with crocodile tears; others have been holding its requiem mass for years now, in commemoration of the good old times, when the blues was still honest and pure. May they continue to hole up in their cubbyholes, dreaming of sad cotton pickers, locking

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themselves away from any development in their surrounding environment, and the resulting musical responses. How and why should I reject any kind of change to a form of music that is established so thoroughly on emotions and personal experiences and events, which are all highly environmental? (Hoyer 1984)

One article on Sugar Blue—whose harmonica playing was known to disco-goers thanks to the Rolling Stones hit “Miss You”—had the provocative title: “Wir haben nicht mehr 1950!” [“It’s Not 1950 Anymore!”] (Holzheuser 1983). The paper called Stevie Ray Vaughan, someone who brought pain to nostalgists’ ears, “a phenomenon” (Hoyer 1986) and a “full-blooded blues musician” (Trebron 1986: 13). At the same time, the author avoided completely agreeing with his sycophantic followers and questioned the trend towards the “fancy finger technique and dazzling show” (ibid.), while uncovering a certain “star cult logic” behind the guitarist’s comet-like rise: “Stevie Ray Vaughan’s steep career trajectory does not have as much to do with musical substance, with his uniqueness or artistic significance for the blues,” as with the fact that the media “out of nothing, talked him up as a ‘legend’ (!)”; that is how the “business” worked (ibid.: 12 and 13). The Blues Forum did not publish as much on the bitter, ideological battles that were fought elsewhere. The abiding theme, whether a white person could play the blues, was only touched upon lightly, occasionally emerging from between the lines. For instance, one book review declared that: The blues does not only live through language, it is closely linked to the personal life situation of those concerned and is a reflection of an overall mood and social environment. Feeling the blues means experiencing the bright and dark sides of black America. Only those born into that environment can respond to that—that emotional world remains all but closed to us. The profound aspects of the blues cannot be transferred over to our reality without seeming artificial. (Klose 1981)

Issue 16 dedicated a separate article to the “old fight” (Trebron 1984c: 15). The author characterized the blues as the product of complex transcultural processes and explained its sustained impact with the loss of individuality in the modern era. He claimed this experience applied to everyone. That “which is so readily identified as the ‘blackness’ of blues is something else fundamentally, namely the authenticity and honesty of emotion, which musicians—whatever their skin color— bring to the groove” (ibid.: 19). Ineradicable attributions describing African Americans as “emotionally reactive and particularly strong and beautiful people physically,” while claiming that white people pos-

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sessed a strictly rational disposition, were labelled “racism of the worst kind.” He concluded that “white blues as such is just as legitimate as black blues” (all citations: ibid.: 21). Compared to the endless debates led by fanatics and Pharisees, this finding was practically revolutionary. In one aspect, the Blues Forum barely differentiated itself from other media platforms: it barely touched on the local scene. Issue 13 published the following self-critical assessment, “In the twelve issues so far of the Blues Forum, the only German blues magazine, German blues bands have not been represented particularly generously, even though a lively scene has developed there since the mid 1970s” (Holzheuser 1984: 29). Even though local bands could only be found in the review section and in the general column “Alles (Un-)Mögliche,” they were at least guaranteed to receive the same amount of attention enjoyed by international artists there. The Hoochie Coochie Blues Band from Hanau was praised for their boundless joy of playing while being encouraged to use German lyrics. The Charly Schreckschuss Band was said to provide an illuminating example of how to avoid the usual awkwardness when singing in the native tongue. According to the article, their songs were only occasionally clouded “by the grim seriousness and swaggering exhibited by some other German bands.” This group had stepped out from behind the shadow of the great role models and was continuously “working on its musical identity” (all citations: ibid.: 31). Christian Rannenberg, attested to be “an excellent blues pianist,” played in The International Blues Duo with the saxophonist “Detroit” Gary Wiggins, and together they challenged all the “pigeonholers.” He was said to have “long since [mastered] the slow tempos and sparse notes with outstanding authenticity, after the initial, overly wild boogie mania” (all citations: Trebron 1984b). The Blues Forum basically ignored the East German scene. It sporadically printed reviews of concerts performed by American artists, penned by Winfried Freyer, one of the most active and knowledgeable blues aficionados in the country. A resident of the Thuringian town of Kahla, he rarely missed an opportunity to experience live music, crisscrossing across East Germany, Poland, Hungary, and the former Czechoslovakia. Despite the economy of scarcity and rigid import restrictions of the SED regime, he accumulated an enormous body of expert knowledge and established a comprehensive sound archive. For several years, he worked tirelessly on a blues lexicon—an unmanageable, mushrooming, time-devouring project—which did not interest any of the publishing companies in the end, neither in the East nor in the West.14 Freyer maintained contact with industry insiders and fans all over the world; he exchanged records, printed materials, and

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information. He was even known to the inveterate collectors in West Germany. They would meet up in East Germany; packages and letters were sent back and forth. Even separated by a wall, Freyer was an integral part of that community. On 2 May 1983, Thomas Gutberlet wrote Freyer asking him if he could write “articles and/or reviews of blues artists from the country blues realm” on occasion for the Blues Forum. He was offered free copies, records, and books in trade (see Gutberlet 05.02.1983b). Freyer was excited by the “appealing” idea and provided the following answer: Of course, I can’t hide that I’d be very interested in reviewing some records for the Blues Forum, besides, a free copy would come out of it, which would surely fulfill some of my most ardent dreams. I’ve been interested in blues music since 1967,15 with a main focus on pre- and postwar country blues as well as Chicago blues. However, over the years I’ve expanded my horizons somewhat; and so now inevitably every aspect and every style of this music interests me. I’ve been “seriously” involved with the whole thing for eight years now, that is, I’ve been sort of evaluating all the accessible material (it’s [sic] another story!), just because I have such crazy fun with it—but I need a computer soon not to lose track. (Freyer 05.12.1983: 1)

Freyer, who had already written many times for the Western Germany’s German Blues Circle Info and other Western European magazines, provided Gutberlet with a few contributions; for example, one on Al Rapone & The Zydeco Express (see Freyer 1984) and another on the American Folk Blues Festival in Dresden (see Freyer 1983). Theo Lehmann’s name came up every now and then in the Blues Forum as well (see, for example, Lehmann 1982a and 1982b). Gutberlet became the contact person for some East German blues fans, as his address was published by other West German media and illegal copies of the paper were circulated. He was almost always asked for records and books. In return, he was offered Amiga LPs, Eastern Bloc productions, photo books, and nonfiction literature. Gutberlet understood the precarious situation beyond the border and helped where he could. Jazz club employees asked if he had connections to international agencies and kept him up to date on their own activities.16 Freelance journalists sent samples from the East German press, requesting their expertise and the addresses of Western record companies while offering their services. Gutberlet signaled “that we are interested in all information about your blues scene, . . . a ‘Blues in East Germany’ article would be very interesting.” Nevertheless, they did not want to allow portraits of East German musicians at the moment, “because the Blues Forum focuses on black blues and the artists performing here

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as guests are considered first and foremost” (all citations: Gutberlet 05.02.1983a). N aturally, every East German citizen who wrote a letter to the West German paper was aware that their correspondence could lead to anything from getting harassed by the authorities to legal consequences. For that reason, people were very cautious. Some did write about their private lives, but any political topics or criticism remained taboo. Freyer, however, did not mince words when he called the National People’s Army a “shitty association,” (Freyer 11.02.1984: 1) or when he spoke of the employees of the state record company as “fuckin’ amigos,”17 incompetent and “ignorant” (Freyer 01.21.1987: 2), declaring their Blues Collection “junk” (Freyer 06.12.1989: 1), or when he used the phrase “from behind the wall” in his greeting (Freyer 05.12.1983: 2). Mail was monitored and some of it intercepted. On a number of occasions, the Blues Forum, which Gutberlet and Hess had jump-started in their free-time alongside school and regular jobs, hung by a thread. Time and again, they had to grapple with financial crises and scheduling difficulties. Starting with the fifth publication, the price was raised from 3.50 DM to 4 DM;18 in June 1985—after “excessive delay”—the paper ended up only being put out as a double issue. At that point, Gutberlet and Hess had reached their breaking point and enumerated to readers the extent to which their “hobby” was sapping all their energy: “It starts with the acquisition of all the contributions, images, and advertisements, then comes the revision of the manuscripts, typesetting, proofreading, trial layout, and the final print layout, then there is the expensive shipping process, and the bookkeeping” (all citations: Die zwei Redakteure 1985). In May 1987, the Blues Forum, which sold between 700 and 1,200 exemplars per edition,19 finally discontinued publication after Issue 20.20 The editors closed with a taciturn remark: “Too few employees + not enough advertisers + too few subscribers + no money + little time = don’t want to anymore!” (Gutberlet and Hess 1987).

The Self-Concept of the German Blues Circle The launching of the Blues Forum can be traced back to the initiative of the German Blues Circle (GBC). For a long time, they had fostered the desire to start their own magazine. After several attempts,21 Gutberlet agreed to take matters into his own hands in summer 1980 (see “Protokoll der außerordentlichen Mitgliederversammlung des ‘German Blues Circle’” 1980: 28). He was granted a loan of 1,000 DM by the GBC to start the Blues Forum. The GBC had been founded 21 April

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1976 by a few enthusiasts from Frankfurt am Main and was supposed to prevail as the leading national blues organization of Germany. The volunteer management board was made up of Friedemann Heinze, Friedrich Marschall, and Hans Pehl—a middle-aged staff.22 To establish an official structure, they registered as a Verein zur Förderung des Blues [Association for the Promotion of the Blues]. However, they were denied the “common public interest” status that would have given them access to public funding. The decision included the claim that basic requirements had not been fulfilled, according to which “the collective good is promoted exclusively (§ 56 AO) and directly (§ 57 AO) in a selfless way (§ 55 AO)” (Finanzamt Frankfurt [Main]-Börse 1980: 3). Instead, authorities determined that the regular publication of the newsletter stood “in the foreground of the association’s operations,” which “serves commercial purposes to a substantial extent” (ibid.: 4). Even though opposition arose due to the flawed interpretation of the group’s actual intentions, the decision could not be overturned. After all, the blues community did not possess a “strong lobby” (Dahlhausen 1980: 4). According to the association’s bylaws, the GBC’s main goals were: “To encourage and coordinate interest in the blues and related music styles. To promote the dissemination of the blues (supported by expert knowledge) as a cultural phenomenon within the popular culture scene, thereby serving public education” (“Satzung des ‘German Blues Circle’” 1983: 44). The preamble defined the genre in the following way: The blues is the folk music of African Americans and an important source of jazz and entertainment music; at the same time, it is an artistic form of expression of a minority that continues to face discrimination. Based on these musical and social aspects, the blues has deserved more recognition than it has received to date. The “German Blues Circle” was called to life to connect German blues fans and to gain attention for the blues. (Ibid.)

Up to the end, “black” blues remained the primary focus—“white” playing styles were to be “only peripherally” touched upon (“Editorial” 1976); they were still a persistently hard-fought subject of dispute and target of criticism. In addition to cultivating a nationwide communication network, the association wished to conduct a comradely mentoring policy for the upcoming generation. It was encouraged for “‘old hands’ to help younger blues fans, advising them personally from time to time.” In the end, it was about “keeping beginners’ interest alive and expanding their knowledge” (all citations: “Editorial” 1977c).

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By 30 November 1976, the GBC had ninety-eight members; one year later, it had 250 and counting. In June 1980, 410 names were registered (information according to: “Vorwort” 1976; “Editorial” 1977f; “Editorial” 1980d: 2).23 Men with their youth already behind them made up the majority of recruits. According to a December 1977 survey, the average age was twenty-seven years.24 Women constituted a miniscule minority; the 1979/80 list recorded just over a dozen (see “Mitglieder-Liste nach Alphabet” 1979). In fact, as pontificated by GBC leadership, the ratio should look completely different, as “women tend to be more guided by emotions.” And since it has always been said that, “Blues Is a Feeling,” “they must really know about the blues” (all citations: “Editorial” 1980a: 1). One woman, “not yet a member,” answered: I really like the blues, as my sadness, frustration, and aggression, as well as my life force and joy of living are expressed within it. What has stopped me from joining the GBC is the specifically male-oriented focus. For example, many male blues fans label women just as companions, decorative ornamentation, or groupies. (Lie 1980)

Another unconducive aspect mentioned was “the image of women” (ibid.), as demonstrated by numerous lyrics. In short, I get the impression that women aren’t supposed to contradict men, they should just keep being pretty and faithful (the only woman who shouldn’t be faithful is the one a man is hitting on). All that remains is for her to be as stupid as possible. A successful man can feel free to hit on lots of women and is very confident and arrogant—at women’s expense. (Ibid.)

Despite all of that, the critic said she would still join the GBC, that people had to get to know each other to understand each other, concluding that, “I would be extremely happy if my statements were to be proven false” (ibid.). The network considered it important to maintain a principle of transparency. No membership was anonymous. In 1976, the GBC put out its first issue of the German Blues Guide, a brochure that generally came out every two years and listed all the organized “friends of the blues.”25 N ot only were addresses and telephone numbers provided, there were also entries on individuals’ music preferences and short “personal messages.”26 The publication made it possible to search specifically for like-minded people and exchange partners. This was supposed to pave the way for the establishment of nationwide contacts, but they also had practical assistance in mind. Blues fans were in part characterized by their considerable mobility, as they would travel to

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festivals and special concerts. They used this network to easily find local fans in order to contact them with an “overnight accommodation request” (“Vorwort” 1976). The 1976 German Blues Guide also documented the most important clubs of West Germany, concert agencies, international organizations, archives, record companies, mail-order companies, periodicals, as well as relevant radio and television broadcasts. Later editions expanded the services section. For example, they began to enumerate “important books” with their bibliographic details (see, for instance, “Wichtige Bücher” 1977), American musicians and their promoters (see, for instance, “Performers/Promoters” 1979), and German artists.27 Moreover, official documents and internal association documents were also published: bylaws, meeting minutes, and financial reports. Some GBC members resided outside of Germany, in countries such as Austria, Switzerland, the N etherlands, Italy, Belgium, Denmark, Great Britain, and the US. Only a handful lived in East Germany, among them Winfried Freyer, Theo Lehmann, and Reinhard Lorenz. Their desire for a borderless exchange of information and ideas was greater than the fear of prosecution due to their membership in a Western—that is “enemy”—organization. The GBC register listed several West German blues musicians, as well as some scholars and prominent industry representatives, including Alfons Michael Dauer, Robert Sacré, L+R Records, CrossCut owner Detlev Hoegen, the promoters Rolf Schubert and Siegfried Christmann, and the radio hosts Manfred Miller and Tom Schroeder. At least for a time, they all saw the GBC as a useful platform, as a control center for the blues. Miller and Schroeder also stood by ready to help the young association in word and deed. In December 1976, the management board arranged a meeting to figure out ways to cooperate and to agree on their “groundwork.” One account noted, “that includes the desire to introduce young blues friends to all quintessential books and records.” Sympathetic radio professionals advertised the GBC on their shows, ensuring a whole “pile of mail” (all citations: “Editorial” 1977a). Financial accounting was one of the association’s tasks managed with meticulous care. The GBC funded itself through newsletter subscriptions and placed advertisements, the sale of its own publications and t-shirts, as well as through donations and auctions. No membership fees were collected.28 As all participation was voluntary, it was possible to create a cash cushion. The 1977 balance sheet disclosed 2,261.10 DM in “liquid funds” (see “Anlage zum Protokoll der 2. ordentlichen Mitgliederversammlung des German Blues Circle” 1979). The following years’ surpluses were of a similar magnitude. Demo-

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cratic agreement was required for any usage of the funds, which was spent on things such as organizing otherwise infeasible concerts and association advertising.29 They sponsored the erection of a gravestone for Elmore James; and the blues pianist and honorary GBC member Henry Gray received a check for US$100 to help him out of an existential financial crisis. Although the individual amounts were rather minimal, they possessed a symbolic character, signalizing increased awareness for the issue and a desire for change. They wanted to set an example and increase social cohesion. At the same time, the idea of a large community of people acting in solidarity was useful in the organization of benefits and petition campaigns held for American artists and industry people in hardship.30 Furthermore, underlying economic and media conditions for the blues in Germany were followed with a critical eye. When Südwestfunk canceled Bluestime, moderated by Manfred Miller, in August 1978, the GBC called on its members to send in “personal letters of protest” (see “Editorial” 1978e: 1), and appealed to the public institution’s directors. And indeed, “such an abundance” of letters and cards arrived at the SWF that they were compelled to react. Joachim-Ernst Berendt, head of the jazz department, attempted to smooth the waters, declaring that he himself had “protested up to the last moment against the discontinuation of that broadcast,” but it had been unavoidable and “admittedly cancelled for financial reasons” (all citations: Berendt 1979). Listeners could only speculate on the deeper reasons behind that decision. The GBC also refused to accept the cutting of the series Blues Box, aired by Süddeutscher Rundfunk, once again encouraging all “blues friends” to vehemently oppose it (see “Aufruf” 1980). Petitions were usually circulated by so-called “GBC representatives”—particularly engaged members who were supposed to maintain an optimal flow of information and active club life in their respective regions. Naturally, part of their duties was to provide appealing “advertising for the GBC,” as emphasized by the management board. “More important,” however, was the “direct, personal contact between members,” which the more remote groups were required “to coordinate” (all citations: “Editorial” 1979g: 1). It was also incumbent upon them “to instigate and maintain contact with regional concert promoters, blues clubs, the local press, radio, etc.” (“Aufruf des GBC-Vorstandes!” 1982). Within just a few years, they had created an almost exhaustive network, stretching from Hamburg to Basel, Switzerland. In 1979, “representatives” were registered in twenty major cities (see “Editorial” 1979d: 2). A report by the Frankfurt office—the association’s nucleus—outlined the general proceedings of their self-organized, local

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gatherings. They held weekly meetings with the following schedule: “1. General information exchange, 2. GBC issues with discussion, 3. Each individual presents some sort of musical piece that he likes and tells something about it, 4. One person holds a short talk on a topic that moves him and presents musical examples, 5. Small talk, blues, and booze” (“Editorial” 1979g: 1). The West Berlin “GBC representative” Peter Donisch even published a fanzine called Home Town Blues, which appeared every two months starting in March 1981.31 It provided a comprehensive service, including: reports on the scene, musician portraits, reviews, event dates, and classified ads. Holding parties and regular member meetings constituted a central focus. Even though the GBC’s general announcements sometimes gave the impression of stiff “narrow-minded bureaucracy” (Storcks 1979), it was still about having fun at its core. People wanted to share their excitement for the blues, talk shop, and party— they wanted to drift on that collective high. Alcohol was an inevitable part of all of this. Free beer was served at the large festivals; “blues” and “booze” were often mentioned in the same breath. Coverage of a GBC representative field trip to Austria in March 1977 illustrates how work and excess went hand in hand for them. “After ‘boozing’ all night long,” the small traveling group could barely stand. They “could not leave until an hour after” their planned departure, finally setting off with an ambitious program that left little room for breaks. “The first day ended in ‘binge drinking’” (all citations: “Report” 1977: 4), and the next day they “got well tanked up” again. Drink prices were peppered through the chronicler’s report, with allusions to evening rounds of whisky and the assorted “bottles of red and white wine (unfortunately there was no beer)” (all citations: ibid.: 5) being emptied until dawn. He provided a detailed description of their extensive tour duties: they attended quite a number of blues concerts in Vienna and the surrounding areas, met the local “GBC representatives,” musicians, and editors of the paper Blues Life. Their next station was Graz, where they would meet up with Alfons Michael Dauer to attend his seminar at the Kunstuniversität Graz. The excursion lasted one week and was entered into the books as a “very impressive experience” (ibid.: 6). It was a perfect mixture: they had fun, met new people, and expanded their horizons. Similar results were expected from the yearly GBC get-togethers, to which everyone was invited. People were asked to show up at ten o’clock in the morning on 27 August 1977 at a park in the Taunus region for the first “Summer Gathering” with barbecue, free beer, and plenty of jamming; forty people answered the call. Those interested could relocate in the evening to Frankfurt for a concert with Jimmy

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Witherspoon and Chris Barber. The next summer party took place in the small town of Gaildorf in Baden-Württemberg. A registered association called “Kulturschmiede” was founded in the same year and the GBC was able to join in a cooperative partnership with them. They killed two birds with one stone: starting in 1978, Gaildorf became the stage for an annual blues festival that gradually increased in size and appeal, while simultaneously functioning as the musical framework for the summer GBC gatherings. In 1979, they were already able to call up a top-class American artist, J. B. Hutto. He triggered a round of international headliners who would put the spotlight on the event going forward. The press was full of praise, honoring the “almost familial atmosphere” and consistently low prices, expressing happiness that “the thing is growing and thriving” (Karcher 1982: 16). Philistines and the “blues police” observed the event’s success with suspicion; they saw boundaries being violated and complained that the festival series was mutating “more and more into a mass event.” They got “the impression the festival acts as a release for many young people in this remote region of Germany, a way to completely let themselves go for two days—in that case, it does not matter in the end what background music is playing” (all citations: Schulze 1983). The outcome in Gaildorf proved that the blues was not a dying genre in the 1980s; it just did not allow itself to be tamed bureaucratically. The GBC’s plan to promote the music using every management trick in the book would eventually fail. Soon, the euphoria observed during the initial stages began to ebb and a sense of crisis emerged. After the peak in 1980, membership started declining; there was basically almost nobody willing to take up the hard, day-to-day work of the association. Members were time and again accused of passivity. It was said that a shocking majority was made up of “member index corpses” stuck in a “prolonged sleep” (Philippi 1979: 14). This fact violated the selfconcept of a direct democratic coalition whose management board had only a coordinating role. There were just a small number of actors keeping things in motion. In March 1980, a diligent blues fan sent the GBC “a whole bunch of copies of letters he had sent to different people” (“Anmerkung der Redaktion” 1980). Among the recipients were bands, concert promoters, record companies, municipal authorities, media, and other potential “supporters of the blues” (Paul 1980: 10). Although “the response was in part really disappointing,” it demonstrated a way “a person can tackle something” (ibid.: 11). GBC direction called the initiative “great,” publicizing it as a sample of “groundwork” in the hope it would “be an inspiration for others” (“Anmerkung der Redaktion” 1980). Copies of the letters were sent to any interested party upon request.

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Udo Wolff, singer of the band Das Dritte Ohr and “GBC representative” in Hildesheim, refused to accept that general state of apathy. As he had the opportunity to talk to “GBC members” at “many concerts” and the idea of better scene cohesion lay close “to his heart” (Wolff 1979a: 2), he published a survey with two goals in December 1978: “The first is really to establish an opinion profile that is not random in order to be able to work with it. Second, however, to have confirmed material in hand to confront those people with, the ones who are really just grumbling without ever lifting a pinky to improve anything themselves” (ibid.: 2–3). The response was astounding, with 300 members filling out 186 forms. Most of the items were about the context and form of the GBC newsletter; some raised the tiresome issue of participation. To the question: “Are you ready to take on organizational tasks for the GBC?” The answer was “yes” for 40.32 percent, “no” for 50.68 percent, and the rest were “not sure” (“Fragebogen-Auswertung zur 2. Fragebogenaktion” 1979: 1 and 3). In spite of all the different waves of activity and temporary glimmers of hope, the association’s relevance was diminishing. Even with all of the board’s hustling and bustling, that fact could not be escaped. The GBC had suffered from an infrastructural deficit from the very beginning. Most of the members were exclusively interested in the monthly newsletter subscription. They wanted to help themselves to the pool of news, to be kept up to date on live events and record productions— but rejected any kind of controlling intervention into their own daily lives. And the act of “joining an association” went against the grain for these freaks by definition (Küppers 1979: 3). People were aware of the problem and it was frequently discussed. In May 1980, the Berlin “representative” Thomas Gutberlet summed up four years of the GBC. He did not disguise his “really mixed feelings” at having barely any positive news to report. The “contact mediation” and the “flow of information” had “become simpler thanks to the GBG,32 a good service” (Gutberlet 1980b: 2). On the other hand, almost no planned projects survived beyond the conception stage. Gutberlet argued for the strict separation of the association from the newsletter. The former, in accordance with the statute, must take care of the “spreading and promotion of the blues” (ibid.: 3)—not just talk about it. He also claimed that membership dues were indispensable in order to achieve any capacity for action. The newsletter should be transformed into a professional, financially self-sufficient newspaper. The suggestion was passed on to all those with voting power but rejected.33 After many quarrels, personnel changes, and mudslinging, they resolved to dissolve the GBC at the annual general meeting of 5 March

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1983. Effective 1 January 1984, the organization’s legal status was discontinued. The official statement: “The main reason was member disinterest in active participation in the association’s duties. For example, nobody wanted to stand as a candidate for the board.”34 In addition to the realization that the scene was bureaucratically unmanageable, their deficit was relatively high: as of 31 December 1983, a loss of 6,716.40 DM was recorded (see “Vorläufige Gewinn- und Verlustrechnung des GBC per 31.12.1983” 1984).35 No less difficult was the deterioration in morale. Permanent disputes had taken their toll. As small as the blues scene was, it suffered from exhausting vanities, cliquishness, and fierce trench warfare.36 Protected by the GBC’s democratic structure—which considered every opinion—fanatics and egomaniacs were quite often the ones whose voices got heard. Considering the remarkable amount of tolerance within the community, those individuals were actually distorting the image of blues fans in general. The short self-descriptions provided in the German Blues Guide exemplify that: “I am interested in all forms of soulful music, whether it be blues, jazz, folklore, or classical music”; or “I like the blues, but I also like boogie, rockabilly, swing, and rock ‘n’ roll” (“Persönliche Mitteilungen” 1985: 21 and 26). The GBC leadership faced ongoing criticism. They were accused of elite, snobbish behavior, condemned as the “Mafia” (Lorenz 1978: 13) and “high lords with low membership numbers” (Kulla 1978: 7). The source of this displeasure was the association’s fully legitimate self-definition. The founders held onto the African American “original” as the measure of all things, freely and frankly declaring that, “The GBC has devoted itself to black blues, so we are indeed something like a ‘specialist association’ for that reason.” They claimed that people were certainly aware “that our understanding of the blues does not correspond to that of the greater masses” (all citations: “Editorial” 1979f: 1). Advocates of stylistic diversity alleged that the GBC possessed an ill-fated, limited, and compartmentalized way of thinking; that it gave momentum to reactionary minds—a comparatively small group, which nonetheless commanded an extensive power of definition by virtue of their activities. The liberal faction was clear: The German blues scene is primarily influenced by the blues purists. For them, the blues must be black, the musician at least seventy-five, and the show held somewhere in a museum hall. . . . The blues musician is stared at like a lion in a zoo; the music is dissected, analyzed, and debated down to the smallest detail. Paying attention to the music or its feeling is (unfortunately) far from their minds. One must experience the blues, not try “to understand” it (like a mathematical formula). (Schütt Jr. 1981: 43)

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The orthodox fan was caricatured as a strange creature oscillating between individualism and hermitage. One person added grist to the mill with a letter to the GBC, which expressed his desire “to illuminate the term ‘friend of the blues’ a bit from a psychological perspective, by asking myself critical questions about my relationship with blues music.” He said it was full of “danger” (all citations: Dahlhausen 1979b: 23 and 24), that much was sure: In the blues, problems are processed. And I am processing my problems with the help of the blues of other people. Processing? Aren’t I repressing them a lot more than processing them? I escape from my reality into the music, which takes on the function of a drug, replacing all religion for me in a way. A half hour of illusions of happiness, compensating for one’s own problems with the fates of others. Blues is fate. Unavoidable. Aren’t I increasing my own self-pity? Is my situation not characterized by egocentricity and resignation? (Ibid.: 23)

Those thoughtful reflections were printed in the German Blues Circle Info (GBCI), the GBC’s newsletter and main publication.37 There were up to twelve regular editions per year.38 After the association’s dissolution, they would carry on with the publication, albeit “privately” (“Editorial” 1983b).39 At the time in late 1983, they voted on the GBCI’s continuation. The results were unequivocal: the editorial department received more than “300 positive responses” (“Editorial” 1983a). Launched in August 1976, its creators conceived of the periodical as a non-profit undertaking and non-professional mouthpiece. Originally, it was intended as a “reflection of what is going on at the GBC” (“Editorial” 1978d). The plain, typewritten pamphlet in A540 format ranged between four and sixty pages; it announced tour dates and printed reviews of records, concerts, and books. In addition, the publication collated all of the different media activity, spread news of the blues world, took some looks back at history, reported on trips through the “Promised Land” (“Editorial” 1978e: 2; see for example, Harms 1976 and Marschall 1979b), discussed the scene’s questions of faith, translated texts from the leading British and American journals,41 and made occasional attempts at texts intended to be academic.42 As far as the editors were concerned, the publication of live concert dates was “the most important information in GBCI.” It was supposed to be understood as an “indirect call out to all blues friends to attend the concerts” (all citations: “Editorial” 1978e: 2). They explained they did not want to compete against the international press, and that the GBCI could instead “be a supplement to the leading blues journals, whereby

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we present the German scene with up-to-date information. This news coverage cannot replace a subscription to Blues Unlimited and/or Living Blues. We think that every blues friend should keep one or both papers” (“Editorial” 1977b).43 All individual contributions were written by subscribers and fans. Every person was encouraged to participate. The editorial department requested typewritten, “print ready articles” formatted according to their specifications (see “Wichtig!” 1978).44 German musicians who otherwise would have had almost no platform used this opportunity to introduce themselves. It was a chance to advertise themselves at their own discretion, to provide contact information and profile descriptions—for instance, Richard Bargel, a guitarist and singer from Cologne, wrote an entry praising his own skills, calling himself an “allround-artist” (“Richard Bargel” 1977). Dr. Friebe and his colleagues jokingly said they were “Berlin’s ‘heaviest’ blues band.” Whether that was a play on their particularly corpulent nature—“together, the six musicians tipped the scales at about 510 kilograms”—or a reference to their role models (from Canned Heat to ZZ Top) was left up to the reader’s imagination (all citations: Donisch and Steinike 1981: 45). Readers learned that Gerhard Engbarth’s German texts were marked “by personal experiences,” “from [his] social education studies, for example.” He generally charged 300 DM for a solo performance, although “for youth centers, he was certainly open to negotiation” (all citations: “Gerhard Engbarth” 1976). When the American guitarist Jim Kahr emigrated to West Germany, he asked GBCI publishers to “help him set up performances,” writing that he was also “interested in getting into contact with musicians,” as he wanted to get a band together. “Hopefully many blues friends will follow our call,” the advertisement concluded, “to provide a pleasant stay in Germany for this young musician, one who has a lot of playing experience in the original environment of the blues, and to turn his arrival into a stimulus for the German blues scene” (all citations: “Jim Kahr” 1976). Now and again, the GBCI would allow a glimpse behind the scenes of daily life on tour, which was anything but glamorous. Udo Wolff described one evening with Willie Mabon at the Hildesheim Bischofsmühle on 18 October 1980. After experiencing an odyssey of a train ride there, the artist turned up at the last minute, dripping with sweat: Inside the club is a gaping emptiness. According to the promoter, the posters were only received the day before. Twenty-six audience members. No on-stage soundcheck, a mini-mike for the piano, one for vocals. Mabon hasn’t had time to eat anything yet today. The piano turns out to

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be totally out of tune, only good for firewood really. Mabon plays. His left pointer finger is wrapped in a bandage. The piano from the night before was so bad he had to hammer his fingers raw on it. After the first set, three cheese sandwiches quickly stuffed down. He plays until 11:30. Pro. The audience likes him. Encore. To the hotel after midnight, a fast food kiosk at the freight yard. Hot meal? Yeah, still got half a chicken and fries, but it’ll take a sec. Off to the station at 7 o’clock the next morning to catch the train on time. (Wolff 1981: 16–17)

After some initial difficulties, the GBCI also reported on LPs made in Germany. In the beginning, however, ignorance and skepticism reigned. The editorial department had difficulty “finding somebody in our circle with an ego strong enough to review German blues bands’ records” (Pehl 1979). Over time, the ice thawed, although the number of write-ups remained negligible, due more to the mundane economy rather than any particular aesthetic aversion: in contrast to the flood of international releases, there was an extremely small number of domestic productions. Insiders estimated that around thirty West German bands had put out LPs by 1984 (see Holzheuser 1984: 29). Most record reviews printed by the GBCI were characterized by their sympathetic and fair approach. The critic could “only warmly recommend” Richard Bargel. He was amazed by his “tremendous voice” and polished playing technique. “In my opinion, there is no blues musician in West Germany (at least I haven’t heard one yet) who interprets pre-war blues more convincingly, authentically, and captivatingly” (all citations: Kilian 1988b). The Charly Schreckschuss Band was paid rich tribute as well. “You can think what you want about German lyrics, but Charly definitely isn’t delivering anything corny or trite; the lyrics are indeed simple and rhyme is not considered a must, but the words really hit you; you can’t escape the lyrics when listening to it.” The songs were said to be simply “honest” (all citations: Kilian 1988a). The GBCI covered the whole opinion spectrum: while the Blues Company’s debut was praised as “one of the best LPs by a German blues band” (Kilian 1980), the second production by the Frankfurt City Blues Band sounded “really horrible” (Marschall 1980). The GBC put out a second regular publication called the German Blues Guide, which provided important services. Artists were able to publish contact information, member and repertoire details, and credentials at no cost. More and more people were developing a staunch commitment to the blues: the GBG 1979/80 registered fifty bands and soloists (see “Bands & Musiker” 1979), the 1988 compendium brought that up to more than 120 entries (see “Verzeichnis der Musiker und

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Bands” 1988). And that is certainly not a total representation of all the groups, as there was definitely a considerable number of bands that did not want to be categorized as “blues”—even though they integrated that musical style into their lineup as a substantial mixing element.45 East German blues acts were never listed in the GBG, and they were only granted a few lines by the GBCI on extremely rare occasions. There was a general, mutual lack of interest: East German bands were not allowed to travel to West Germany in any event, and it was futile to look for their records in the local shops. Advertising was pointless. Moreover, even an open-minded West German striving for more awareness would hardly know what to do with the Eastern brand of the blues. Those in the West lacked the social and political context; the music sounded foreign or exotic to them. A West Berlin “GBC representative” wrote an article in early 1981 on the “Blues Scene in East Germany.” He introduced Stefan Diestelmann, Gruppe Jürgen Kerth, Engerling, the Hansi Biebl Band, as well as the Klaus Renft Combo, which had already been banned five and a half years earlier. Although they were a rock group and not strictly speaking a blues group, the latter received the most space.46 While the author had good intentions, he had unfortunately been taken in by quite a lot of legends and false information. For instance, he made the mind-boggling claim that, “After the Renft Combo was gone, not much was happening with the blues in East Germany.” In actuality, the exact opposite was true—the mid 1970s saw a real blues boom. The representative elaborated on short portraits, providing discographic information and volunteering to readers: “I can copy all titles onto cassettes” (all citations: Steinike 1981: 41 and 42). The paltry number of works on the blues released in the East were reviewed in the GBCI. Theo Lehmann, an official member of the GBC, repeatedly requested photographs to use in his book projects.47 Along with the unemployed and the imprisoned, he benefitted from a free subscription as an East German citizen (see “Editorial” 1979a: 1). Over and over, the GBCI called for a show of solidarity with blues fans in the socialist part of Germany, as seen in the following request highlighting the lack of information there: “Please remember that everything is interesting, even catalogues, newspaper clippings, photographs, reviews, etc. etc.” (“Editorial” 1979b: 3). Individual GBC members maintained long-lasting friendships over the wall and beyond. They visited fellow fans there, sending over records and rare reading material. The GBCI reported on a trip to Thuringia in May 1978 and called for others to imitate them, underlining that “relations with East Germany are important for both sides and should be engaged in more intensively” (“Editorial” 1978c).48 GBCI number 50, the N ovember 1980

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richly-illustrated anniversary edition, documented a German–German meeting from the previous year. A poignant photograph shows seven women and men, arm in arm, flanked by two small children.49 In the middle stood a bearded, long-haired Winfried Freyer, East Germany’s most active GBC member. Freyer wrote LP and concert reviews regularly for the GBCI and tended to the copious correspondence. It is thanks to his work that the West German readership learned of performances by American artists on the far side of the border. Full of both expertise and wit, he provided a vivid depiction of the blues’ heyday in East Germany. Freyer’s sensitive writings were permeated with a feeling of longing, at times masked by his gallows humor. “EVERY ‘real’ blues artist should be celebrated like a king here,” preached Winfried Freyer, as each one “permits us to forget our dreary everyday blues” (Freyer 1977d: 18). When a song “took such a hold” on him that he “unwillingly had tears

Figure 5.1. GBC members on a trip to Kahla in Thuringia, June 1979 (from the left): Angelika Münnich, Hartmut M. Münnich, Steffi Freyer, Winfried Freyer, Manfred Blume, Fritz Marschall, Reinhard Lorenz, and the children Christian Otis and Odetta. A similar image was printed in GBCI 50/1980 (photo courtesy of Archiv Reinhard Lorenz).

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running down his face” (Freyer 1978: 15), he did not fail to mention it. For that constituted the essence; cool, analytical examination was not his primary concern. When he heard that one of his revered performers, J. B. Hutto, was coming to Europe but would remain out of reach, “it was another stab in the bleeding heart of a blues fan behind the Iron Curtain, for whom there is no cure other than booze.” In the absence of a live performance, he reviewed a recording of a Finnish concert that showed Hutto at his best. Freyer writes, “I don’t know what I would have given to have been permitted to hang out in Helsinki 24 March 1977” (all citations: Freyer 1977e: 8). Articles that were both well-informed and brimming with fiery enthusiasm contributed to the GBCI’s particular brilliance. In his letter of congratulations on the fiftieth edition, an employee of the notable Chicago independent label Delmark Records was full of acclaim, “I must say I enjoy reading Info more than any other blues publication because it is always full of life and humor and controversy, not just facts and dates.” The lively exchange of views between fans was the most important factor. “I often think that people get bogged down in the details of recording dates, birth certificates, and related trivialities as a means of avoiding direct confrontation with the artistic and cultural implications of the blues—and Info has certainly filled a need on the other side of that coin” (all citations: Tomashefsky 1981). Alfons Michael Dauer had confidence in the GBCI readers’ encyclopedic knowledge, inviting them to collaborate on his “new blues book”: “Please help me collect material. Name your ten (or more) finest examples: I am looking for the best lyrics, melodies, instrumental accompaniment.” He also requested the discographic details of each record, “that I can use to quickly write down the lyrics and music, or pieces that are already transcribed.” In return, he promised that “every contributor would be mentioned by name in the case of publication” (all citations: “Editorial” 1977e: 2). Alfons Michael Dauer kept his word: in the epilogue of the standard reference work Blues aus 100 Jahren, he did not neglect to thank each individual “blues friend” for the “invaluable help” provided (Dauer 1983: 214). Praise for the publication was countered by rigorous criticism. Some people wanted to use their allegedly “objective” assessments to settle old scores. The GBCI was downgraded to a “controversial informational leaflet” (Hess 1979: 49) and rebuked for being a “third-class school paper” (Schubert 1979a) by some. “These theoretical gushings of so-called experts are starting to get on my nerves” said one agitated reader (Lebert 1979). Others found the English terminology “elitist” (“Editorial” 1977d: 1). Their relationship to the blues was accused of

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being much too emotionless and “like bookkeeping” (Brach 1979). They were blamed for discouraging traditional consumers and novices with their “expert idiocy” (Dahlhausen 1979a) and “obstinance” (Kraus 1979). One subscriber called their “orgiastic rooting around in the past,” “superfluous,” writing that, “sometimes I get the feeling that the Info only revolves around one particular clique that already [knows] everything anyway,” and is looking down “from their high horse” (Schaub 1979). In addition, treatment of the “political elements” of the blues “really came up short”; instead, they fooled us into believing “in a sacred world” (Münnich 1979). Not everyone appreciated the bawdy language and chauvinistic slogans interspersed occasionally throughout the text. The GBCI authors were all male—as remarked upon by a few of the women who wrote in—and some of them were notorious machos. A local heroine from Memphis was attacked with the label of “old hag,” one of their milder sexist remarks comparatively speaking (Marschall 1979a: 22); or there was one concert-goer who commented unabashedly that he had “pictured [Katie Webster as] much larger and fatter” (Marschall 1979b: 14). Strong nerves were needed for some of these infantile and disgusting lapses, such as when “five liters of marinated sparrow sperm” (“Hail Hail Freakonia!!!” 1979: 16) played a starring role, when they called on readers to “sucka piss and shit,”50 or when they wrote about how the imaginary animal keeper Beulah, “drowned one day while performing fellatio on the elephant bull ‘Simba’” (“Hail Hail Freakonia!!!” 1980: 36). These absurd stories and pamphlets were sometimes accompanied by cartoons. Underground Robert Crumb comix were often “printed by robbery” (Kulla 2006) in the GBCI. Positioned throughout the paper alongside more serious entries, they provided a visual representation of the Freak posture, one which cared little for political correctness. Many readers took issue with the extent to which GBCI crossed the line. They feared “these kinds of childish contributions” were only meant to “contribute to self-representation, self-gratification, or to the dumbing down of others,” which was leading to the inexorable “sinking” of “the standards of Info” (Taige and Keppler 1980: 7). However, one of the GBCI’s defining characteristics was the principle of anarchy. Its motto was: “There will be no censorship! Sooner or later, all articles will be published uncensored. We also do not want to edit for content or style; mistakes and ignorance are the authors’ responsibility!” (“Editorial” 1978e: 2). That credo reflected the GBC’s direct democratic approach—but was frequently contested given its obvious negative consequences. The right to free expression guaranteed a lively

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exchange of information51 and diverse perspectives; however, it also opened the field up to unrestrained exhibitionism, substantial disputes and defamation, bitter feuds, and some below-the-belt attacks. A majority of GBC members opposed the continuous “wars of the letters to the editor” (see Wolff 1979c) because they “do not belong here and, on the whole, can only be damaging” (Klose 1979). “A particular journalistic responsibility” (Schubert 1982) was called for and one person expressed regret “that the limited amount of space in Info must be used to clear up personal quarrels. Those people can certainly take care of that amongst themselves” (Mertink 1979: 5). The hurtful tone of some reviews, those only interested in blindly ripping something to pieces, also went too far for some. The editorial department did not allow itself to be led astray by those voices of indignation; it stoically countered that the GBCI was “an unprofessional leaflet,” and everyone could “‘let the blues out’ here” (“Editorial” 1981). One member’s official request to no longer print letters to the editor with “offensive content” was “rejected” (“Protokoll der 4. ordentlichen Mitgliederversammlung” 1980: 24). They insisted that “the ‘wars,’ however terribly they may be waged, are also a reflection of the scene and the people fighting them out” (“Editorial” 1979c: 1). “We have neither the time nor the desire to revise articles, play schoolmaster, or deal with the possible accusation of having distorted someone’s meaning or of being undemocratic” (“Editorial” 1979f: 1). N evertheless, as positions became increasingly entrenched and the club environment began to suffer, they did eventually deviate from that policy. In spring 1982, the board decided that, “In the future, we will revise articles and no longer publish every contribution. Private disputes should also be carried out in private” (“Editorial” 1982). The conflict soon became irrelevant; after the GBC’s dissolution, the reconceived and streamlined Info concentrated on concert announcements and record reviews, dwindling to a simple service provider. In January 2006, the GBCI discontinued publication after Issue 358. As one obituary declared “nostalgically,” the “old-fashioned leaflet” had “become an anachronism in the time of the electronic newsletter” (Kulla 2006).

Only a Black Person Can Sing the Blues Before “the drying up of the flow of contributions” (ibid.) began in the early 1980s, the GBCI reflected on the self-defining concept of hardcore West German blues fanatics in a really exemplary way. The crux of all the debates was the issue of authenticity. Along with increasing

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variation in styles and media images, there was a growing demand for differentiation and orientation. Only a small selection of performers that the press categorized as “blues” was accepted as such by the keepers of the grail. Here, their limited perspective was more about identity than taste. Declaring the traditionalist branch of music as the standard, they staked out exclusive territory to which only they and people like them had access. Anybody who doubted the pure doctrine was out. According to them, whether a blues song is actually “real” is decided by two extra-artistic parameters: race and commerce. Those boundary markers were the result of a static, retrograde ideology. N aysayers warned that the more the blues was seized by the industrial mechanisms of exploitation, the more it would distance itself from its folk music roots, degrading into a hybrid or poor substitute. Those lines of demarcation were said to have been crossed in the 1960s—at the latest—with that decade’s soul-infected sounds and the triumph of blues rock. Others had already heard its final chord in the R&B of the postwar era when it degenerated into rock ’n’ roll and began outranking urban blues. Basically, those fans were all celebrating what were ostensibly the “good ol’ days”—regardless of when they situated the turning point. Contemporary developments were subjected to overly critical analysis. Quite a number of the comments sound pessimistic or resigned. One GBCI letter to the editor captures the common argumentation at the time, “Commercialization,” in other words, “assimilation to mainstream tastes,” had taken “the character out of the blues” allowing “it be reduced to a formula.” There were plenty of menacing signs. “B.B. King with his big band and glitter suit or, for example, the soul-disco aberrations played by Wells, Guy, Cotton, or Albert King etc. etc. are leading to the disappearance of the specificity of the blues. The music is manipulating and becoming manipulable.” It was said to be inevitably forfeiting its soul, deteriorating “into an inhumane mechanism of control” (all citations: Göbel 1980: 11). Udo Wolff attempted to put things in the right light in a comprehensive, two-part article on “Bluesstile und Kommerz” [Blues Styles and Commercialism]. As a practicing artist, he was better at differentiating between myth and reality: For me, it is about the blues fans in this country who are dismantling the blues, segmenting it into categories of quality, who use the terms “commercial” and “pure” as scalpels, so to speak. At the same time, they use the term “commercial” to stick a knife into the blues forms deemed “not pure” by them. People who act that way are usually exclusive proponents of the country blues form. (Wolff 1980b: 4)

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According to him, what was needed was musical-historical expertise, not mythology. “There is a massive drawback to thinking in categories of style: they were invented retrospectively.” Wolff explains that the development of the blues is a continuum, an endless current in which different playing styles mutually influence and inform each other. Even that alleged antagonism between art and money was not reflected in reality. He cited the “Chicago veteran” Willie Dixon as his crown witness. By the end, he had “written over 500 numbers, some in an assembly line type process” (all citations: ibid.). Wolff wrote that it was the “purity fanatics” (ibid.: 5) amongst blues fans who were constructing senseless stereotypes and indulging in pulp fiction romanticization of the South. According to Wolff, those legends seemed to attract a certain type of person, as described in the following citation: That lure of the South seems to captivate a very particular kind of young man in this country: from a nice, middle-class family, grown-up sheltered as if in a plastic bag. And now they are disgusted by that plastic bag; they are looking for a father substitute, or at least a new emotional home. Karl May in blue. Suffering second-hand for the injustice being done to black people, actually being done. Unfortunately, they do not notice their Turkish neighbors over in the next street. (Ibid.)

And it is precisely those apostles of righteousness who “quickly become angry if they see someone on stage calling himself a blues musician ‘but’ wearing a dashing suit” (ibid.). Wolff took aim at those persistent clichés: Why the old bluesmen were not or are not commercial does not matter to me. They didn’t record records to delight the world with their message, but to get paid money for it, even if it was often too little. And those young boys playing on the street corner, laying out their hat; they didn’t do that to get some air on their head, but so that pennies would land in the hat, and all the better if it’s a quarter dollar. And those people did not find having to play on the corner powerfully romantic; they weren’t doing it to stay nice and authentic, to not let their style get spoiled by the profit-seeking record industry, but because they didn’t get jobs at the less drafty clubs. (Ibid.: 6)

Those who confused adapting with selling out did not see the seriousness of the situation; change is a law of evolution. Wolff’s inflammatory speech was directed at the widespread and almost ineradicable ideal of authenticity, namely that “realness” and racial experience were intrinsically linked to one another. GBC founders were not the only ones certain that the blues was a genuine “black” cul-

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ture, which, while it may exhibit some mixture of European aspects, ultimately feeds off the suffering of African Americans. And according to their articles of faith, white people cannot adequately interpret the blues; they remain confined to the role of imitator. It is that kind of fundamentalism that has completely suppressed the entertainment industry’s capacity for transformation since the beginning of the twentieth century. It defined the blues as an ideological matrix founded in slavery and oppression, but not as entertainment. As a consequence, any economic waves lapping up against the mainstream were bemoaned. The GBCI staff lamented, “The rock and pop industry’s efforts have borne fruit, and what today is understood as the blues is getting farther and farther away from ‘black’ blues, which is what we stand for above all” (“Editorial” 1978c). The white test-tube baby, the “sanitized version of the original,” was called a calculated product and as such “naturally better for marketing” (Küppers 1977: 3). Or in other words, with “the blues of white people” it is about “big business,” while “black” blues had remained “what it is: the communication of human experience” (Endress 1970: 266). The question of who was allowed to sing the blues was as old as the music itself. From the very beginning, it was included in the topoi of media perception and marketing; the simple fact that black skin was considered a pledge of authenticity, as a significant exterior feature of worldly wisdom from whose fertile soil real art could blossom. Over the course of its industrial exploitation, that particular association was inscribed into the DNA of the blues; they were intrinsically linked. In 1923, during the first peak phase of the blues’ dissemination via records, the American music magazine Metronome had already declared that, “The ‘blues’ is unambiguously the creation of the colored people. They live them, they breathe them, and they write them. A white man has about as much right to compose a ‘blues’ as a man without any knowledge of music would have to write a symphony” (“Quality in ‘Blues’” 2002). Long before the first blues vocals had even appeared on shellac, the African American composer and band leader William Christopher Handy had defined the boundaries. The self-named “father of the blues,”52 an international authority, he emphasized the folk music quality of the phenomenon in question and thus its autochthonic character. According to Handy, the blues expressed “the racial life of the Negroes” (cited in Scarborough [1916] 2002: 113). In good time, those patterns of interpretation trickled over to Europe from the US.53 Although the blues remained in the background for decades, the connection between music and race was vehemently discussed in jazz circles. “Jazz is a black art,” judged one German trade journal in 1949, “the

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trumpet and trombone improvisations can only be pushed into those dimensions by Negro hands, where all rules and regulations go completely overboard, sinking down into a sea of hot waves” (“Schwarzes Fieber” 1949). Jazz missionaries argued using master race-style thinking wrapped up in supposedly biological reasoning more so than in the case of the blues, in which they thought the social outcry was clear to hear. Based on their hypothesis, African Americans had been imputed with archaic instincts sorely lacking in the white world: As a primitive, primal human being, he possesses a joy for making music and a true minstrelsy unparalleled in the white world. He demonstrates herein a unique richness of thought and ideas. He is capable of it because the music is an end in itself to him. He sings and plays for the sake of singing and playing and only expresses that which moves him in the moment. (Rinker 1952: 31)

These “special musical qualities of the N egro” (ibid.) also included absorbed European influences, so the encounter between “black” and “white” functioned “simply as a catalyzer that brought the latent, pre-existing predisposition of colored people to a head.” Anybody lacking the genetic prerequisites was incapable of making music on the same level. There was a tendency to call “white” jazz “pseudo-jazz” (all citations: ibid.: 30). Many of the jazz critics and journalists who expressed themselves in the debates had an effect on early opinions of the blues. Starting in April 1955, the accredited record collector and author Jacques Demêtre composed a monthly article series, simply titled “Blues,” for the French magazine Jazz Hot. His writings set standards; excerpts were reprinted by the West German Jazz Podium. For Demêtre, there was no doubt, “It is a fact that all blues singers are black” (Demêtre 1956: 9). He accepted no other skin color. Joachim-Ernst Berendt held immense influence. Although he was aware that any discussion of race would mean venturing out onto tricky terrain, as Germans were said to be prone to “simplification” and to separating “black and white marbles” (Brown 1955: 52 and 51) prematurely from one another, he had a clear model to follow. At the end of the 1960s, in the face of the huge success of Cream, Canned Heat, the Spencer Davis Group, and John Mayall, he put the doctrine to the test—only to once again give it a thumbs down: “The white groups’ blues authenticity is indeed astounding, but it remains relative.” The young artists handled things “so precisely, like N egroes would never do. That moment of precision is, however, one the whitest moments” (all citations: Berendt 1968: 316). Berendt noted:

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. . . a lack of suppleness and flexibility. And above all, a preference for that which is all too direct, obvious, and effective. The simultaneous, multiple levels of expression particular to the blues, sadness and irony, desperation and cynicism, that so typically Negroid “masochistic” pleasure in one’s own misfortune, all of that seems a bit less natural with the white groups than with the black ones. (Ibid.)

He would adhere to that opinion his entire life. While he acknowledged white musicians’ instrumental mastery in the 1991 edition of the Jazzbuch, they nevertheless failed to fully pass his litmus test. He wrote that, at the very latest, once they “open their mouths to sing, the illusion of authenticity fades. And then even a lay person can generally hear who is white and who is black. And there is no bridge between them” (Berendt 1991: 228). Even though Berendt refused to distance himself from that conviction by even one millimeter, he did admit that “white blues” had performed a great social service. At least it had succeeded at something “at which black blues could not: it influenced, changed, and expanded the life attitudes of an entire generation of young, white people in the world . . .” (Berendt 1970, n.p.). Whereas the topic gradually disappeared from the trade press pages, it experienced a renaissance at the GBCI. A never-ending exchange of blows continued around this crucial question of inheritance rights. Shortly after the founding of the GBC, the board declared that the public debate about “white blues” was part of their “groundwork” (see, for example, “Editorial” 1977c). In the end, it was impossible to avoid the fact that a significant portion of their members favored the “rocking” versions. Udo Wolff began a survey to determine people’s degree of satisfaction with the informational brochure in December 1978. Among other things, it asked, “Would you like to see additional or more reporting on music areas outside of the core area of black blues?” Two thirds of the representative sample answered in the affirmative. Out of that subset, 75 percent opted for “white blues” (see “Fragebogen-Auswertung zur 2. Fragebogenaktion” 1979: 2). Although it was playing an increasingly dominant role in the live arena at that time, it was still being treated cursorily and disparagingly by the GBCI. In the spring of 1982, a longer article on John Mayall was finally published—and the author spared no criticism: “Writing something positive about him appears to be one of the absolute taboos for the GBC Info,” admonished the prologue. No other had been “so disgraced, presented with and offended by taunts, mostly expressed in side comments.” He asked, “Poor John, what has he broken this time that would make everyone write such terrible things about him?” The answer was clear. “Granted, he earned a lot of money as a white European musician using Black American

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blues.” And to go even further, he had also “modernized his style, with funk rhythm and such,” without consideration for “the purists” (all citations: Sterner 1982: 18). What a sacrilege! Five years before John Mayall’s rehabilitation, the GBCI editors had called for a public debate about “black” and “white” blues. The September 1977 issue printed the first document submitted for discussion, suggested by a reader. It outlined “the complexity of the topic” (Küppers 1977: 2), proposed hypotheses, and subdivided the broad field into “historical-social,” “musical technique” and “commercial issues” (ibid.: 3). Musicians and fans were asked to contribute “concrete field reports.” He spurned everyone on to “think it over with me, then a lot more will come out” (all citations: ibid.: 4). That request received a strong response, documented in the section “White Blues.” Two camps quickly formed; the realists called the controversy pointless, purely a waste of space, saying that people were getting “old cheese to stink again.” The ineffable “monster of a discussion about white blues had already been argued ad nauseam in the 1960s without anything productive ever coming out of it” (all citations: Gebhard 1978). Musicians shrugged their shoulders in equal measure. All too often, they had experienced at first hand the absurd fruit borne by obstinate opinionatedness; how racism had changed their fortunes, marking them as second class.54 The Stockyard Blues Band said, “If we understand the blues as a folk music tradition, then we must also accept its appropriation and circulation by white musicians” (Holz 1978). According to them, art lives from assimilation; it is supposed to fire people’s imagination, not be a carbon copy of reality. Udo Wolff could hardly be contradicted when he pointed out, “I don’t ask every actor to die a true death on stage either, particularly as black blues quickly turned primarily into a form of entertainment, albeit with special qualities” (Wolff 1978: 16). For him, it was the music’s quality and relevance that mattered above all. Instead of idealizing the blues, one should consider its topicality. It was thought there was a danger of getting stuck in a state of passivity and “consumerism” and of becoming “blind . . . to the social conditions that need shaking up.” The collector, with the narrow “mentality of an entomologist,” was considered “the true reflection of this unjust social order, in which people can pursue their hobbies and strange habits, as long as things do not get too rebellious and political” (all citations: Blume 1983). It is not people’s skin color that focuses the lens, it is their social existence. Another advocate of liberal ideas explained melodramatically: “If you want to know what the blues is, ask all the unemployed people in the Birmingham slums, ask the Vietnamese refugee, ask the Turkish fam-

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ily man, ask the baby prostitute drug addicts from Berlin. They live with the blues. And when people that are damned like that express themselves, they are expressing the blues” (Morgan 1980). The opposing faction continued its defense of the hierarchy. “The blues was and is exclusively the music of the black population of the United States; white musicians can copy it, imitate it, but can never creatively contribute to its further development” (Steffl 1978: 10). Period! For three years, the heated yet eventually inconclusive tug of war between art and skin color would dominate the letters to the editor column. The board eventually cut off the discussion and declared, “that ‘white blues’ is not an issue for the GBC (anymore).” Of course, people were still permitted to express their opinions but there should be no more disputes “based on the provision of further argumentation.” According to the editors, one had to accept it was “in the first place” about “the emotional world of blues fans” and not about measurable facts (all citations: “Editorial” 1980b: 1). That aggressive competition, pitting brawn against brawn, had swallowed up unnecessary energy and was threatening to divide the association. Those wearing blinders were confronted with massive headwinds, accused of “racism, megalomania, and arrogance” (Hecke and Günther 1980: 17). Some called for people to stand up to this dictatorship of taste. “All music styles must ‘be able to breathe freely’ and to develop instinctively” (Kahr 1978: 17), argued Jim Kahr, a guitarist in West Germany. Udo Wolff published a full-page satirical article (claiming it to be an advertisement) in the GBCI. With just two dozen sharp insults, he held up a mirror in front of all small-minded people. “Let it hereby be known that white blues musicians will no longer be served in my venue: Mr. Pure, Race City, Fanatic Street, 33.”55 Or: “Would like to become a Negro. Who will help me?” (all citations: Wolff 1979b).

Metamorphoses: The Blues and the Hippie Cult in East Germany These kinds of battles of interpretation played almost no role in the eastern part of Germany. Music fans agreed with Theo Lehmann, “that the purist position, that a blues song was only ‘real’ if it was sung by a Negro, was simply based on a preconception” (Lehmann 1966: 62). In East Germany, the blues carried another meaning. It had been turned into the soundtrack of a silent resistance, a symbol of non-conformist youth retreating from the system’s pressure to conform. Collectors, hobby researchers, and connoisseurs constituted a minority; they could

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be seen at seated concerts, deep in contemplation, and within the jazz orbit. Every ambitious jazz club made sure that the blues—the roots of the music to a certain extent—got its due as well.56 The “Jazz Weekends” in the Lower Lusatia district capital of Senftenberg, which covered the whole spectrum from individualistic freestyle to rocky power play, also regularly had blues performances. Tonne, Dresden’s home for jazz, hosted full “Blues Weekends” in loose succession starting in the early 1980s. The organizers explained that, “The goal is to present our country’s blues scene and to provide insight with talks about the history as well as the present day of the blues” (Wache 03.29.1985: 2). Every now and then, they put on an exclusive “big blues concert” at the Leipzig jazz club (see, for example, “Veranstaltungen des Jazzclub Leipzig” 1982, n.p.). The Arbeitsgemeinschaft Jazz in Eisenach, Thuringia was also known for its enthusiasm. Since its foundation in 1959, the group had maintained a palpably close relationship to the blues, published articles in their own club fanzine Die Posaune,57 and hired in-country as well as international musicians. In order to experience the great artists who did not come to their own country, the blues fans who were more focused on the music as an art form would comb the entire Eastern Bloc looking for shows. People took considerable risk and effort: travel authorizations were often obtained under false pretenses, tickets bought with smuggled Western money on the black market.58 Those who possessed the necessary resourcefulness and chutzpa saw B.B. King in the Polish capital in 1986 in spite of the rigid entry requirements enforced since the Solidarnos´c´ movement had gained strength and after the proclamation of martial law in the neighboring land. “Tears came to my eyes,” one eye witness wrote, “seeing this blues legend, it was simply gripping” (Wache 12.12.1986: 1). Transcendent moments were also experienced at the performances of John Mayall and Ray Charles.59 Accolades went to the adventurous, “against all odds” blues fan at the Warsaw Jazz Jamboree in 1976. Muddy Waters and his six-person band stepped onto the world-famous festival’s stage shortly before midnight, 22 October. While jazz critics were displeased by “a certain inclination toward trivialization and commercialization” (“Muddy Waters” 1977), and the blues seemed “a bit electronically rocked out” (Linzer 1977: 15) to them, the fan Winfried Freyer waxed poetic about his initiation experience, beginning his review for the GBCI with, “When you read the tour announcements in West Germany, you could just cry.” He described how East German aficionados are anything but spoiled. But then Muddy Waters climbed down from Olympus and strode through the Iron Curtain. “At the first note, I bellowed like a

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bull.” The mood was so euphoric, Freyer “thought everything would get smashed to bits and pieces” (all citations: Freyer 1977b); the room went into “pandemonium, and I think people didn’t really know where they were anymore” (Freyer 1977a: 24). When he stepped out into the cold air at about 1:30 a.m., nothing seemed the same. His innocence had been lost. “Now, after this indescribable experience, I might even feel worse than before, for how does that saying go: don’t know, don’t care!” (ibid.: 23). Freyer’s encyclopedic ambitions, unconditional love for the traditional forms of the blues, and deeply emotional but also reflective approach qualified him as the representative of a special species within the scene. He and others of his ilk were clearly fixated on the music and rather skeptical about the lifestyle fraction, those who understood the sound more as a medium. “In the first place, I don’t even want to write about what the blues actually means for most of those ‘concert goers’ or what effects it has on them, or about some other things” (Freyer 1978: 15), explained Freyer to his friends in the West. He could sense the superficiality, the move toward fashion trends. As far as the orthodox flank was concerned, those rapidly enamored, gushing enthusiasts remained blind to the “true” blues in his opinion. They were idealizing second-rate quality, flirting with mainstream rock, and had no awareness of history. The guardians of pure doctrine looked down contemptuously at the rank and file, at those who thought Eric Clapton had written “Crossroads.” In actuality, however, things were quite different. Those who recognized the complex nexus of culture that was the blues had translated it thoroughly for everyday life in East Germany. They derived extraordinary strength from this music. The blues shifted into new contexts of meaning; it was highly symbolically charged and functioned as a leitmotif, as a social adhesive. They called themselves Blueser, Kunden,60 or Tramper [hitchhikers] and made up the most energetic, long-lived, but also flamboyant youth culture of East Germany.61 Even though key motivating factors came from the West, namely pioneering musical patterns and media imagery, this movement developed into something specific to East Germany. Born in the reflection of Woodstock, it was not until the 1980s that it began losing relevance under competitive pressure from punk, heavy metal, and other attractive models of identification.62 The guiding principles followed by successive generations of Bluesers remained the ideals of the hippie era: freedom, authenticity, and nonconformity were the primary values reflected in their behavioral patterns, artistic preferences, and clothing choices. The standards included long hair and beards, Levi’s blue jeans, overalls, “Jesus sandals” or brown suede

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climbing boots, t-shirts and coarse, blue-and-white-striped worker garments (“butcher shirts”), old-fashioned felt coats, rough and shabby leather coats with wide lapels and large buttons (“Thälmann jackets”), Batik dresses, and dyed slips. Some pushed their exhibitionism to another level with accessories such as midwife’s bags, “stag bags”63 made out of folksy/kitschy wall hangings or pillow cases, headbands, macramé pieces, and metal-rimmed glasses. Jew’s harps, flutes, or even better, harmonicas, had the same effect (if possible, the original Marine Band or Blues Harp made by the Hohner company) of drawing people into ecstatic dancing. Their ultimate accessory was the generously cut, olive-green US army parka called a Shelli in scene jargon. It could cost up to 1,000 East German marks on the black market, i.e., about one and a half times the average monthly salary. Their rules around clothing reflected “an appropriating transformation of style elements from the late 1960s hippie and rock culture that was specific to East Germany” as well as “increasing influence from folk dress codes” (Suckow 2009: 48 and 46). This patchwork principle also determined the subculture’s musical tastes. Although it is readily generalized as the “blues scene,” its horizons were actually much broader. As with their hairstyles and wardrobe, they favored trends bearing the halo of “authenticity” and of “the handcrafted.” Folk rock

Figure 5.2. Open-air event in Wandersleben, 1975 (photo by Bernd Hiepe).

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and Southern rock were highly popular. Songs by Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, the Byrds, Barry McGuire, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, The Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the Allman Brothers were all part of the holy canon. The golden oldies of the first Kunde generation were also recognized as established greats—the “black” songs of the Rolling Stones or the Animals—as well as the flower power era idols: Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, Janis Joplin, Joe Cocker, Scott McKenzie, and many others. However, the blues sat enthroned at the center of it all; it functioned as the connecting link upon which everybody could agree. There were two sources of this quasi-religious veneration: it was both a relic of the hippie era and an expression of Euro-romantic idealization. The desire for realness and pure emotion was projected onto the music of African Americans; the oppression of the former slaves was considered an ancestral model of historical suffering. Retrospectively, the East German guitarist Jürgen Kerth put it in a nutshell, “I am not a black man but I felt that way” (cited in Keller 2009: 379). For these young drop-outs, it was the energy of blues rock that was most perfectly synchronized with their feelings of longing, which is why it outshone all other styles. Fans glorified it as an alternate world to their small-minded, custodial system of hardship, parochialism, and narrow-mindedness. This playing style had also been dominant in West Germany since the 1970s, but it was much less politically charged there. In songs by Canned Heat, John Mayall, Rory Gallagher, Johnny Winter, ZZ Top, and Ten Years After, masculine stereotypes of “strength,” “work,” and “intoxication” were more prevalent. In contrast to East Germany where concerts were attended by a mixed-gender audience, blues rock in West Germany was a male domain. That was where the insiders came together, the music experts and enthusiasts, while in the East, its cultural application overshadowed its artistic value. In-country bands functioned as the scene’s engine; they covered the great heroes and provided a feeling of groundedness far from the mainstream. The following bands and artists were among those that enjoyed a magical reputation within their circle of devotees: Engerling, Monokel, Hansi Biebl, Passat, Simple Song, Stefan Diestelmann, Knuff, Caravan, Zenit, Freygang, the Hof Blues Band, Hufnagel, Jonathan, Mr. Adapoe, Travelling Blues, Pasch, Jürgen Postel & Helmut Pötsch, Handarbeit, Z.O.P.F., Pro Art, Onkel Tom, Ergo, Mama Basuto, Bernd Kleinow, Matthias Gemeinhardt, Frachthof, Modern Blues, and Jürgen Kerth.64 There was no need for advertisements or posters—full houses were guaranteed. Concert dates were simply spread by word of mouth.

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Although the beard and long hair might suggest otherwise, the Blueser milieu was primarily made up of young people. The social spectrum ranged from teenagers and university students to apprentices and workers. In contrast to the core, intellectual clientele of the Western hippie movement however, the majority of this male-dominated culture consisted of young industrial workers. For example, a secret service investigation on “Tramp factions” in Saxon’s district capital, Freiberg, broke down the local cliques in the following way: 80 percent skilled workers, 15 percent unskilled, and 5 percent students (see Pohl 11.30.1980: 29). This heterogenous community’s lowest common denominator was their rejection of government-mandated cultural behavior. Their rejectionist attitude was revealed in their bizarre appearance, as in their taboo-free perceptions of sexuality, pleasure, and morality—a remnant of the flower power ideology, which retained its appeal as an alternative concept to a “totally controlled society” (Lüdtke 1994: 188). They did not completely withdraw from the regulated living conditions in East Germany. Bluesers bent to the legal “duty to work” and stood at their workbenches Monday through Friday before disappearing off into a parallel world—where they would binge on the only drug they knew: alcohol. The escape from crippling conformism, “all this ideological garbage and slogans” (Greiner-Pol 2000: 302), found its answer in high mobility. Trampers were always on the move on the weekends. In an attempt to compensate for the boredom of everyday life, they crisscrossed East Germany, traveling by train (and dodging the fare) or hitchhiking. There was a dense communication network; it was possible to meet up almost everywhere in the Republic to go underground for the night. Private bars and dance halls acted as the scene’s strongholds in the southern villages and on the periphery of larger cities, such as in Gaschwitz, Auerbach-Hinterhain, Annaberg-Buchholz, Röderau, Mülsen St. Niclas, Limbach-Oberfrohna, Pössneck-Schlettwein, Ebersbrunn, Teichwolframsdorf, Schöneiche, Eulo, Neupetershain, Ruhland, Altdöbern, Werben, Hohen Neuendorf, Teltow, Mahlow, and Freiwalde.65 Enterprising business owners led an anarchistic regime, which managed things such as hygiene, youth protection, and fire safety as little as it dealt with the admission of bands in any kind of official way. Whoever got through the door, had entered into an almost lawless space. It was cramped, loud, and filled with smoke. Massive amounts of beer, wine, and hard liquor were passed around by the bottle. There were times when the alcohol really pumped up the adrenalin in the room, but it was still less violent than any village disco. The spirit of “love

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and peace” rose up above all the chaos. And the music held this willful spectacle together like a vice. Time and again, Bluesers would occupy official terrain and sound out lines of division. It is one of the basic principles of every youth culture to parade around provocatively and fully display their insignias. Their stated aim: differentiation. Rituals, outfits, and their particular musical tastes created a deep chasm between insiders and the non-descript masses of presumed stiffs and hangers-on. One defines oneself through the other. Although Bluesers detested direct confrontation, they did want to communicate their otherness. If a demonstrative land grabbing opportunity happened to arise, they would leave the niches of the underground village dance hall. They occupied all the traditional open-air events: town jubilees, folk, traditional, and press festivals, which, for East Germany, exhibited a high degree of tolerance. People would drink, celebrate, and dance for days on end. Some of the most popular pilgrimages were to the Pfefferbergfest in Schmölln, the Weimar Zwiebelmarkt, the Feldsteintreffen near Themar, the Krämerbrückenfest in Erfurt, the Heiratsmarkt in Kaltennordheim, the Schleizer Dreieckrennen, the Dresden Striezelmarkt, the Baumblütenfest in Werder and the legendary carnival in Wasungen, Thuringia.66 The Kunden pushed into the swaying masses there, irritating people with their particularly nonchalant manner and exhibiting a general lack of restraint. Much to the chagrin of “wellbehaved” citizens and the security apparatus, they were enjoying a bit of the Woodstock feeling. The authorities’ reaction was inevitable. Billy clubs, canine units, and arrests were the standard fare. For the Kunden, there was a thin line between violence and entertainment on these occasions, as there was definitely a sporting feel to their strongman competitions with the state power. The folk festivals were part of a strategy of self-empowerment. Normally pushed out to the margins of society, it was possible for Bluesers to conquer public territory at those events. They did it in a playful way, reinterpreting mass events as their own. It provided them with the opportunity to show that there were many of them and that the pursuit of unlimited pleasure possessed an inherent, subversive power. The shocked bourgeois public learned a lesson in freedom as understood by a Kunde: one consumed vast quantities of alcohol, fraternized with and loved each other unabashedly, and followed the flow of the music, which was offered in abundance at such occasions. These festivals were a destination for the adventurous Tramper tours and were considered the pinnacle of all possible activities and ceremonies. Moreover,

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their fixed schedule provided a general, long-term structure for the year. Even if people had not seen each other for a while, they always knew there would be a reunion in Erfurt, Schleiz, or Werder. At its heart a hedonistic youth culture, the scene became frayed at the edges, gradually blending together with other alternative trends. There was some interface with bohemians and political opposition circles. Musical borders were also fluid; less purist Freaks could be seen at both the Rudolstadt Tanzfest as well as the free jazz open-air events in Peitz. Later, many Bluesers switched over to the heavy metal camp. It possessed a similar flair, with its community of like-minded people, enormous energy, and abundant alcohol. Its ability to adapt also meant that the scene was guaranteed to last. At the same time, the biotopic conditions within East Germany also led to its continued persistence. Youth cultures in the East were not included in the industrial exploitation chain or subject to market logic. The British pop music critic George Melly summed up the West’s typical algorithm in one phrase: “what starts as revolt finishes as style—as mannerism” (Melly 1972: 43). This law did not apply to East Germany, at least not with the same commercial inevitability. The Bluesers’ “look” and that of other subcultures—as well as the associated attitudes—were never recognized as sources of capital, something which would have robbed them of their rebellious posture. Those marketing mechanisms did not exist there. The scene’s characteristic clothing style and accessories, which functioned as symbols of differentiation, could not be bought in a store. One had to fight for them, which required a huge expenditure of energy. They retained their explosive cultural and political force, therefore, devaluing much slower than in their Western lands of origin.67 The blues remained a relevant factor in the East even after its heyday during the second half of the 1970s. The “youth who were bored of disco and looking for communication” (Bratfisch 1988b) rose in rank. By the mid 1980s, however, it notably began to lose its attraction. At that point, nobody could seriously doubt that “the great era of the blues is over,” as declared by the guitarist Waldemar Weiz in 1985. Disenchanted, he broke up his band, Ergo. According to Weiz, “The concert atmosphere has worsened considerably, it’s often barely tolerable” (all citations: Bergholz 1985: 15). Bluesers sank inexorably into anachronism. More contemporary scene-goers mocked them, treating them as a laughingstock. Jule, an eighteen-year-old punk from East Berlin, revealed the following sentiment to the news magazine Der Spiegel, “The East German hippies make me sick, those softies with their torn-up parkas and sneakers” (“Auf die Sahne” 1982: 61).

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Fans in the State’s Crosshairs The blues was also established within the state event sector in addition to the private grey zones. Those motivated by their pure love of the music, instead of by the thrill of acting against socialist society’s prescribed norms, were well served by the many student and youth clubs and cultural houses. These locales organized blues concerts, dance evenings, and special discos, hiring the most distinguished officially-approved bands. If there happened to be a courageous and flexible office employee at an important juncture in the authorization process, that would open up some doors. However, the persistent quarrels over principles demonstrated the generally thin nature of the ice at the time, with debates going back and forth about the need to assure a “clean youth life,” as demanded by official state declarations, and the need to provide relevant recreational activities. One discussion with the FDJ leadership in the small city of Tanna in Thuringia in July 1979 illustrates that dichotomy. The deputy mayor, two Volkspolizei officers, and an FDJ district committee associate were called to the table for a debate. They were arguing about “scene” dances held under the guise of the youth association. The antagonists maintained that there “have been heaps of petitions from the citizens of the city of Tanna. They do not feel safe anymore. Whole hordes come drawn [to the area], steal into the gardens.” A barn had been broken into and used for “group sex” (all citations: Protokoll über die am 28.7.1979 um 17.00 Uhr durchgeführte Sitzung 1979: 1). One woman had to be taken to the hospital after mixing the sedative Faustan with alcohol, “which was very dangerous for her health.” The district delegate threatened that, “such things could easily lead to death and then the federal prosecutor would ask the question: who is the promoter; who is responsible? Whoever that is will be dealt with harshly” (all citations: ibid.: 2). Even the atmosphere at the concerts ran counter to all rules governing civility and morality. According to the authorities, what belonged at a “sophisticated event” was a “reasonably orderly dressing style and no alcoholic beverages”; and “white tablecloths and table service” (ibid.) would be an aesthetic plus that would stimulate good behavior. The criticized FDJ employees went on the defensive: “Young comrade Mosch,” read the protocol, “has expressed that he will no longer organize dances if the blous [sic] bands can no longer perform. He agrees with the attending committee that if such bands no longer perform, then nothing would be going on here at all” (ibid.: 1). In the end, they failed to reach an agreement. The deputy mayor suggested the local FDJ leadership “closely review” their behavior, stoically demanding:

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“You should all form an opinion together at your next gathering and then invite the FDJ district committee and the city council to another meeting” (ibid.: 3). Tenacious citizen initiatives also applied pressure in Werben, a dreamy village close to Cottbus in Brandenburg that transformed into a wild, pulsating blues oasis every Sunday. Hundreds of fans from all over East Germany were drawn to this ritual site—a private hotel named Zum Stern in a rustic building with a dance hall. When the proprietor opened at around 4 p.m., the crowd surged through the doors. It was not uncommon to have a thousand Kunden squeezed into that plain space, one designed for 423 individuals. At 9 p.m., the musicians would pack up their instruments as the pilgrims began their trip home. Seven days later, the long-haired invasion would return once again to annoy the villagers. “On Sunday, there are whole hordes out in the morning, already besieging the community,” complained residents of Werben. “Such crowds naturally cause some commotion in the village. Nothing against commotion. But when, for example, ‘guests from far out of town’ climb over into people’s gardens to force their way into the dance hall, or when bottles are getting passed around, leading to some unpleasant consequences, then it has just gone too far” (all citations: Hermes 1981). In 1981, after two years of complaints had piled up at the mayor’s office in this small village of 1,460 inhabitants, enough was enough. At a resident meeting, the blues mecca was ordered to be converted into a normal dance venue (ibid.). As the dance hall operators failed to comply with that decision, the district council ruled that only “one worthwhile event”—understood by the council organizers as referring to nationally popular bands—could be held “quarterly,” otherwise one had to be satisfied with “disco and bands from the Cottbus area” (Beschluss Nr. 1/82 1982: 1). The document further stated, “This resolution is binding and can only be changed if there is an assessment by the council and the Standing Committee for Order and Security, as well as that for Youth Issues, Physical Culture, and Sports stating there has been a clear turnaround in those areas” (ibid.: 2). The authorities began monitoring like hawks all authorizations to play music as well as fire and alcohol regulations, while also increasing police and Stasi presence. Festivals or larger events with a prominent blues line-up tended to lead a precarious existence. In 1973, the “FDJ village organization” in the Thuringian town of Wandersleben hosted an attractive “festival at the castle.” With its innocuous title, Sterntreffen des Liedes und des Tanzes [A Meeting of Song and Dance], the blues and rock open-air show drew fans from across the entire Republic. It was held for its

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third and final time on 28 and 29 June 1975. The series, which had happened “in complete underestimation of the possible consequences” (all citations: MfS, Hauptabteilung XX. 07.12.1976: 18), was thereafter prohibited: They had calculated for 500–1,000 spectators. In actuality, however, about 3,000–3,500 youth traveled to the event. Due to the inaccurate estimation of the scale of this kind of music event, fundamental issues around accommodation, provisions, security, and organization were not settled. That led to diverse incidents endangering security and order, which did not take on larger scope, however, due to the rapid deployment of security forces. (Ibid.)

As a consequence, areas of responsibility were more rigorously defined. After the allegedly “rowdy excesses” of 1975, it was “conclusively declared that large-scale events, which so-called Trampers and decadent youth from other counties are expected to attend, will in principle be administered under the direction of the county council’s Cultural Department” (Vorbereitung eines sogenannten “2. Tanzmusikfestes der Jugend” 08.24.1976: 3). Concert series and festivals with influential advocates to back them—or those which first came into being during more relaxed times, namely after the peak of the blues wave—enjoyed a longer life. The Bluesfest in Bad Berka and the Bluesfasching in Apolda, two traditional events which even outlived the harsh period of East Germany’s transition after the fall of the Iron Curtain, prospered in state custody. The Bluesfest was launched in 1978 as a cooperative project between the FDJ organization in Bad Berka and the Weimar student club Schützengasse. It was always held on a spring or summer Sunday starting at 11 a.m. with two stages. Over the years, every East German blues act of distinction played there. Up to 2,500 fans made the pilgrimage to the Bad Berka spa gardens. The Bluesfasching in Apolda held its ground without any signs of decline or disaster. In the wake of student initiatives, inspired by the strong draw of the Wasunger Karneval, it opened its doors to the longhaired carnival-goers in 1987. Financed by the FDJ under the motto, Loss mech Blues en Ruh [Leave my Blues in Peace], attractions such as Mr. Adapoe, Travelling Blues, Wilder Wein, Huflattich, and Postel & Pötsch set the mood. News of the event spread. In the beginning, about two hundred guests attended the three days; by the mid 1990s, almost two thousand tickets were sold yearly for the event. The capital city’s series Blues im Konzert68 also had a good reputation, as did the BluesShop in Erfurt,69 the Folk-, Blues- und Countryfest in Magdeburg,70 the

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Bluesfestival in Dresden,71 the Blues-Sonntag in the Berlin Theater der Freundschaft72 and the Folk- und Bluesfestival in Weimar.73 The musicians seen there or on other official stages felt just as at home within the village diaspora. Every weekend, they followed the same ritual of firing up an insatiable audience, one inevitably drowning in a fog of alcohol. André Greiner-Pol, singer of the band Freygang, jokingly compared this routine to toiling in a “ship’s galley” (GreinerPol 2000: 242). Those possessing more artistic ambition who did not want to suffocate in that dance hall predictability were able to think outside the box. The Eisenach group Travelling Blues demonstrated exemplarily how one could broaden one’s horizons without becoming unfaithful to the core concept. Since its foundation in 1973, the quintet had moved in various directions, remaining stylistically open and eager to experiment. They crossed blues with jazz, folk, and classical, set music to works by Heinrich Heine and gave concerts with commentary for students with the theme, “Blues—Its Origin and Current State.” Never did they lose sight of the music’s source. “Our role models are authentic, creative blues artists with black skin color” (Montag 1977), said Peter Montag, the guitarist and singer of the Travelling Blues. The band, recognized by the state as a “Hervorragendes Volkskunstkollektiv der DDR”74 [Distinguished Folk Art Collective of East Germany], felt just as at home in the village hall and student club as at the large jazz festivals in Jena, Krakow, and Slaný. They went to the Liedersommer der FDJ in Berlin and played with Jürgen Kerth at the Rock für den Frieden festival at the Palast der Republik. Officially-recognized professional blues musicians would also show up on the margins of media with their own German-language songs. Engerling, Stefan Diestelmann, Jürgen Kerth, Hansi Biebl, Monokel, Jonathan, and Zenit could be heard on the radio every now and then; they produced records and were invited to play on the youth television series rund. Even though some of the more easily spooked editors truer to party principles may have regarded them with suspicion, they had plenty of sympathizers. According to the specialized press, Engerling’s frontman Wolfram Bodag was a “damned good, profound allegorist,” an “advocate of really elusive and extraordinary deeper meaning.” He was recognized for the way in which he lampooned “with interpretative, biting derision, the submissive conformity, loss of morality, perversion of the meaning of life, and those sated, complacent people’s competitive race to riches.” As a composer, he was also in a class of his own, as he was capable of “mastering the feelings of aggression and of anger with both restraint and fine, ironic refraction” (all citations: Lange 1981). This benevolent critic had the following to say about

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Jürgen Kerth, one of East Germany’s best blues guitarists, “His music breathes humility and honesty in a fundamental way.” He described Kerth as an adept artist who would never cling “opportunistically to a passing, fashionable trend” (all citations: Lange 1980). Bernd Kleinow, the harmonica virtuoso, was characterized as “a very friendly, rather reserved person”; and when he put his instrument to his lips, there was an outpouring of “human warmth” (Eger 1981: 21). Although the blues’ artistic elite enjoyed a certain amount of publicity, the everyday East German scene was ignored by the media. The SED press looked stolidly toward the West: officials zeroed in on the model concepts infiltrating from there and declared them symptoms of a moribund, decadent system. The “flower child” in far-off America was abased: “The rejection of a meaningful life, ‘criticizing’ a society of exploitation by escaping to drugs and the narcotic of music, that is precisely the lifestyle required by a social system doomed to failure in order to prolong its lifetime” (Hofmann 1971: 72). The “howling audience” of the “mass concerts,” the “criminal rockers,” “runaways,” and “drug addicts” were “the seed of violence and hopelessness, which imperialism would like to reap over and over again in order to save itself over time, to make young people deaf to the ideas of socialism and humanity” (Pfelling 1973). That propaganda was supposed to construct an image of the enemy—but succeeded in doing just the opposite.75 The dream of the “land of unlimited opportunities” remained a permanent object of youthful yearning, especially for East German Bluesers. They idolized jeans, music, and beatnik prose as “mediums of emancipatory energy” (Dieckmann 2003). Theater pieces, books, and films with hippie character stoked their unquenchable wanderlust, while also refining their own identity constructions. East German licensed editions of classics such as Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, Jerome D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey circulated throughout the scene as revelation literature, acting as an affirmation of their own selves. The film The Strawberry Statement kindled strong emotions. It was released in East German cinemas in 1973 because it was considered to be “thoroughly suited to generating hatred for imperialism” (Hoffmann 01.26.1972). In actuality, those captivating songs by Buffy Sainte-Marie, Thunderclap Newman, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young attracted thousands upon thousands of people to the motion picture theaters. Serious throngs of pilgrims were also drawn to The Last Waltz, Martin Scorsese’s homage to The Band.76 Those adolescent images of America—“blissfully romantic to a large extent” (Merkel 1996: 254)—were nourished not least by the SED’s

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negative assertions. There were reasons for this official cross-system hostility, which were aptly identified by Peter Wicke: Whatever the ideological terrain these debates were fought on, strictly speaking it was only about one thing everywhere—in the East and in the West—namely about the fact that, with the media and a media-produced youth culture, a commercially-organized social institution independent of traditional entities such as family and school—but very powerful— had found its way into all industrial societies, thereby beginning to create rapid, massive competition for the cultural and educational elites around the process of youth socialization. (Wicke 2002: 65)

In East Germany, the generational conflict was shrouded in the political. The state understood itself as an executive educational authority with a fundamental sovereign right, and not only in the area of education, but in the private life as well. It declared the “socialist personality” to be the “fundamental goal of the socialist society” (Wörterbuch zur sozialistischen Jugendpolitik 1975: 249). It was defined as the following: A fully developed personality that possesses comprehensive political, technical, and general knowledge, holds a firm class standpoint based on the Marxist-Leninist worldview, is characterized by high mental, physical, and moral qualities, is imbued with collective thought and action, and which actively, consciously, and creatively contributes to the shaping of socialism. (Ibid.)

The fact that youth had deviated from the standard trajectory due to the influence of “Western” music, were following alternative socialization patterns, and occupying autonomous communication spaces was interpreted by the state as a first strike against its authority. It saw itself threatened with losing control of the one thing it was trying to regulate; and its reaction was correspondingly severe. Over the years, the security apparatus perfected its strategies around surveillance, defense, and liquidation. Up until the mid 1960s, it was the head of the SED who dealt with youth culture phenomena flourishing under the banner of rock music. Afterwards, that area of responsibility was handed over completely to the police and the Stasi.77 In response to Beatlemania, which was also spreading across East Germany, the MfS presented a report in November 1965 on the “negative groupings of young people,” who “express or try to demonstrate an explicitly Western and to some extent decadent attitude toward life and way of life in their behavior and actions” (MfS, Zentrale Auswertungs- und Informationsgruppe 1965: 3). The secret service noticed an increase in “film and star clubs,” “party groups,” Gammler,78 and

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“Beatles’ fans” (ibid.: 4). Crisscrossing East Germany, the latter followed popular bands. They were said to be the “cause of the clashes and riots at dance events, folk festivals, and other large events” (ibid.: 11); and were deemed responsible for the “commotion and fighting,” “property damage,” “noise disturbing the peace,” “subversive defamation” (ibid.: 29), and “sexual excesses” (ibid.: 30). The document outlined an algorithm that would remain binding: first, the general situation was laid out, the scale and sources of the allegedly criminal phenomena were summarized, and cautionary tales recorded. It then gave a standardized description of the outfits and attitudes of delinquents in order to facilitate timely identification nationwide. Instructions for how to solve the problem were provided in the conclusion. In 1965, the list of measures was still a small one, revolving around the following recognition: “The assessment is that the current operational base within these youth circles is wholly inadequate and should therefore be widely expanded and trained” (Hinweise zur Ergänzung bzw. Veränderung 10.16.1965: 58). On 15 May 1966, elaborate tactics were defined in the ministerial “department guidelines for the political-operative fight against the political-ideological diversions and underground activity by youth circles in East Germany.” Remaining in effect up until the fall of the Wall, it specified models of interpretation and action, which also had an effect on the Stasi’s handling of Bluesers. One of its core components was the doctrine of manipulation. It uncovered “hostile activity organized by the enemy” (Ministerrat der DDR, MfS, Der Minister 05.15.1966: 3) within subcultural movements: The youth of East Germany represent a particular point of attack in the system of psychological warfare. Coordinated cooperation between the Bonn state apparatus, Western secret services, spy agencies, and the centers of ideological diversion, between West German youth organizations, film and star clubs, ecclesiastical institutions, broadcasting, the press, and television, among others, is aimed at isolating the youth of East Germany from the influence of socialist ideology, at pressuring them into passivity, at creating an atmosphere of general insecurity, as well as temporarily establishing conditions in certain territories designed to lead to youth rioting and excesses. (Ibid.)

More pointedly, according to them, the “class enemy” was hollowing out the system from the inside, was attempting to “create footholds within the youth community, which were meant to be effective either immediately or at an appropriate time in preparation for the covert war” (ibid.: 5). The 1966 Dienstanweisung [department guidelines] also

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laid the groundwork for the observation and deactivation of “negative-decadent youth,” as they would be sweepingly labelled henceforth. It stipulated that: “continuous operational control is to be guaranteed through targeted recruitments amongst members of Western-oriented music groups and their fan base” (ibid.: 18). In the late 1960s, there was a spike in repressive measures following changes in the internal political climate after the suppression of the Prague Spring.79 The Stasi mounted a purging campaign with large operations such as Jubiläum, Stafette, and Nachstoß.80 Those severe measures were also a reaction to the hippie wave spilling over onto their shores—in East Germany, the Woodstock concept had fallen on fertile soil, which multiplied the difficulties. Under the flower power influence, the social and cultural dimensions of the “long-haired scene”81 were expanded; the ideals of community and mobility, as well as habits common to the scene, were spreading more broadly throughout the country. The ideal image of the “socialist personality” grew ever more distant. Confidential reports depicted apocalyptic scenarios. They recorded an increase in youth cliques with music as their foundation, writing that their sphere of action had rapidly moved to include private spaces where they could practice their alternative lifestyle undisturbed and give free reign to their enthusiasm for blues, rock, or soul. Internally, notifications piled up about “communes,” “party houses,” and “beat joints.” But people had also begun unleashing their passion and desire with unfamiliar intensity in the official event sphere. For example, one communication written by East Germany’s attorney general to the youth division of the SED’s Central Committee noted the following: “As a consequence of the Western sex wave, some girls are showing up at the Freiberg District Cultural Center without underpants. As a form of external identification, they put the mark ‘oH’ [ohne Höschen: no panties] on the back of their hands” (Fakten der ideologischen Diversion 1970). The mid 1970s saw another round of secret service mobilization against the Bluesers. And although the underground was visibly growing stronger at the time, that was not the only reason: it was also due to a fundamentally more rigorous policy of intervention against popular cultural phenomena during another domestic political ice age (see Rauhut 2002: 66–70). The scene experienced its most severe backlash after the 1,000-year anniversary of the district town of Altenburg in Thuringia (in detail: Rauhut 2011a: 118–33).82 Between 9 and 11 July 1976, a “series of serious events” played out, “which severely compromised order and security. Cause was the presence and behavior of about 2,500 Gammlers and youth with decadent appearance” (Infor-

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mation über Vorkommnisse während der 1000-Jahrfeier 1976: 20), read one internal notification by the SED’s Central Committee. Top quality concerts and dance events had unleashed the onslaught, with news of the shows being spread by radio and press nationwide. A disaster of unknown proportions was running its course. The Central Committee made the following assessment: The shabby clothing, some with Western symbols such as US flags, and the repugnant appearance and behavior of the specified social circle— those things alone would severely compromise the festive ambiance. Disturbances arose mostly in the form of rowdy activities, sometimes heavily under the influence of alcohol, such as provocative behavior toward police officers, verbal abuse of citizens, immoral harassment, begging with the threat of violence, damaging public institutions, and smashing bottles and glasses. People from this social circle camped and spent the night both in groups and individually on the streets, in squares, public spaces, on some occasions people bathed naked in the palace and park pools, answered nature’s call in full public view, and the like. On some occasions, seditious comments were made, although the leader was protected from the intervening police by the group. Slogans such as “We’ll do what we want!”; “We want to be free!”; and “We’re going to show that the state’s power is powerless!” were called out by this social group. Abusive language was directed at the police in particular, whose members were repeatedly called . . . “Nazi pigs.” (Ibid.: 21)

A clash was unavoidable: 103 youth, who came from eleven different counties in the Republic, were briefly incarcerated and six landed in prison. After summary proceedings, the maximum penalty handed down was nine months incarceration, imposed on a twenty-year-old pipe layer from Halle. He had stood in the way of police officers, chanting, “We want to be nasty rockers, not dirty pigs!” and, as noted in a high-level report “Heil Hitler—you pigs!” (MfS, Zentrale Auswertungsund Informationsgruppe 08.20.1976: 9). The majority came away from it all with lighter wallets, reprimands, and admonishments. More than a few of the 250,000 attendees of the anniversary celebrations were extremely indignant when they heard about the—in their opinion—much too mild actions taken against those “antisocials.” There was a torrent of complaints, with one addressed specifically to the SED’s Central Committee. Altenburg was seen as a portent of things to come, leading to heated debates in the Central Committee. After word from the minister of the interior reached Erich Honecker, the Central Committee adopted a resolution on 8 September 1976. It set far-reaching, cross-institutional “measures for the strengthening of the political-ideological, artistic, and organizational influence on youth dance events and other

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activities” (Maßnahmen zur verstärkten politisch-ideologischen, künstlerischen und organisatorischen Einflussnahme 1976: 24–32). The party’s activities were supported by Stasi maneuvering on all sides. Erich Mielke issued an order on 15 N ovember 1976 to the directors of the service units “for preventative political-operative defense work among negative-decadent youth and young adults.” In the preamble, the “unlawful assembly” at blues and rock events that had increased “in recent times,” was construed as a powder keg: “These incidents could lead to the immediate endangerment of public safety and order and moreover to the discrediting of the power of the East German state internally and externally” (all citations: Ministerrat der DDR, MfS, Der Minister 11.15.1976: 1). That eventuality was supposed to be prevented by increasing the usage of secret informants and by “tactics of corruption and disintegration.” After Altenburg, cultural and security police strategies were intensified nationwide and the institutions began working together like clockwork. Once set in motion, the mechanism was difficult to stop. Further incidents, now being recorded in particular detail, kept it moving. The “withdrawal from East Germany,” as celebrated by the Bluesers on the weekends, remained a permanent issue for security agencies. Officious Chekists demanded a radical “operation, up to the banishing of all Tramper types from the affected city” (Probleme der Bewertung des Charakters von Veranstaltungen n.d.: 44). On 14 January 1978, Erich Mielke mandated the nationwide intensification of “political-operative work” and in emergency situations “strict application of socialist criminal law” (Ministerrat der DDR, MfS, Der Minister 01.14.1978: 2 and 9). Bit by bit, the Stasi refined their strategic repertoire and perfected the informant system. Official instructions, training, and graduation theses out of the Juristische Hochschule Potsdam [Academy of Law in Potsdam], the training ground for the MfS, provided detailed analyses and plans. Confidential descriptions of identity markers were circulated, as demonstrated in the following: Characteristic habits and practices of the decadent-negative Tramper: the wearing of dirty and torn clothing and unkempt shoes (mostly jean suits and boots); unpleasant body and clothing odor; inadequate personal hygiene (especially noticeable with the hands; dirt under the fingernails and in skin creases.) Evidence of a lack of sleep with the aftereffects of being freezing; carrying around a blanket and map (often in a worn-out protective mask bag or similar tote bag). Particular habits and practices of decadent-negative Trampers at youth-appropriate, large-scale events: immediate contact with the like-minded and sympathizers where there are concentrated areas of youth gathering; exploitation of many young

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people to get them to pay for meals and alcoholic drinks (often under threat or usage of violence); political disinterest and a certain oppositional stance in regards to our state; glorification of antisocial lifestyles, provoking behavior toward progressive youth and attending security forces; usage of overnight accommodation free of charge, such as at train stations and in amusement parks. (Kett 12.15.1978: 42–43)

Operative Vorgänge [Operational Procedures] and Operative Personenkontrollen [Surveillance Operations]83 with code names such as Blues, Penner [riffraff], Tramper or Anhalter [hitchhikers], and Diestel focused their sights on suspicious Kunden and musicians. They were often observed over many years, their field of activity restricted as they were slowly crippled by subtle terrorization—or, as the Stasi called it, zersetzt84 [corrupted and disintegrated]. Unofficial collaborators who provided information and significantly influenced the course of events were placed in problematic areas by the MfS.85 These henchmen included many high-profile Bluesers, leading figures who were either extorted by security services or enticed by blood money. The extremely tenacious and perfidious manner in which the Stasi proceeded against the scene is illustrated by the Operativer Vorgang Tramper. Introduced by the Gera county administration in May 1978, it targeted a nationally active group of “political and morally labile youths” (Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Gera 05.05.1978: 19) comprised of forty to fifty individuals, with a core of fifteen. Their plan was to “discreetly, complexly, sophisticatedly, and rapidly drive them back, differentiate and destabilize them, restrict their ‘freedom of movement’ and ultimately dismantle them, taking all appropriate educational institutions into consideration” (ibid.: 25). The Stasi exploited four unofficial collaborators “who were fully integrated into the group and thus held the appropriate positions of trust” (Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit, Kreisdienststelle Gera 09.20.1982: 326). Through them, “existing differences and conflicts between individual group members could be intensified or skillfully utilized to ‘play them off’ against each other, thereby inserting elements of discord and resignation or preventing cohesive participation at the various events” (ibid.: 325). In 1982, the MfS concluded its “corruption and disintegration of the group” (ibid.: 323); the file was closed. They had done good work: five of the “negative decadent youth” (ibid.: 321) went to prison, one of them subsequently went to the West and another was drafted into military service, which rendered him harmless. However, those attacks only led to a Pyrrhic victory in the end. Having long since discovered the system’s weak points, the community

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was constantly opening up new spaces of refuge. The more the state restricted official spaces, the more eagerly people developed their own niches and used evasive measures. All that officials could do was record the ongoing problem in their internal reports. A central analysis of the Central Committee’s resolution on Altenburg, compiled for Erich Honecker in late 1977, had to concede it had been unsuccessful at “acting uniformly” (Information über die bisherige Verwirklichung des Beschlusses 11.22.1977: 2). During a period of twelve months, the Ministry of the Interior registered “negative incidents” at “twenty-five dance events, nine press-, folk-, or other festivals” (ibid.: 9), in spite of the increased state of alarm. Things were steadily heating up: Groups under the influence of alcohol were mainly responsible for the destructive behavior. Besides the hooligan-like harassment of citizens, incitement of violent confrontations, and damage or destruction of material assets, there were frequent incidents of heightened negative political character. In addition to the slander against the socialist state and SED politics, and the expressions of anti-Soviet sentiment, there has been an increase in aggressive behavior toward security agencies’ members and FDJ officials in charge of keeping order. Police officers in uniform are the focus of these attacks in particular. There is an attempt to use conspicuous disorderly conduct to get them to intervene, and to then oppose them with active and passive resistance or violent assault. These phenomena are clearly the resulting effects of the opponent’s ideological activities. (Ibid.)

The state also lost the fight against unwelcome bands. Private event promoters were unimpressed by the stage bans. They were governed by quasi capitalist interests and the law of the rolling ruble was in effect. Government requirements were ignored or nullified through corruption for as long as possible. Enormous energy was required to infiltrate and corrode the symbiotic relationship developed between the blues scene and the Church. Starting in 1979, various East Berlin Protestant houses of worship celebrated so-called Bluesmessen [blues masses] (in detail: Moldt 2008; Winter 2009; “Teufelszeug im Gotteshaus” 2009; Rauhut 1996b: 202– 17). Rainer Eppelmann (*1943), the Friedrichshain district youth minister, acted as the guiding spirit for this endeavor. Under his direction, a total of twenty masses took place up until 1986. The main concept was to use the blues as an emotional catalyzer for the realization of a twin vision, one charitable and the other missionary (see Winter 2009: 197–98). Participants in the blues masses were encouraged to express their social difficulties freely and openly. According to the transcript

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of a “clarifying’”conversation with party officials, Rainer Eppelmann summarized his pastoral motivations in the following way: There is a trend among youth toward dropping out, toward questioning the meaning of life and the meaning of work. But these youth are not given an appropriate model in society for how to live. The Church does not want to do harm, it wants to help young people find happiness. They should learn not to settle conflicts with violence. He is of the opinion that living as a Christian in East Germany is worthwhile; it is about creating the best, most tolerant coexistence. Fear and distrust must be dispelled. Eppelmann feels responsible for social relations and for their transformation. (Vermerk über ein Gespräch mit Pfarrer Eppelmann 03.09.1981: 166)

The blues masses opened up an outlet; a new form of self-awareness was breaking ground. Youth who had been pushed out to the margins of society or even criminalized by the state due to their political disposition and life attitudes, saw it as confirmation of their stance. Within the protection of that large community, they recognized something: I am not an outsider; thousands think just as I do. Organizers of the masses also wanted young people—who had never visited a church before—to be introduced to the concept of Christian belief. They were supposed to be shown alternative forms of the meaning of life and truthfulness, values which were lacking in socialism’s atheistic world view. The Church was considered reactionary, a remnant of bourgeois society. Even though freedom of religion and belief were guaranteed by East Germany’s constitution (see Die Verfassung der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik 1949, Article 41: 31), avowed Christians did in fact face discrimination. There was a gaping contradiction between what was put on paper and the reality.86 The Church defended itself against political stigmatization and turned into a space of opposition, a refuge of unfettered communication. Under its roof, they discussed the country’s day-to-day conflicts as much as the biblical lessons. Courageous Protestant priests opened up their doors to the marginalized, to those who had been publicly scorned or summarily written off by the state. No one should be left behind. It was the blues masses that had the greatest large-scale impact—just one alone could mobilize up to seven thousand youth. People made the pilgrimage to the Samariterkirche, Auferstehungskirche, and the Erlöserkirche in East Berlin from all across the Republic. According to internal extrapolations, “only about 10 to 15 percent of participants had real ties to the Church” (Arbeitsgruppe Kirchenfragen beim ZK der SED 06.07.1982: 213). If there was a particularly large rush of people, the

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masses would be held repeatedly one after the other or in more than one church simultaneously. The blues masses were declared “intra-church activities,” which considerably limited the direct influence of the state. It was decreed by law that “religious activities” were not subject to the usual compulsory registration (see “Verordnung über die Durchführung von Veranstaltungen vom 26. N ovember 1970” 01.22.1971: 70); they did not require authorization by the police governing bodies, as they followed the Church’s decision-making authority alone. The unconventional masses mixed liturgical elements such as rogations, prayers, and sermons with political-satirical skits and some concert-like parts. Sometimes musicians, who were familiar from the village hall, performed: Stefan Diestelmann, Regine Dobberschütz, Monokel’s singer Frank Gahler, and Peter Pabst, head of the Jonathan Blues Band. In the beginning, Hollys Bluesband and the duo Holly & Plant provided a “Kunde-friendly” sound.87 The feeling of freedom was potentiated by the marriage of honest words with sounds that got under the skin. For a few hours, people could escape the dreary routine of the everyday, the foolish propaganda, and the system’s disciplinary measures; they could collectively breathe freely. The mood was appropriately euphoric. Even the slightest jab at the system was frenetically applauded. The singer-songwriter Karl Winkler, who performed repeatedly at the blues masses, identified the common denominator: My experiences are the same as so many others. School, apprenticeship, work, restriction, paternalism, distrust. Most people conform, but some resist. Often because they can no longer do anything else, because all of the difficulties they have to accept in doing so are much easier to bear than consciously adapting, when you know exactly what you are passing up. Where one lies to oneself one’s entire life, oneself and others. But a person only has one life, and what is left? Resignation is much worse. When one tries to do something and is constantly standing up to injustice, with petitions, discussions, or whatever, without really succeeding in anything, in changing or improving anything. And one thinks, one is all alone—at some point, one loses strength. The blues masses helped against that. We do not want your graveyard peace, locked behind barrack walls. We do not want to be degraded into yes men. We do not want any military science education. We want to be allowed to say what we are thinking, even if that does not work for you. We do not feel like joining in with your decreed celebratory cheering or parroting your slogans. We want our peace. Peace without being raised to hate, without war toys. (Winkler 1983: 89–90)

There was political dynamite obscured behind the themes of the blues masses, with names such as Overcoming Fear, Conflict Resolution Without Violence, The Freedom We Mean, and Backbone Required.88

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They addressed the meaning of life and careerism, the daily work routine, compulsory military service, as well as ecology, addiction, and opportunism—topics which were otherwise barely discussed in the public sphere. Criticism of the SED’s power structure was wrapped in metaphor or hidden between the lines. From time to time, however, it was expressed bluntly. The following lamentation was delivered on 12 September 1980: Walls of constraint and derision surround me. I am trapped between commands and prohibitions as behind electric barbwire. Every day I am questioned, I feel like a number supposed to live according to others’ example. How I act is already determined. What I am really like, I do not know. My will has been taken away and shattered. What I give, they split up amongst themselves, but nobody hears my silent screaming. . . . I don’t want to play the role ascribed to me. They deride me while I am breaking apart inside. Their words are suffocating me. (Cited in Moldt 2008: 175–76)

The blues captured the feeling of the smoldering protest almost perfectly. It was thought to be a universal language, a timeless medium without borders that drew on the experience of slavery and centuriesold wisdom. The concert part of the blues mass on 13 July 1979 was presented as follows: Between hate, the hate against the oppressor and their methods of torture, and hope, the hope of one day being able to lead a free and human life after all, emerged a form of music that reflects a vibrant life, which can give us hope as well. I wish we would let ourselves get a little infected with that too. (Ibid.: 70)

Although only made public by word of mouth, the response to the blues masses was overwhelming. Up until 1983, there was a consistent surge in attendance—which then gradually subsided. The state was persistent in its efforts to undermine the blues masses, aiming to stop them in the long run—but they could not just forbid them outright. The MfS mandated that: The difficulties, vulnerabilities, and disruptions that the organizing committee is expecting from youth during the event must be found out from the unofficial collaborators in time. After consultation with the relevant service units and others, the focus is to be placed on those aspects using the appropriate political-operational measures in order to shock those Church leaders present and to compel actions agreeable to us. (Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Berlin, Abteilung XX/4, 05.20.1980: 91)

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Table 5.1. Blues masses: number of attendees. Blues Mass

Theme

Date

1

Von der Liebe [Of Love]

06.01.1979 Samariterkirche

250

2

Zwischen Hass und Hoffnung [Between Hate and Hope]

07.13.1979 Samariterkirche

450

3

Aus Hoffnung leben [Living in Hope]

09.14.1979 Samariterkirche

1,200

9

Umweltschutz [Environmental Protection]

11.14.1980 Erlöserkirche

4,200

15

Wir sind Protestanten! [We are Protestants!]

06.24.1983 Erlöserkirche

7,000

18

Von der Befreiung zur Befreiung [From Liberation to Liberation]

06.16.1985 Erlöserkirche

2,000

20

Der betrogene Betrüger [The Deceiver Deceived]

09.20.1986 Erlöserkirche

1,100

Location

Attendees

Source: Themes, dates, and locations: Moldt 2008: 55, 67, 88, 196, 289, 336, and 366; numbers: Winter 2009: 210.

The secret service began a campaign of character assassination against the organizers, constantly terrorizing them with anonymous calls and letters, private property destruction, interrogations, and short-term incarcerations. Informants infiltrated the sacral space, where they caused trouble and recorded every sound. The Stasi was providing a demonstration of its power and intimidating the public. They photographed and filmed people, collected personal information, and parked in front of churches in cars with tinted windows. Complaints were lodged about “noise disturbing the peace” or the “contamination of hallways” (ibid.: 90); skeptical priests were presented with arguments that dealt with the blues masses “from a conservative theological position,” (Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Berlin, Leiter 02.18.1981: 160) and key figures were put under psychological and legal pressure. Musicians and members of the organization team were deported to the West. They tormented the guitarist and singer Günter Holwas for so long that he gave up and applied for a departure permit, which received expedited approval (see Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Berlin, Leiter 11.16.1981: 109). Karl Winkler was noticed because he sang songs critical of the regime—he went straight to prison. Just twenty years old, he was sentenced to eighteen months. In addition

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Figure 5.3. Early 1980s blues mass (photo by Harald Hauswald).

to coercive measures, it was also common to lure in performers with promises of beneficial treatment. “Influence is being exerted by the Cultural Association of East Germany [Kulturbund der DDR]” read one MfS report, “to assure that all other groups contacted by the organizational committee about participation will receive lucrative performance offers (higher financial category, performance offers in the state sector, among others)” (MfS, Hauptabteilung XX 12.10.1980: 81). East Berlin officials announced competing events, namely blues concerts with high-ranking artists that took place at the same time as the blues masses. They booked the centrally-located cinema Kino Kosmos, the youth club in the Langhansstraße in the Weissensee neighborhood, or the Theater der Freundschaft. This strategy was supposed to reduce the exclusivity of the blues masses and entice their public away—and it was successful. The summary of the 1986 Liedersommer der FDJ remarked on Champion Jack Dupree’s performance, “in which the progressive traditions of blues music were illustrated with great interpretive mastery, while at the same time making it possible to once again present a clear, artistic alternative, which has a connection to the masses, to the negatively ambitious blues events held by certain parishes” (Zentralrat der FDJ 1986: 116–17). For the most part, the MfS was targeting Rainer Eppelmann. Operativer Vorgang Blues was begun against him in January 1981. It intended to dismantle the “attempt to create internal opposition in East Ger-

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many by abusing the latitude accorded to the Church” (Bezirksverwaltung für Staatssicherheit Berlin, Abteilung XX/4, 10.16.1981: 55). For security services, Eppelmann was a saboteur—or even a spy—directed by the West, driven by “a notably negative and increasingly hostile attitude toward social conditions” (ibid.: 51). He was supposed to be discredited both privately and within his circle of colleagues. They strove to “discharge [him] from his activities as district youth pastor. The goal is to transfer Eppelmann from the capital city of East Germany, Berlin.” (MfS, Hauptabteilung XX, n.d.: 47) But that plan proved unsuccessful. Although the bothersome clergyman had opponents within his own ranks as well, his advocates prevailed. Despite all the criticism, there was no doubt as to the project’s pastoral benefits. “These open services, with free, ever-changing configuration, see themselves as an offering of Protestantism to young people in a form that speaks to them” (cited in MfS, n.d.: 21), as proclaimed by the Protestant Church in Berlin-Brandenburg at the 1981 spring synod. In the end, it was not supporters or opponents of the blues masses who decided their fate, it was the inexorable flow of time. The base broke apart without relent; the blues no longer worked as the soundtrack of a youth culture and lost its identity-creating status. Those once explosive blues masses thus disappeared into the annals of history—along with the long-haired, hippie-esque Bluesers.

Notes 1. From the song “Stell dir vor.” T: Thomas Schmitt, K/A: Hansi Biebl. Hansi Biebl Band, Amiga 8 55 716, DDR 1979. Lyrics printed courtesy of Thomas Schmitt. 2. It was established in Cologne in 1971. In detail: Schubert 2008. 3. Promoter based in West Berlin. 4. Concert promoters often managed their own record labels. For example, Siegfried Christmann established Ornament Records, Karsten Jahnke the company Happy Bird, Hans Ewert started Bluesbeat, and Dieter Nentwig launched Joke Records. 5. For an example of the career of a West German blues musician who already ascribed to the genre in the 1960s (after a beat phase), see Galden 1988. 6. The Blues Company was founded in 1976. 7. German-speaking blues periodicals, which West Germans could order through the mail, had already been published in Austria. One of those was blues notes, 1969 to 1978, and Blues Life, 1978 to 1995. While blues notes were put out by Blues Club Linz, the magazine Blues Life came out in Vienna and defined itself as an independent medium; it was neither a

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8. 9. 10. 11.

12.

13. 14.

15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

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fanzine nor a club handout. On the publication’s aspirations and history, see Svacina and Svacina 1987. Under the pseudonym “Prof. Bop.” DIN A4 paper size: 8.27 in × 11.69 in. The review section included international festivals and publications as well as academic literature. In addition, there were whole-page ads, inserted by record companies, agencies, music publication companies, periodicals, instrument manufacturers, technology outfitters, and rental companies. Classified ads could be found in the back pages. In contrast, writing style and orthography left much to be expected. Readers complained “that it is just teeming with typos” (Marschall 1981a: 6). The service section, namely the tour calendar, left much to be desired in terms of reliability and being up-to-date (see, for example, Rocha 1981). Table of contents, Blues Forum 20/1987: 3. Winfried Freyer copied the ever-growing manuscript using the “Ormig” method and distributed it among interested parties and multiplicators of East and West Germany. Winfried Freyer was born in 1951. Thomas Gutberlet regularly received the schedules of the Dresden jazz club Tonne. For the third time, it held a “blues weekend” from 11 to 14 April 1985, about which his magazine provided information. See the notice in the section “Alles (Un-)Mögliche,” Blues Forum 17–18/1985: 46–47. A play on “Amiga,” the name of the state record label for popular music. After number 14, each volume cost 4.50 DM, then it went up to 5 DM with number 16. At the beginning, the print run was 2,000, then 1,500 units. Problems in the production process had become so serious that fifteen months passed between Number 19 and Number 20. The idea first took concrete form with a step-by-step plan created in May 1977. It projected a trial phase in which they would publish a thematic yearbook. Eventually, they wanted to switch to a quarterly release (see “Editorial” 1977d: 2). However, since people showed only very limited interest in participating, seven months later they wrote, “Our ‘magazine’ project is dead for now” (“Editorial” 1977g: 1). It was frequently discussed in the period that followed. Hans Pehl (*1940), Friedrich “Fritz” Marschall (*1943), and Friedemann Heinze (*1951). The GBC’s own advertising rounded that number off generously. Within five years, so they claimed, they had acquired five hundred members (see ad in Bloomfield 1982, n.p.). Statistical average according to member information, printed in the GBG 1977/78 (see “Mitglieder-Liste nach Mitgliedsnummern” 1977). This requires the following qualification: From a total of 258 listed individuals, 23 percent refrained from providing their age. There was a wide spectrum; the oldest member was fifty-six, the youngest thirteen years old. Those aged twenty to twenty-seven were the most represented at 56 percent.

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25. Between 1976 and 1988, seven editions of the German Blues Guide were published. 26. In later editions of the German Blues Guide, GBC members were given the opportunity to very briefly introduce themselves, offer friendly favors, or publish queries. For example, “I am interested in founding or contributing to a blues group in Baden-Baden.” “Open to all African American styles, overnight accommodation.” “Who trades copies of lyrics from Japanese blues LPs and other LPs?” “Enjoy talking about music, looking forward to something interesting, new, [offering] overnight accommodation” (see “Persönliche Mitteilungen” 1985, citations: 18, 20, 22 and 23). 27. The German Blues Guide 1979/80 provided contact information for bands and soloists living in West Germany for the first time (see “Bands & Musiker” 1979). 28. As justification: “Regular membership fees would not be worthwhile, since financial participation by members is always necessarily linked to services provided by the club” (“Protokoll der 1. ordentlichen Mitgliederversammlung” 1979: 99). 29. The GBC rejected the idea of becoming promoters themselves, explaining that, “The fees required by black blues bands and their impresarios are too high in our opinion” (“Editorial” 1978b: 1–2). 30. In September 1976 the GBC management board wrote in a letter to the American presidential candidate Jimmy Carter protesting against the incarceration of the record producer Roy Ames. He had been condemned to twelve years in prison for the dissemination of pornographic material. The association’s leadership accused the US institutions of bigotry (reprinted in GBCI 2/1976: 4). The GBC urged its members to collect signatures; they gained new supporters in Holland and Australia (see “Editorial” 1977a). Another example is the donation campaign for the Chicago club owner Theresa Needham. When the landlord evicted Needham from her legendary establishment Theresa’s Lounge in 1986, there was a call to help her out of that financial crisis (see “Editorial” 1987). 31. The booklet—with just twenty pages and a circulation of one thousand, according to the imprint—was dedicated to “blues and blues-related” subjects, and included “therefore jazz, rock, and folk as well” (Donisch 1981). 32. GBG = German Blues Guide. 33. One part of the opposing argument was printed in the GBCI section “Letters to the Editor” (see GBCI 44/1980: 4–10). 34. Note in the section “Alles (Un-)Mögliche,” Blues Forum 9/1983: 37. 35. The lion’s share of the costs went to pay for GBCI’s printing and shipping. 36. Similar issues were also reported out of other countries (see, for example, Hortig 1981). 37. The GBCI was sent to GBC members for 9 DM, for which at least eight editions were guaranteed per year. In June 1977, the price raised to 15 DM; starting in May 1978, ten editions were guaranteed. It increased a further 5 DM in 1981; by 1 January 1982, it cost 25 DM. In the early 1980s, 100 exemplars of each edition were distributed “as advertising and to multiplicators” (“Editorial” 1980c).

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38. Starting in late 1980, they experimented with “two kinds of Infos”: A thin booklet appeared monthly with only “the current tour dates, ads, etc.”; every two months, there was a more comprehensive version that also included contributions and images (see “Editorial” 1980e: 1). 39. Starting with Issue 2/1984, the imprint documented the former GBC founding members Friedemann Heinze and Fritz Marschall as publishers. 40. DIN A5 paper size: 5.8 × 8.3 in. The first eight issues had A4 format (8.27 in × 11.69 in). 41. Including Living Blues and Blues Unlimited. 42. Every now and then, complete editions of the GBCI would be reserved for the printing of university papers (see, for example, Jessen 1980; Eck 1981). 43. Blues Unlimited was published in Great Britain since 1963, the US magazine Living Blues starting in 1970. 44. Beginning with Issue 4/1989, the GBCI was compiled with the help of a computer. 45. In the 1990s, more and more artists registered who demonstrated a strong affinity for rock or soul in addition to the blues. The numbers increased accordingly. In the course of research for the 1999 GBG, “almost 500 bands and musicians” were sent a pre-printed form, 340 appeared in the brochure in the end (see “Verzeichnis der Blues-Bands und Blues-Musiker” 1999: 9). 46. The Klaus Renft Combo generally enjoyed a lot of publicity in West Germany, after having had their authorization to play taken away from them by East German authorities in 1975 for political reasons. In detail: Rauhut 1998. 47. See relevant notes in GBCI 46/1980: 27 and GBCI 49/1980: 18. 48. In the same section, they shared, “that Dr. Theo Lehmann (East Germany’s leading gospel and blues expert) is lying in the hospital after a heart attack. We wish him a good recovery” (“Editorial” 1978c). The GBCI also announced the transmission of an East German broadcast in which an interview with Theo Lehmann could be heard (see GBCI 30a/1979: 9). 49. GBCI 50/1980: 26. The snapshot was taken in June 1979 in the Thuringian town of Kahla. 50. Richard Wagner cartoon, GBCI 28/1979: 3. 51. The intensity of this need to communicate is demonstrated by a 1977 statistic: in that year, “almost 100 letters” were received every month by the GBCI editorial department (“Editorial” 1978a: 1). 52. Title of his 1941 autobiography. 53. On the early interpretative approaches in the US, see, for example, Koenig 2002. 54. The musician Gerhard Engbarth provided the following, telling anecdote: Country blues legend Bukka White invited him to a recording session in 1972, but the proposal was rejected by the person in charge at the Munich record label, “We are very sorry, Mr. Engbarth, but the overriding principle of our company is only to produce original Negroes.” When they did end up releasing a title together for the LP Baton Rouge Mosby Street, the white musician appeared in the list of musicians under the abbreviated name

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55. 56.

57.

58.

59.

60.

61.

62. 63. 64.

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“Gary,” “so that no one would notice that I was not actually an original Negro at all” (Engbarth 1983: 74 and 76). The number 33 is a reference to the year 1933 when the N azis came to power and established the Third Reich. East Germany was covered in a comprehensive network of so-called Arbeitsgemeinschaften [working groups] or Interessengemeinschaften [interest groups] for jazz. The country’s Kulturbund [Cultural Association] registered more than fifty such associations at the end of the 1980s (see Ministerium für Kultur 1989: 70). Rainer Bratfisch listed a selection of fifty-eight cities with jazz clubs (see Bratfisch 2005a: 233–34). After sporadic releases, in June 1977 with Issue XII they began to “grant a permanent spot to the blues. We want to look at its roots, its regional playing styles, and the most important representatives of the blues; and so, it is more about illuminating its authentic sides, rather than directly relating it to later jazz trends” (“Bluesecke” 1977). Spontaneous private trips were only possible to the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, as well as to Poland, until October 1980. Applications had to be made to the police for visits to any other Eastern Bloc nation. Dieckmann (1991: 11; and 2011) provides a graphic depiction of the hurdles, large and small, which stood in the way of concert tourism. John Mayall toured through Poland in 1980, performing in Bratislava and the Hungarian city of Szeged in 1985; Ray Charles played in Sofia in 1980, in Prague in 1981 and 1989, and in Warsaw in 1984. Although the first and last term reflect the preferred music [Blueser: Bluesers] or method of transportation [Tramper: Hitchhiker], the etymology of Kunde remains up for dispute. It had a positive connotation in scene circles, characterized male individuals as insiders, commended their unconventional lifestyle, and referenced the image of a restless, outlawed vagabond. The expression Kunde has been used in various contexts over many generations. The brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm’s 1873 Deutsches Wörterbuch [German Dictionary] outlined the different fields of meaning. One possible root is in “the friendly language between drinking companions,” where Kunde is used as a synonym for “fellow, crony, brother” or “just a swear word for man” (Grimm and Grimm 1873, entry “Kunde,” col. 2,620–24: citations: 2,621). The Gaunersprache [underworld jargon] emphasized the aspect of being on the road. In that case, Kunde stood for “wandering journeyman, beggar, landloper” (Wolf 1985, entry Kunde: 188). Female scene members were called Bräute [brides] or Käthen [Kates]. The volume Bye bye, Lübben City: Bluesfreaks, Tramps und Hippies in der DDR, edited by Rauhut and Kochan (2009), provides detailed insights. In addition: Kochan 2002. On the roots and precursors to the Blueser scene in the 1960s, see Rauhut 1993. The bag, which had plenty of room for several LPs, would ideally display the motif of a bellowing stag. Berlin and Thuringia were the musical centers. Most bands resided there.

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65. Thuringia constituted the scene’s center (in detail: Rauhut 2011a). However, it was also at home in other areas in the south and in the middle of East Germany, although noticeably less present in the north. There, the blues sounded out mostly in student clubs; it was “not recognized as danceable music” in the village hall and bar environment (“DomizilBlues-Band” 1985: 66). 66. On Wasungen as a pilgrimage site for Bluesers, see Weißbrodt 2009. On the history, public perception, and secret service surveillance of the carnival, see Föller 1999 and Marr 1998: in particular 234–67. 67. On the specifics of East German youth cultures, see Rauhut 2012. 68. Hosted by the Berlin-Mitte District Cultural Center starting in 1977. 69. It was held for the first time in March 1980 at the Fritz Noack Youth Club. Four concerts, interviews, and a concluding session were on the program. 70. Starting in 1981. 71. It was held annually in April starting in 1983. The venue was the Technical University’s dining hall. 72. They were hosted quarterly starting in 1984. To answer the large demand, several consecutive events were offered. For example, the Blues-Sonntag in December 1984 was comprised of three special concert blocks, which stretched over nine hours and was attended by 1,500 fans. 73. The first was on 20 November 1984 in a sold-out Weimarhalle. The Weimarhalle Culture and Convention Center and district leadership of the Weimar FDJ functioned as promoters. 74. Government award. 75. On the history, character, and transformation of the SED’s image of America, see, for example, Junker et al. 2001, as well as Balbier and Rösch 2006. 76. The two-hour concert documentation was shown in East German cinemas starting in January 1982. 77. On the perception of rock, blues, and punk by the state security services, see Rauhut 1996a. 78. In East Germany, youth who attracted attention with their long hair, unconventional clothing, and a marked anti-establishment, hedonistic lifestyle were also called Gammler. In the eyes of their opponents, they were “work-shy” and “antisocial.” These stigmatizing terms were later used by educators and security services for Bluesers as well. 79. Reform movement in former Czechoslovakia, violently halted in the summer of 1968 with the incursion of Warsaw Pact troops. 80. Secret service operations with this or that code name declared war against the “negative and hostile manifestations by youth circles.” Musical cultural phenomena were a particular focus (see, for example, MfS, Verwaltung für Staatssicherheit Groß-Berlin 10.30.1969, citation: 45). 81. Beat and rock fans, who were musically socialized in the 1960s and also preferred longer hair, constituted the first generation of Bluesers (in detail: Rauhut 1993). 82. Looking back, the MfS evaluated these events as having been a “turning point” “which revealed new security policy demands” (Ministerrat der DDR, MfS, Juristische Hochschule Potsdam 1981: 48).

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83. On the goals, strategy, and administration of the OV and OPK, see Suckut 1996: 271–82. 84. On the secret services methods of Zersetzung, see Pingel-Schliemann 2003: in particular 187–353 and 358–59. 85. On the classification of unofficial collaborators of the MfS and their responsibilities, see Suckut 1996: 179–203. 86. On the highly complex and sensitive relationship between the state and the Church in East Germany, see, for example, Besier 1995 and Maser 2000. 87. The guitarist and singer Günter “Holly” Holwas is considered the initiator of the blues masses; it was his idea to bring the music into the church. In Rainer Eppelmann, he found a key advocate and actor (see Leitner 1983: 91–93). 88. Themes of the blues masses on 4 July 1980, 29 February 1980, 25 April 1980, and 1 June 1986.

CONCLUSION

. . . Just Turn It Up

.>

That sounds completely different, says the expert to the skeptic; they are worlds apart. You cannot hear the difference? Listen to that special drive, the vocal phrasing, the guitar sound. For me, every song is unique, no question.—We are all familiar with what happens when fans and nonfans discuss the value of a particular musical genre—while the former feel it to their core, the latter shrug their shoulders. Sounds either find resonance or fade into nothing. The gap between those in favor and those opposed appears to grow commensurate with the degree of standardization; the more a genre is defined by prescribed norms and repetitions, the deeper the rift separating insider from outsider, highlighting contrasting positions. This process is a thoroughly conscious one—there could be no identity construction without differentiation. Consensus is only desirable if it supports the internal structure of the scene, as the dictate of difference applies to anything external to it. Perhaps this consistent parting of minds is what has led to the blues’ long life. Its disciples have no doubt that it “is communicating real feelings”;1 is “a musical archetype” (Schmidt-Joos 1964), a universal language, which functions as “emotional healing,”2 provides strength, and holds “the promise of liberty” (Schmidt-Joos 1981). Ideological constructions of that kind, those well-known clichés and myths, have accorded the blues the power of influence; they allow individuals to preform sentiments of attraction or aversion. Over the decades, they have inscribed themselves into this music’s genotype and are thus part of its DNA. Most of our knowledge and associations identified with the blues are based on subsequent ascriptions. They lend that painful, beautiful illusion to the blues—so valued by its community of devotees, but which a critic would dismiss as maudlin, racist, or thoroughly precalculated. And indeed, serious research provides a very different image

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of history than the one heard in the media or in fan discourse. But does that diminish the radiant power of the blues? Does the cold analytical approach refute its relevance? By no means. The blues asserted itself as the antipode to the modern concept of faster-higher-further. For its disciples, it is an expression of loss and truth, a reference to the essential. It is not important that this image is a mere construct. They hear the blues as genuine emotion, as a call to humanity—not as a sonic copy of reality. As the criticism from academia contradicts their interests, it is stubbornly ignored. At an early stage, hermeneutical fragments trickled over from the US to Europe, where they affected media perception as well as consumer expectations. Anyone entering into the blues world was stepping onto a clearly defined discursive field. Within its borders, interpretative patterns were reconciled with specific social experiences and finely adjusted—with differing results between the East and the West. A commitment to the blues in East Germany functioned much more as a symbolic act of self-empowerment, a silent protest against a repressive system—that was always a part of it for most fans, even if the core motivation was entertainment and fun. West German aficionados also cultivated their individualism and avoided marching in step with the mainstream. But that decision was more aesthetically motivated. External perspectives also valued the blues in different ways. In West Germany, it was economic factors that dominated, while in East Germany it was about political intention. The official image of the blues in the East was copied from the Western version that was critical of capitalism, partially adopting that alternative, counterculture flank’s fighting rhetoric. In many cases, the stereotypes were taken word for word from West German expert literature and press, which in turn partook from the canon of relevant publications in the US and Great Britain. Up until the fall of the Wall, this political focus remained a constant, although it gradually lost its definition and contours starting in the 1970s in the wake of the “modernization and liberalization tendencies” (Schnoor 2001: 775) of the Honecker era. Even though the blues sounded almost identical in the West and the East, it varied in the ways in which it was charged with meaning. Its varying cultural application constituted a reflection of the governing characteristics of the respective antagonistic social systems. In West Germany, the blues was a male domain ruled by collectors and connoisseurs, which corresponded to global trends. That fraction also existed in East Germany and felt at home in the jazz scene where, as a smaller, orthodox minority, they pulled the strings. German–German contact was almost always initiated by the East, as Western Germans

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were more concentrated on international developments and demonstrated little interest. As the soundtrack of the nonconformist youth culture, the blues had a broad impact in East Germany. Its fans translated the music into everyday socialist life, used it as an identityforming foil and for symbolic conflict management. They loaded it with meanings it lacked elsewhere. The few existing expert articles in German and English suggest that—even in the other Eastern Bloc nations—the blues lacked that same sense of urgency (see, for example, Urban 2004; Litecký-Šveda, et al. 2005; Michalewski 2007). Clearly, there was some room left to maneuver within that primacy of ideology binding the community of socialist states together, as it did not lead to a musical-cultural convergence. The details of how that occurred remain an open question. The analysis presented in this book has confirmed my initial hypothesis, namely that the blues only takes concrete shape as a global artistic phenomenon through its social application. Sonic impulses travel around the world, land in diverse contexts, and provoke multilateral processes of appropriation. The raw material is formed. Depending on one’s standpoint, the blues is perceived as a consumer good, as interiority turned outwards, or as a cipher of resistance. Anyone who engages with the blues competes for positions of power in the respective area. They strive for interpretative authority, distinction, or profit. In West Germany, those battles were organized vertically, from fan circles to the media to the industry. On the East German side, structures remained broken and interests existed in conflict with one another, spreading out more horizontally. The particular interpretation of the meaning of life held by this blues-fixated youth culture was in direct opposition to the views expressed in state propaganda. While the state was stylizing the music into a megaphone for anti-capitalist sentiment, it served fans as a mental escape from the regimented living conditions under socialism. Within the power structure of the blues, economics and communication held a different significance in a controlled public sphere and market of scarcity. Two distinct worlds lay concealed behind one seemingly homogenous sonic surface.

Notes 1. Author’s interview with John Mayall, 1 April 2003. 2. Author’s interview with Bruce Iglauer, founder, owner, and president of the renowned blues label Alligator Records, 7 June 1999.

References

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Archival Documents Note: If no page numbers are provided that means the entry was unpaginated. Numerical dates that are part of the source title have retained the German format, namely Day.Month.Year. At the time of research, IJAE holdings were not sorted or itemized, which was also the case for some JID documents; in such situations, the archive alone is listed as the source’s location. Agreement between Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro GmbH & Co. and Carey Bell. 06.29.1982. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Agreement between Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro GmbH & Co. and Eunice Davis. 07.06.1979. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Agreement between Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro GmbH & Co. and Iverson Minter [= Louisiana Red]. 07.16.1979. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 02.03.1981. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.21.1983. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Agreement between Lippmann + Rau Concert Büro GmbH & Co. and John Cephas. 01.21.1981. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Agreement between L+R Records GmbH and Iverson Minter [= Louisiana Red]. 06.24.1984. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Agreement between Siegfried A. Christmann pp. L+R Records GmbH and Archie Edwards. 11.30.1980. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Agreement between Siegfried A. Christmann pp. L+R Records GmbH and Arzo Youngblood. 11.11.1980. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. An das Kultusministerium des Landes Hessen, zu Händen des Herrn Regierungsdirektors Dr. Holl, Frankfurt am Main. 08.23.1951. JID. Anhang zum Vertrag vom 01.07.1981 zwischen L+R Records GmbH und Bellaphon Records GmbH & Co. KG. 04.16.1984. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Arbeitsgruppe Kirchenfragen beim ZK der SED. 06.07.1982. Betr.: “BluesMessen.” BStU, ZA, HA XX/4, 267/1, 212–15. Armstrong, Louis. n.d. Letter to Günter Boas. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Bartel, Walter, Rundfunk der DDR. 11.08.1985. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann.

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———. n.d. Gesuch zur Gründung eines Jazz-Clubs in Frankfurt am Main [letter to the military government Frankfurt am Main]. JID. Böhm, Wolfgang. 10.06.1952. Die letzten Großen von New Orleans. Hot Club Frankfurt, program sheet no. 31. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Brill, Günter, Stadtverwaltung Kamen, Kulturamt. 11.24.1982. Letter to Fritz Rau. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Broonzy, Big Bill. 04.03.1954. Letter to Günter Boas. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. ———. 1954. Letter to Günter Boas. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Bryden, Beryl. 11.14.1965. “Entry in Lore and Günter Boas’ Guestbook.” IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Chess, Marshall. 04.06.1964. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Christmann, Siegfried A. 10.15.1980. Letter to Heinz Hartmann and Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. n.d. Living Country Blues USA – Introduction [liner notes draft]. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Christmann, Siegfried A., Musikproduktion Christmann/Schaaf GmbH. 02.27.1980. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 12.21.1981. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Christmann, Siegfried A., and Axel Küstner. n.d. Living Country Blues [handwritten expenses report]. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Concert Büro Rolf Schubert. 06.01.1984. Letter to L+R Records GmbH. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Contract between Horst Lippmann and Giorgio Gomelsky. Version 1. 12.07.1963a. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. Version 2. 12.07.1963b. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Contract between Horst Lippmann and Sonny Boy Williamson. 12.07.1963. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Contract between L+R Records GmbH and “Doctor Feelgood Piano Red” Willie Perryman, signed on 16 and 18 October 1980. 10.18.1980. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Doctor Joseph “Washboard Doc” with Lucky & Flash. 02.04.1980. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Hubert Sumlin. 01.23.1980. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Iverson Minter [= Louisiana Red]. 06.24.1979. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 02.09.1983. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Contract between L+R Records GmbH and Margie Evans. 07.05.1982. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Contract for a Two Beat Stompers performance on 05.11.1949 at the Bergen gymnasium, signed by Günter Boas and Walter Laukhardt, Bergen. 10.12.1949. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Deutsche Jazz-Föderation e. V. 05.04.1952. Satzung, mit dem 28.10.1951 rückwirkend in Kraft getreten. Stuttgart. JID.

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Deutsche Philips GmbH. 08.11.1960. Letter to Günter Boas and Contract for “Tätigkeit als freier Mitarbeiter.” IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Diller, Helmut. Abteilung kulturelle und sportliche Massenarbeit im Zentralrat der FDJ. 12.18.1961. Information an Horst Schumacher, 1. Sekretär des Zentralrats der FDJ: Beratung über Jazz am 15.12.1961 beim Ministerium für Kultur. SAPMO-BArch, DY 24/6729. Dixon, Willie. 04.08.1964. Letter to Günter and Lore Boas. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. ———. 12.05.1964. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Donisch, Peter. 07.10.1980. Letter to the Attorneys Burkhardt and Renz. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Drechsel, Karlheinz. 01.25.1964. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 03.04.1978 [date of receipt]. Letter to Günter Boas. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. ———. 06.05.1978. Letter to Günter Boas. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Exporte 1. Halbjahr 1981. 07.30.1981. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. Fakten der ideologischen Diversion im Freizeitbereich junger Menschen aus den Jahreskriminalitätsberichten 1970. SAPMO-BArch, DY 30/IVA2/16/124. Frank, Michael, Earwig Music Co. 01.05.1980. Letter to Horst Lippmann. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. Freyer, Winfried. 05.12.1983. Letter to Thomas Gutberlet. Private Collection Thomas Gutberlet. ———. 11.02.1984. Letter to Thomas Gutberlet. Private Collection Thomas Gutberlet. ———. 01.21.1987. Letter to Thomas Gutberlet. Private Collection Thomas Gutberlet. ———. 06.12.1989. Letter to Thomas Gutberlet. Private Collection Thomas Gutberlet. Gawlitta, Inge, Horst Lippmann Productions. 03.10.1986. Letter to Kammel, Künstler-Agentur der DDR. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Gawlitta, Inge, L+R Records. 03.30.1981. Letter to Iverson Minter [= Louisiana Red], Betreff: Royalty Statements 1st and 2nd Half Year ’80. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 08.28.1984. Letter to Walter Bartel, Rundfunk der DDR. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Green, Jack L., Associated Booking Corporation. 04.03.1963. Letter to Horst Lippmann. IJAE, Collection Horst Lippmann. Gutberlet, Thomas. 09.10.1982. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 09.17.1982. Letter to Fritz Rau. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 01.13.1983. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 05.02.1983a. Letter to Rainer Bratfisch. Private Collection Thomas Gutberlet. ———. 05.02.1983b. Letter to Winfried Freyer. Private Collection Thomas Gutberlet.

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Kammel, Stellvertretender des Generaldirektors der Künstler-Agentur der DDR. 02.24.1986. Letter to Horst Lippmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Kanther, Bezirksleitung der SED Suhl, Mitarbeiter für Kirchenfragen. 05.24.1972. Information für den 1. Sekretär der Bezirksleitung, Hans Albrecht: Auftreten der USA-Negersängerin Edda Camaron [sic] in den Kirchen in Zella-Mehlis und Ilmenau. ThStA Meiningen, SED-BL Suhl, IV C–2/14/698. Kater, Michael H. 06.22.1988. Interview mit Günter Boas, Cappenberg [transcript in note-form, revised and corrected by Günter Boas]. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Kett, Udo. 12.15.1978. Die Gestaltung des schwerpunktmäßigen Einsatzes jugendlicher IM bei der Zersetzung negativer jugendlicher Gruppen, insbesondere zu gesellschaftlichen Höhepunkten. Fachschulabschlussarbeit. Potsdam: Juristische Hochschule des MfS. BStU, ZA, JHS VVS 606/79. Kleine, Volkshochschule Rheda. 01.15.1957. An die Elternschaft der Schülerinnen und Schüler unserer Schulen und aller anderen Jugendlichen. JID. Klemme, Friedrich. n.d. American Folk Blues Festival 1982: Wehmut nach den Anfängen [draft]. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Kommerell and Schmökel, Phonogram GmbH. 06.28.1979. Letter to Horst Lippmann, Betreff: Rückgabe von Bändern. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Kulturbund der DDR, Präsidialrat, Zentrale Kommission Musik. 11.11.1986. Hinweise zur Pflege des Jazz im Kulturbund der DDR. Internal material. IJAE. Kunstadt, Leonard. 11.30.1963. Letter to Günter Boas. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Künstler-Agentur der DDR. 1983. Vermittlungsvertrag 83-B-2241 [signed on 10 August by Stellvertretender Generaldirektor and Horst Lippmann]. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Kurella, Alfred. 05.02.1959a. Letter to Albert Norden. SAPMO-BArch, DY 30/ IV2/2026/105. ———. 05.02.1959b. Letter to Aubrey Pankey. SAPMO-BArch, DY 30/IV2/2026/ 105. Landgericht Frankfurt am Main. 06.26.1980. Einstweilige Verfügung gegen Peter Donisch. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Lippmann, Horst. 11.05.1954. Der Jazz Club. Broadcasting script, HR. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 02.08.1956. Jazz aus Frankfurt. Broadcasting script. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 05.02.1956. Jazz aus Frankfurt. Broadcasting script. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 11.04.1956. Jazz aus Frankfurt. Broadcasting script. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 01.11.1962. Der Jazz Club. Broadcasting script, HR. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 09.27.1962. Der Jazz Club: Gesungener Blues – Zum 1. Folk Blues Festival. Broadcasting script, HR. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 12.20.1962. Dispatch. IJAE, Collection Horst Lippmann.

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———. 04.02.1964. Letter to McKinley Morganfield [= Muddy Waters]. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.12.1964. Letter to Marshall Chess. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.20.1964. Letter to Norman Granz. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.21.1964. Letter to McKinley Morganfield [= Muddy Waters]. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 06.10.1964. Letter to Frau Berliner, Deutsche Künstler-Agentur. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 10.21.1965. Der Jazz Club. Broadcasting script, HR. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 03.16.1966. Letter to Bernhard Mikulski, CBS Schallplatten GmbH. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 03.25.1980. Letter to Karlheinz Drechsel. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 06.18.1980. Letter to Jimmy Dawkins. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 01.23.1981. Telex to Fritz Rau, Betr.: AFBF ’81 Story. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 08.31.1981. Letter to Siegfried Christmann and Axel Küstner. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 09.10.1981. Letter to Heinz Hartmann. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 09.11.1981. Letter to Willie Mabon. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 09.18.1981. Letter to Anthony “Jarfly” Griffin. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 09.21.1981a. Letter to Fritz Rau. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 09.21.1981b. Letter to Winfried Merkle, Bellaphon International Sound Service. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 09.22.1981a. Letter to Dr. Büttner, VEB Deutsche Schallplatten. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 09.22.1981b. Letter to Michael Henkels. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 10.14.1981. Letter to Jimmy Dawkins. IJAE, Collection L+R Records. ———. 01.08.1982. Letter to Siegfried A. Christmann. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.07.1982. Letter to Siegfried Christmann and Axel Küstner. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 12.07.1982. Letter to Thomas Gutberlet. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 02.07.1983. Letter to Thomas Gutberlet. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.21.1983. Letter to Fritz Rau and Hermjo Klein, Betreff: American Folk Blues Festival ’83. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.15.1985. Letter to Manfred Miller. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.25.1985a. Letter to Fritz Rau, Betreff: American Folk Blues Festival ’85. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. 04.25.1985b. Letter to Manfred Miller, Kulturredaktion Südwestfunk. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. ———. n.d. Im Scheinwerfer: Die Aussichten des Frankfurter Hot Clubs. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas.

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Rider to the Contract Dated November 30, 1980 between L+R Records GmbH and Archie Edwards. 11.15.1982. Signed on 27 October and 15 November 1982. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Rüchel, Peter, WDR Köln, Redaktionsgruppe Jugend. 01.13.1981. Letter to Fritz Rau. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Schott. 05.17.1955. Mitteilung an Herrn Professor Pischner, Betr.: Interessengemeinschaft Jazz der FDJ Leipzig. SAPMO-BArch, DR 1, 243. Staatliches Komitee für Rundfunk, Redaktion Monitor. 1984. Int. mit Stefan Diestelmann, DLF 6.05 Uhr vom 15.6.1984, 6. Beitrag. BStU, MfS, BV Berlin, AU 2530/88, Bd. I, 12–14. Stenke, Wolfgang. 05.21.1985. Der zweite Sieg: Die anglo-amerikanischen Soldatensender in der Nachkriegszeit. Broadcasting script, Deutschlandfunk. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Strachwitz, Chris. 02.20.1965. Letter to Horst Lippmann and Fritz Rau. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Südwestfunk, Abteilung Unterhaltung, Fernsehen. 10.26.1962. Script for the broadcast “American Folk Blues Festival” as part of the series “Jazz – gehört und gesehen,” 29th episode. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. The Two Beat Friends, Frankfurt am Main/Bergen. 10.10.1949. In memoriam Bessie Smith. Program sheet no. 2. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. Übersichtsbogen zur operativen Personenkontrolle. 08.14.1980. BStU, MfS, BV Berlin, AOPK 6698/83, Bd. I, 6–7. Ulbricht, Walter. 04.08.1963. Telegram for Paul Robeson’s 65th Birthday. AdK, PRA: no signature. Vereinbarung zwischen der L+R Records GmbH und dem Rundfunk der DDR. 02.21.1983. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Vermerk über ein Gespräch mit Pfarrer Eppelmann am 6.3.1981 durch Gen. Dr. Wilke und Gen. Handel. 03.09.1981. BStU, ZA, HA XX/4, 587/1, 165–70. Vertrag zwischen den Herren Sunnyland Slim, Willie Dixon, Hubert Sumlin, Clifton James, vertreten durch Herrn Horst Lippmann, und dem VEB Deutsche Schallplatten. Vertragsgegenstand: American Blues, 30 cm – Langspiel-Platte. 10.31.1964. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Vertrag zwischen Lippmann & Rau GmbH & Co. KG und Philips Ton Gesellschaft mbH. 09.09.1965. Signed on 2 and 9 September 1965. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Vertrag zwischen L+R Records GmbH und Axel Küstner. n.d. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Vertrag zwischen L+R Records GmbH und Gerhard Engbarth. 02.09.1983. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Vertriebs- und Lizenzvertrag zwischen L+R Records GmbH (in Gründung) und Bellaphon Records GmbH & Co. KG. 08.01.1979. Private Collection Horst Lippmann. Vorbereitung eines sogenannten “2. Tanzmusikfestes der Jugend” des Kreises Apolda/Erfurt ohne Absprache mit den zuständigen Organen der Partei und des Staatsapparates. 08.24.1976. BStU, MfS ZAIG 5522, 2–4. Wache, Frank. 03.29.1985. Letter to Thomas Gutberlet. Private Collection Thomas Gutberlet.

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Tomashefsky, Steve. 1981. [Section “Leserbriefe”]. GBCI 51/1981: 11. Trebron, Mojo. 1984a. [report in the country section “Deutschland”]. Blues Forum 16/1984: 49. ———. 1984b. “Christian Rannenberg & ‘Detroit’ Gary Wiggins: Introducing The International Blues Duo to the World” [record review, section “Schallplatten”]. Blues Forum 16/1984: 33. ———. 1984c. “Der ‘weiße Blues’: Der alte Streit: Können und dürfen Weiße Blues spielen und singen?” Blues Forum 16/1984: 15–21. ———. 1986. “Stevie Ray Vaughan.” Blues Forum 19/1986: 12–13. “Über den Hot Club Dortmund.” 1958. In Benefiz-Konzert für Big Bill Broonzy [program of the event on 28 June 1958 at 10:30 p.m. in “Universum,” Dortmund], 8. “Unser Porträt: Lonnie Johnson.” 1959. Die Posaune: Informationen der AG Jazz Eisenach in der FDJ-Organisation des AWE, no. 3, ed. AG Jazz Eisenach. IJAE. “Veranstaltungen des Jazzclub Leipzig.” 1982. Jazz Report, no. 17, November, ed. Jazzclub Leipzig. “Verzeichnis der Blues-Bands und Blues-Musiker.” 1999. In Blues Guide Germany 1999: Das Buch über den Blues in Deutschland, 9–134. Altena: Verlag Dirk Föhrs. “Verzeichnis der Musiker und Bands.” 1988. In GBG 1988, ed. GBCI, 36–57. Frankfurt am Main. “Vorläufige Gewinn- und Verlustrechnung des GBC per 31.12.1983.” 1984. GBCI 1/1984: 2. “Vorwort.” 1947. Hot-Club News, special edition: “In memoriam Bessie Smith,” n.d. [1947], 2–3, ed. Hot Club Frankfurt. IJAE, Collection Günter Boas. ———. 1976. In GBG 1976, ed. GBC. Frankfurt am Main. Wagner, D. [Dieter]. 1967. “‘Blues and Trouble’: Eine weitere Arbeit Theo Lehmanns im Henschelverlag.” Die Union, 30 April/1 May: 10. Weckelmann, Brigitte. 1965. “Gesang von Hass und Lebensfreude: ‘American Folk Blues Festival’ gastierte mit elf Musikern in Iserlohn” [section “Kultur und Unterhaltung”]. Westfalenpost, 28 October. “Wichtig!” [editorial note]. 1978. GBCI 18/1978: 3. “Wichtige Bücher” [section “Publikationen”]. 1977. In GBG 1977/78, ed. GBC, 68–76. Frankfurt am Main. Wicke, Peter. 1981. “Blues-Geschichten” [section “Kritik”]. Sonntag, 15 N ovember, no. 46: 5. Winckel, Fritz. 1948. “Tief gestimmt – schwarz gefärbt.” vierViertel: Zeitschrift für Musik und Tanz 4/1948: 17. Wolff, Udo. 1976. “Das Dritte Ohr/Bluesbrüder” [self-portrayal, section “BluesForum”]. GBCI 3/1976: 2. ———. 1978. [Section “White Blues”]. GBCI 19/1978: 15–17. ———. 1979a. “Letter to the GBC.” GBCI 28/1979: 2–3. ———. 1979b. “GBC-Anzeigen im April.” GBCI 31/1979: 20. ———. 1979c. “Resümee aus der zweiten Fragebogenaktion unter GBC-Mitgliedern vom Januar 1979.” GBCI 32/1979: 4. ———. 1980a. “Eine Institution lebt auf: Das American Folk Blues Festival.” GBCI 44/1980: 11–13.

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———. 1980b. “Bluesstile und Kommerz,” Part I and II. GBCI, special edition from July: 4–8. ———. 1981. “Musikerleben – oder so.” GBCI 51/1981: 16–17. Wyman, Bill. 2003. “Foreword,” in: DVD booklet The American Folk Blues Festival 1962–1966, Volume One, Reelin’ in the Years Productions, L. L. C., 0602498609262, USA 2003. Year of the Blues: Official Proclamation. Retrieved 27 April 2012 from http:// www.yearoftheblues.org/officialProclamation.asp. “Zahltag: Das Dritte Ohr” [record review]. 1981. Musikexpress 1/1981: 51. Zenetti, Lothar. 1953. “Unsere liebe N ot: unsere liebe Kritik.” Jazz Podium 9/1953: 6–7. Zimmerle, Dieter. 1962a. “American Folk Blues Festival 1962.” Jazz Podium 10–11/1962: 237. ———. 1962b. “Die Story vom Blues” [section “Buchbesprechungen”]. Jazz Podium 10–11/1962: 252. ———. 1963. “Der Blues ist überall: Gedanken zum American Folk Blues Festival 1963.” Jazz Podium 11/1963: 232–33. ———. 1964. “American Folk Blues Festival 1964: Konzert und Schallplatte.” Jazz Podium 12/1964: 299–300. Zweig, Arnold. 1950. “Begegnung mit zwei Amerikanern.” USA in Wort und Bild 3/1950: 36–37 and 39.

Index

.>

A Adams, Johnny, 193n74 Adderley, Julian Edwin “Cannonball,” 83 Adorno, Theodor W., 23, 126 Albold, Volker, 159, 160 Allison, Luther, 162 Alsmann, Götz, 204 Altenburg, 246–48, 250 American Folk Blues Festivals (AFBF): artistic profiles, 95–96, 99–100, 105–6, 110, 115, 134n45; concept, 8, 82, 85–88, 91–93, 96, 104, 110, 134n35 (see also Dixon, Willie; blues: “black” versus “white” blues); design, 86, 88–90 (see also Kieser, Günther); in East Germany, 113–20, 137n81, 137n91; effects and pioneering achievements, 82, 85, 91, 95, 100, 102, 106, 109, 120–22, 130, 134n47; ideology, 87–90, 110, 122–23; logistics, financing, and marketing, 85, 91, 93–96, 99, 106– 11, 114–15, 117–19, 133nn24–25, 135n62, 136n67, 137n91; media coverage and recordings, 90, 94– 98, 100, 106–12, 116–23, 132n11, 133n19, 134n33, 135nn59–60, 136n72, 137n80, 183; second season (1980s), 103–112; signs of crisis, 96–100, 106–7, 109–12 Ames, Roy, 258n30 Amiga (East German label for popular music), 67, 115–16,

118–19, 137n87, 160–61, 167–70, 173, 175, 192n48, 207–8, 257n17 Amiga Blues Band, 170 Ammons, Albert, 67 Anany, Dolly, 32 (fig. 2.1.) Anderson, Marian, 53 Animals, The, 101–2, 135n53, 141, 235 anti-Americanism, 150–52, 191n37, 243–44. See also blues: as “the voice of the ‘Other America’” Armstrong, Lillian “Lil” Hardin, 71 Armstrong, Louis, 30–31, 34, 40, 45–46, 70, 155 Asriel, Andre, 157, 192n49 B Baldry, Long John, 102 Band, The, 143, 235, 243 Barbee, John Henry, 96, 128 Barber, Chris, 71–74, 214 Bargel, Richard, 203, 218–19 Bartsch, Ernst, 53 Basie, William “Count,” 191n40 Beatles, The, 80n99, 245 Belafonte, Harry, 151–52, 155 Bell, Carey, 91, 98, 105, 110, 119 Bell, Graeme, 68, 70 Bell, Lurrie, 110, 182 Berendt, Joachim-Ernst, 8, 17, 26n29, 48, 57–59, 58 (fig. 2.5.), 67, 74n6, 78nn71–72, 79n80, 88, 90–92, 95, 97–98, 132, 139, 145, 189n6, 212, 228–29; and the AFBF, 83, 85–86, 122–24,

312

Index

128, 132n7, 132n9; on the blues, 123–26, 128–29; and the German Jazz Federation, 29 Biebl, Hansi, 170, 193n76, 220, 235, 242 Biermann, Wolf, 171, 194n104 Black, Roy, 148 Blesh, Rudi, 30–31, 39–40, 51, 74n9, 124 Bloomfield, Michael, 17, 141, 149 blues: and authenticity, 8, 10–11, 13–14, 18, 20–24, 27n38, 87, 104, 120, 127, 140, 142, 175, 205, 224–25, 228–29 (see also blues: clichés and romanticism); “black” versus “white” blues, 205–7, 209, 216, 226–31, 259n54 (see also American Folk Blues Festivals: concept; blues: and authenticity); blues rock, 8, 139–43, 225, 233, 235; clichés and romanticism, 7, 10–15, 17, 19, 24n9, 25n12, 34, 51, 69–70, 80n99, 123–24, 127–32, 226, 235, 263–64 (see also Smith, Bessie; blues: and authenticity); and commerce, 8, 21, 53–54, 125–27, 139–42, 157, 178, 199–202, 225–27, 265; in East German media, 157–64, 167–70, 172–73, 175, 192n64, 242–43; folk blues, 14, 88 (see also blues: as folklore); as folklore, 12–14, 25n17, 69, 88, 123, 126; and hippie movement, 8, 97, 134n39, 140, 149, 231, 233–38, 243, 246, 256; and identity formation, 3–4, 10, 12, 20–21, 113, 139, 149, 225, 243, 256, 263–65; and ideology, 7, 10–12, 19–20, 120, 139, 205, 210, 225, 263–64 (see also Sympathy for the Devil; blues: clichés and romanticism); international artists in East Germany, 162–66, 197n162, 255; international artists in West Germany, 65–66, 68, 70–72, 136n69, 200–202, 213–14; as protest and provocation, 8, 14, 25n15, 113, 129, 148–50, 157–58,

166, 168–72, 176–77, 236–38, 244, 247–54, 264–65; purist positions, 140, 202–3, 216–17, 225–31 (see also blues: and commerce; Hot Clubs: and blues; L+R Records: Living Country Blues USA); and racial issues, 8, 11, 18, 23, 24n8, 34–35, 43, 54, 116, 123, 129–31, 141–42, 148, 151, 155–56, 201–2, 205, 225, 227–28, 259n54; and research, 11–19, 25n20, 120–21, 123–24, 129–30, 145, 157, 159, 222, 263–64; as root of jazz, 16, 28, 31, 51, 123, 131, 144, 232; as “the voice of the ‘Other America’” (in East Germany), 8, 52–53, 116, 150–57, 192n48, 264–65; in West German media, 145–46, 175–78, 190n20, 190nn28–29, 195n124, 212 Blues and Trouble (book), 75n19, 158–59 Blues Band, The, 104, 161 Blues Brothers, 45 Blues Company, 165, 203, 219, 256n6 Blues Fell This Morning (book), 15–16 blues festivals: in East Germany, 162–63, 232, 241–42, 257n16; in West Germany, 144–45, 189n5, 214 Blues Forum (magazine), 8, 109, 111–12, 119, 135n65, 136n69, 159, 203–8 Blues heute (book), 159–60 blues masses (Bluesmessen), 9, 173, 250–56, 262n87 Bluesers or Kunden (East German youth culture), 4, 233–41, 243, 245–46, 248–49, 252, 256, 260n60, 265. See also blues: as protest and provocation; blues masses Blume, Alexander, 169 Blume, Manfred, 48–50, 221 (fig. 5.1.) Blume, Roland, 48 Blüthner, Hans, 61

Index

Boas, Günter, 7, 37 (fig. 2.2.), 37, 46 (fig. 2.4.), 46, 62, 65, 72, 75n21, 75n25, 76n32, 90; Blues for Monday (radio program, AFN), 45–48, 77nn48–51, 77n53; as blues enthusiast and expert, 36–41, 61, 76n35, 76n42, 86, 123, 132n8; and Broonzy, Big Bill, 41–42, 44; and East Germany, 47–49; as musician, 42–45, 48; worship of Bessie Smith, 35–36 Boas, Lore, 37 (fig. 2.2.), 40, 90 Boas Bluesicians, Günter, 45, 48 Bockhoff, Baldur, 121–22 Bodag, Wolfram “Boddi,” 242 Bohländer, Carlo, 38, 61 Booker, James Carroll, 144, 161, 164 Borneman, Ernest, 16–18, 31, 40 Böttger, Gottfried, 174 Boyd, Eddie, 40, 99, 163, 180 Branch, Billy, 110, 182 Bratfisch, Rainer, 159–60 British blues boom in the 1950s and 60s, 73–74, 100–102, 134n47, 135nn48–49, 139, 142, 146. See also Korner, Alexis Brom, Gustav, 67 Broonzy, Big Bill, 31, 41 (fig. 2.3.), 41–42, 44, 51, 68–69, 70–73, 80n97, 80n99, 83, 161, 167 Brown, James, 122 Bruynoghe, Yannick, 80n97 Bryden, Beryl, 40, 42 Burdon, Eric, 143, 184, 190n29 Burke, Solomon, 193n74 Burkhardt, Werner, 96–98 Bursch, Peter, 165 Butterfield, Paul, 107, 110, 190n29 C Cameron, Etta, 155, 156 (fig. 4.4.), 191n45 Canned Heat, 143, 162, 218, 228, 235 Carter, James Earl “Jimmy,” 258n30 Cephas & Wiggins, 105, 110, 164, 186 Chapman, Roger, 163, 190n29, 193n76

313

Charles, Ray, 232, 260n59 Charly Schreckschuss Band, 175, 206, 219 Charters, Samuel Barclay, 14–16, 18, 145 Chatmon, Sam, 24n1, 186 Chauvard, Marcel, 73 Chess, Leonard, 93 Chess, Marshall, 101 Chess, Phil, 93 Christmann, Siegfried A. “Ziggy,” 185–88, 190n24, 199, 201–2, 204, 211 Clapton, Eric, 21, 143, 179, 180, 233 Clarke Band, Mick, 164 Claxton, William, 83 Climax Blues Band, 162 Coast to Coast Blues Band, The, 202 Cocker, Joe, 142, 147–48, 162, 190n29, 235 Cole, Barbara, 193n74 Coleman, Bill, 33 Collins, Albert, 190n29, 204 Colyer’s All Star Jazzmen, Ken, 48 Conners, Gene “Mighty Flea,” 164 Copeland, Johnny, 164 Cotton, James, 225 The Country Blues (book), 14–15, 18 Cray, Robert, 142, 204 Cream, 141, 228 Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, 235, 243 Crumb, Robert, 223 D Das Dritte Ohr, 8, 165, 175–78, 176 (fig. 4.6.), 195n116, 203, 215 Dauer, Alfons Michael, 17, 25, 40, 124, 129, 145, 204, 211, 213, 222 Davis, Blind John, 72, 197n163 Davis, Eunice, 105, 182 Davis, Katherine, 164 Davis Group, Spencer, 141, 228 Davison, Harold, 101 Dawkins, Jimmy, 104 Delaunay, Charles, 30, 33 Delta Bluesband, 165, 175 Demêtre, Jacques, 73, 228

314

Index

DeSanto, Sugar Pie, 122 Diddley, Bo, 72, 177 Diestelmann, Stefan, 8, 117, 163–64, 166–75, 171 (fig. 4.5.), 178, 184, 193n75, 193n84, 194nn106–7, 220, 235, 242, 249, 252 Dixon, Errol, 164–65, 193n80 Dixon, Willie, 40, 83, 86–87, 93, 95, 102, 103 (fig. 3.3.), 115, 120, 128, 133n27, 167, 226 Dobberschütz, Regine, 117, 163, 169, 252 Doering, Teddy, 204 Doldinger’s Passport, Klaus, 184 Donegan, Lonnie, 73 Donisch, Peter, 213 Doors, The, 142–43, 235 Down Beat Stompers, 50 Dr. Friebes Blues Band, 218 Drechsel, Karlheinz, 49, 51, 114–19 Dupree, Champion Jack, 31, 44, 46, 72–73, 147, 164, 185 (fig. 4.8.), 190n29, 197n160, 255 Dusty Broom Blues Band, 165 E Eaglin, Snooks, 99 East Berlin, 8, 48, 50, 53, 114–15, 118–19, 137n81, 155, 161, 164–65, 168, 170, 173, 184, 192n53, 193nn66–78, 194n90, 197n162, 238, 242, 250–51, 255–56, 260n64, 261n68 Ebel, Rudolf, 56 Edwards, Al Fats, 68 Edwards, Archie, 110 Edwards, David “Honeyboy,” 10 Edwards, Frank, 164 Ege, Moritz, 149 Eisenach, 28, 48–51, 60, 132n3, 232, 242. See also Hot Clubs: in East Germany Electric Blues Duo, 165, 193n82 Ellington, Duke, 31, 64 Engbarth, Gerhard, 165, 175, 178–79, 218, 259n54 Engerling, 164, 170, 220, 235, 242 Epitaph, 44

Eppelmann, Rainer, 250–51, 255–56 Ergo, 235, 238 Estes, Sleepy John, 98 Evans, David, 5 Evans, Margie, 110, 144, 182–83 Ewert, Hans W., 146, 256n4 F Fabulous Thunderbirds, The, 144, 190n29 Fichelscher, Tobias “Toby,” 65–67, 80n92 Filene, Benjamin, 27n38, 87 Finkelstein, Sidney, 31, 51 Fisk Jubilee Singers, The, 155 Fitzgerald, Ella, 31, 66 Fleetwood Mac, 140 Fleming, Joy, 65, 165 Flyckt, William, 191n45 Forehand, Blind Mamie, 31 Frankfurt am Main, 6, 27n34, 30–31, 33, 38–39, 41–43, 45–47, 60–62, 64–66, 68, 70–71, 74n5, 79n74, 79n80, 91, 106, 144, 180, 196n143, 200, 209, 212–13 Frankfurt City Blues Band, The, 203, 219 Frenz, Manfred “Many,” 65, 67 Freyer, Winfried “Winne,” 206–8, 211, 221 (fig. 5.1.), 221–22, 232–33 Freygang, 235, 242 Frith, Simon, 3 Frohberg, Fred, 192n48 Fusion, 163, 167 G Gahler, Frank, 170, 252 Galden, Manfred Paul, 203 Gallagher, Rory, 107, 143 (fig. 4.1.), 190n29, 235 Gerlach, Jens, 35 German Blues Circle (GBC): concept, organization, and activities, 6, 208–16, 220–21, 223–24, 257n24, 258n26, 258n30; German Blues Circle Info (GBCI), 6, 8, 174, 201, 207, 217–24,

Index

229–31, 258n37, 259n38; German Blues Guide (GBG, publication), 210–11, 215–16, 219–20, 258n25, 259n45 German Jazz Federation (DJF), 29, 34, 60, 68, 70–71, 74n5, 80n95, 94–95, 179, 196n130 Gillespie, Dizzy, 47, 65 Gillett, Charlie, 17, 145 Gomelsky, Giorgio, 101, 134n47, 135n53, 179 Goodman, Benny, 47 Graf, Christian, 146 Granz, Norman, 83, 101 Gray, Henry, 212 Greger, Max, 71 Greiner-Pol, André, 242 Groh, Claus, 146 Groom, Bob, 121 Groundhogs, The, 102 Guitar Slim, 186, 188 Gutberlet, Thomas, 112, 204, 207–8, 215 Guy, Buddy, 99, 122, 225 H Haake, Bernd, 165–66 Hall, Bob, 164 Hammond, John Henry, 34, 69, 73, 75n16 Handy, William Christopher, 4, 9n12, 24n9, 227 Hartmann, Heinz, 180–81 Heide, Karl Gert zur, 18, 40, 145 Heidkamp, Konrad, 120 Heine, Heinrich, 242 Heinze, Friedemann, 209, 259n39 Helfer, Erwin, 164 Henderson, Fletcher, 29 Hendrix, Jimi, 140, 142–43, 235 Herman, Woody, 45, 47 Hess, Norbert, 199, 204, 208 Hill, Blind Joe, 105, 110 Hitler, Adolf, 151, 247 Hoegen, Detlev, 190n26, 211 Hoffmann, Rüdiger, 196n136 Holly & Plant, 252 Hollys Bluesband, 252

315

Holwas, Günter “Holly,” 254, 262n87 Homesick James, 200 Honecker, Erich, 151, 172, 175, 247, 250, 264 Hönig, Bernhard, 172, 194nn106–7 Hoochie Coochie Blues Band, 206 Hooker, Earl, 98 Hooker, John Lee, 25, 82–83, 84 (fig. 3.1.), 91, 93, 95, 102, 130, 177, 201–2 Horkheimer, Max, 126 Horton, Big Walter “Shakey,” 41, 99 Hostler, Denny Lee, 163 Hot Club Sextett, 61 Hot Clubs, 28–36, 39, 42–45, 47, 59–62, 64–65, 67–68, 70, 73, 74n5, 74n9, 76n39, 80n95, 83; and blues, 7, 30–33, 51; in East Germany, 49–51; and the “Golden Age” of jazz, 30–32, 51, 62, 74n9; publications, 32–33, 50–51, 62–63 Howlin’ Wolf, 40, 115, 122, 130 Hudtwalcker, Olaf, 32 (fig. 2.1.), 38, 61, 64, 70, 72 Hughes, Langston, 25, 33, 48, 64, 148 Humes, Helen, 90, 95, 144 Humphrey, Albert C., 163, 193n77 Hunter, Alberta, 31, 72 Hutto, Joseph Benjamin “J. B.,” 214, 222 I International Blues Duo, The, 193n83, 206 J Jackson, Armand “Jump,” 83, 95 Jackson, John, 129 Jackson, Mahalia, 158 Jahn, Janheinz, 17, 123–24, 129, 145 James, Elmore, 177, 212 James, Harry, 29 jazz debates: in East Germany, 51–58; in West Germany, 55–60, 70, 78n72 Jefferson, Blind Lemon, 31, 65 Johnny & The Drivers, 164

316 Johnson, James Weldon, 48 Johnson, Larry, 119 Johnson, Lonnie, 31, 41, 51, 72 Johnson, Robert, 15, 19, 21, 26n31, 26n33, 69, 167 Jonathan Blues Band, 164–65, 170, 235, 242, 252 Jones, LeRoi (Amiri Baraka), 17, 26n27, 145, 148 Joplin, Janis, 141–43, 235 Jung, Hans Otto, 38, 61 K Kahr, Jim, 104, 163, 218, 231 Kajfeš, Davor, 134n35 Keil, Charles, 12, 17, 120–21, 138n98, 148 Kerouac, Jack, 243 Kerth, Jürgen, 170, 220, 235, 242–43 Kesey, Kenneth Elton “Ken,” 243 Khrushchev, Nikita S., 52 Kieser, Günther, 86, 88–89, 97, 116, 122, 180, 182 Kiesewetter, Knut, 65, 165 Kilian, Klaus “Mojo,” 204 King, B.B., 92, 134n39, 143–44, 147, 161, 167, 225, 232 King, Martin Luther, Jr., 89, 148, 158 Klein, Hermjo, 196n136 Klein, Oscar, 45, 48, 182 Kleinow, Bernd, 193n84, 235, 243 Klemm, Hansi, 163 Knepler, Georg, 53 Königstein, Horst, 146 Korner, Alexis, 45, 68, 141, 144, 146–47, 147 (fig. 4.2.), 161–62 Kübler, Olaf, 165 Kunstadt, Leonard, 39–40, 86 Kurella, Alfred, 155 Küstner, Axel, 185–88, 198n169, 204 L Leadbelly, 13, 25n11, 31, 72–73 Lee, Alvin, 162 Lehmann, Theo, 17, 158, 207, 211, 220, 231, 259n48 Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, 154, 160, 174, 244

Index

Lenoir, J. B., 40, 84 (fig. 3.1.), 89, 117, 161, 180 Lewis, John, 83 Lindenberg, Udo, 195n124 Liniger, Walter, 7 (fig. 0.1.), 27n35, 75n25 Link, Bernd Jürgen, 190n25 Lippmann, Horst, 6–8, 32 (fig. 2.1.), 38, 41 (fig. 2.3.), 63 (fig. 2.6.), 66–67, 79n76, 79n81, 85–91, 93–96, 98–112, 105 (fig. 3.4.), 115, 118–20, 122, 128, 130, 132, 134n34, 135n50, 136n67, 143, 178–82, 184–89, 196n130, 196n137, 198n164, 198n169; as blues enthusiast and expert, 60, 64–65, 82; as concert promoter, 62, 79n79, 83; and East Germany, 113–14, 116–17 (see also Drechsel, Karlheinz); and the German Jazz Federation, 29, 62; as journalist, 60–62, 64–65, 133n20 Lippmann + Rau (concert agency). See Lippmann, Horst; Rau, Fritz Little Feat, 107, 190n29 Little Walter, 99, 177 Littlefield, Little Willie, 163–64 Loch, Siegfried “Siggi” E., 86, 132n7, 132n11 Lockwood, Robert Jr., 164 Lomax, Alan, 13–14, 18, 25n12, 80n99, 187 Lomax, John Avery, 13–14, 18 Lorenz, Reinhard, 49, 211, 221 (fig. 5.1.) Lösekes Blues Gang, 203 Louisiana Red (Iverson Minter), 106, 110, 117, 119, 163–64, 179, 183–84, 183 (fig. 4.7.), 190n29, 197n161 L+R Records: foundation, concept, and logistics, 8, 94, 104, 109, 112, 180–85, 196n142, 211; Living Country Blues USA (LP series), 185–89; productions with international blues musicians, 105–6, 179–80, 182–84 (see also L+R Records: Living Country

Index

Blues USA); productions with West German blues musicians, 178–79 Lüderitz, Rafi, 65, 67 Ludwig, Jojo “Ludi,” 147 (fig. 4.2.) Lynyrd Skynyrd, 190n29, 235 M Mabon, Willie, 110, 164, 182, 200–1, 218–19 Magic Sam, 99, 182 Mangelsdorff, Albert, 38, 114, 122 Mangelsdorff, Emil, 38, 61 Many und Toby, 67 Marcus, Greil, 17, 145 Margolin, Bob, 108 (fig. 3.5.) Mars, Johnny, 164 Marschall, Friedrich “Fritz,” 204, 209, 221 (fig. 5.1.), 259n39 Martin, Louis Michael “Lou,” 164 Mayall, John, 45, 97, 102, 110, 141–43, 162, 164, 178, 228–30, 232, 235, 260n59 McCarthy, Dave, 79n79 McCarthy, Joseph Raymond, 14, 56 McGhee, Brownie, 40 Mecklenburg, Carl Gregor Herzog zu, 17, 145 Melly, George, 238 Memphis Slim, 40, 72–73, 88, 95, 162–63, 167 Meyer, Ernst Hermann, 54, 78n65 Michaelis, Kurt “Hot-Geyer,” 49–50 Michel, Hans, 132n10 Michels, Wolfgang, 147 (fig. 4.2.), 177, 190n22, 195n124 Mielke, Erich, 248 Miller, Manfred, 16, 109, 111, 135n66, 141, 146–48, 177, 190n22, 204, 211–12 Millns, Paul, 164 Ministry of State Security (East Germany): archive, 5; and the blues, 9, 173–75, 194n107, 240–41, 244–50, 253–56 (see also Diestelmann, Stefan); Zersetzung (corruption and disintegration), 5, 173, 246, 249, 253–54, 256

317

Modern Jazz Quartet, 83 Monokel, 170, 235, 242, 252 Montag, Peter, 242 Montgomery, Little Brother, 18, 72–73 Montirian, Charles, 56 Moore, Alex, 98 Moore, Allan F., 22–23 Morton, Jelly Roll, 30, 43, 68 Mouskouri, Nana, 137n91 Mr. Adapoe, 235, 241 Muddy Waters (McKinley Morganfield), 15, 25n10, 27n38, 72–73, 83, 87, 101–2, 107, 108 (fig. 3.5.), 118, 135nn51–52, 161, 167, 190n29, 232 Murray, Charles Shaar, 130 Muschketat, Eddy, 147 (fig. 4.2.) Musselwhite, Charlie, 164 N Narváez, Peter, 27n37 Needham, Theresa, 258n30 Nelson, Sonny Boy, 7 (fig. 0.1.) Neville Brothers, The, 144, 193n74 Niles, Edward “Abbe,” 9n12 No Name Band, 66 Norden, Albert, 155 O Oakley, Giles, 17, 145 Odum, Howard Washington, 24n6, 25n16 Oliver, Joseph “King,” 30, 43, 46 Oliver, Paul, 5, 15–16, 18, 22, 25n20, 26n22, 27n34, 33–34, 82, 134n34, 145 Ornament Records, 145, 185, 188, 190n24, 197n163, 256n4 Ory, Edward “Kid,” 31, 43 P Palmer, Tony, 17, 145 Panassié, Hugues, 30, 37, 39–41, 51, 73–74, 129 Pankey, Aubrey, 154–55, 191n43 Papa Bue’s Viking Jazzband, 72 Parker, Charlie, 47

318

Index

Parks, James Willard, 133n22 Patterson, William, 152 Payne, Odie, 105, 107, 135n58 Peabody, Dave, 164 Pehl, Hans, 209 Percewood’s Onagram, 147 (fig. 4.2.) Perryman, William Lee “Piano Red,” 164, 182 Peterson, Oscar, 130 Pick, Gerd Peter, 61 Pitchford, Lonnie, 105, 186 Podehl, Hans, 61 Pohle, Hans-Hermann, 190n25 Portnoy, Jerry, 108 (fig. 3.5.) Postel & Pötsch, 235, 241 Powell, Earl “Bud,” 121 Pratt, Ray, 22 Price, Big Walter, 164 Pryor, James Edward “Snooky,” 200 Puhdys, 169, 172 Pulley, James W., 157, 192n47 Q Queen Yahna, 164, 197n160 R Rainey, Gertrude “Ma,” 23, 31, 46 Ramsey, William McCreery “Bill,” 65–66 Rannenberg, Christian, 193n83, 203, 206 Rapone, Al & The Zydeco Express, 163, 182, 207 Rau, Fritz, 6, 8, 82–83, 85–101, 103–5, 105 (fig. 3.4.), 107–20, 122, 130, 132, 134n34, 134n39, 135n50, 135n60, 136n67, 137n91, 143, 178–80, 184, 196n130, 196nn136– 37, 197n161 Rawls, Louis Allen “Lou,” 148 Reinhardt, Django, 37 Renft Combo, Klaus, 220, 259n46 Ricks, “Philadelphia” Jerry, 164, 182, 197n160 Ringe, Bernward “Bernie,” 174 Robeson, Paul, 53, 152–55, 153 (fig. 4.3.), 191n40

Rockpalast (TV series), 107–8, 190n29 Rogers, Jimmy, 110, 119 Rolling Stones, The, 82, 101, 134n47, 139, 141, 143, 205, 235 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 129 Ross, Charles Isaiah “Doctor,” 96, 164, 197nn162–63, 200 Rudorf, Reginald, 78n64 Rush, Otis, 99, 122 Rushing, Jimmy, 46–47, 93 Russell, Bill, 31 Ryder, Mitch, 162, 190n29 S Sacré, Robert, 204, 211 Sainte-Marie, Buffy, 235, 243 Salinger, Jerome David, 243 Santana, 162 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 44 Sauer, Wolfgang, 65–67 Schaaf, Harald P., 201–2 Scheck, Waldemar, 17, 145 Scheller, Mike, 196n136 Schmidt-Joos, Siegfried, 50, 78n58, 86, 96–98, 126–27, 132n11, 138n102, 138n104, 141, 144, 179 Schneider, Helen with The Kick, 137n91 Schöne, Reiner, 192n48 Schrader, Tom, 176 (fig. 4.6.), 195n116 Schroeder, Tom, 146, 211 Schubert, Rolf, 163, 165, 193n80, 199–201, 211 Schulz-Köhn, Dietrich, 61 Schwartz, Roberta Freund, 80n99 Scorsese, Martin, 4, 243 Scruggs, Irene, 40, 76n34 Seale, Bobby, 148 Seghers, Anna, 154 Sellhorn, Werner “Josh,” 51 Severin, Peter, 38, 75n27 Shakey Jake, 95, 122 Shaw, Arnold, 17, 145 Sheridan, Tony, 146

Index

Shines, Johnny, 164, 193n80 Siegfried, Detlef, 131 Smith, Bessie, 7, 23, 32–35, 39–40, 42, 46, 48, 53, 65, 127, 147, 161 Smith, Mamie, 31, 39, 75n31 Spivey, Victoria, 40, 96, 132n8, 133n12 Spree City Stompers, 42, 67 Stalin, Josef W., 52, 78n59 Stasi. See Ministry of State Security Stockyard Blues Band, 230 Strachwitz, Chris, 26n22, 86, 98, 110, 120, 133n12 Strauß, Franz Josef, 57 Streibert, Theodore, 57 Stroger, Bob, 107, 135n58 Sugar Blue, 205 Sumlin, Hubert, 105, 110, 115, 180 Sunnyland Slim, 105, 110, 115, 182, 197n163 Sykes, Roosevelt, 27n35 Sympathy for the Devil (TV series), 146–48 T Taj Mahal, 142, 167, 190n29 Taylor, Eddie, 105, 182 Taylor, Koko, 40, 97 Taylor, Theodore Roosevelt “Hound Dog,” 99 Ten Years After, 141–43, 235 Terry, Cooper, 164 Terry, Sonny & Brownie McGhee, 71–73, 95, 100, 125, 161, 167 Tharpe, Sister Rosetta, 71–73, 100 Thomas, Irma, 193n74 Thomas, James “Son,” 27n35, 110, 187 Thornton, Willie Mae “Big Mama,” 41, 84 (fig. 3.1.), 99, 132n8, 134n42 Thorogood, George, 142, 190n29 Thorup, Peter, 164 Thuringia (region in East Germany), 48–49, 170, 206, 220–21, 232, 237, 239–41, 246, 249–50, 260n64, 261n65

319

Tiny Hagen, 146, 204 Toby’s Blues Combo, 67 Travelling Blues, 235, 241–42 Tucker, Tommy, 164, 197n162 Turner, Joe, 39, 76n35 Twittenhoff, Wilhelm, 131 Two Beat Stompers, 41 (fig. 2.3.), 41, 43–44, 61, 71, 76n40 U Ulbricht, Walter, 152, 153 (fig. 4.3.) Ulmer, James “Blood,” 164 V Vaih hu, 166 Van Vechten, Carl, 25n10 Vaughan, Sarah, 93 Vaughan, Stevie Ray, 142, 190n29, 205 Vrotsos, Johnny, 32 (fig. 2.1.), 46 (fig. 2.4.), 46–47, 77n53 W Wald, Elijah, 5, 21 Walker, T-Bone, 95, 102, 122, 167 Walldorf, Benno, 65, 91, 92 (fig. 3.2.) Wallenstein, Abi, 147, 203 Waller, Thomas “Fats,” 38 Weber, Vince, 164–65, 203 Webster, Katie, 164, 223 Wein, George Theodore, 101, 135n51 Weiz, Waldemar “Waldi,” 238 Wells, Junior, 99, 116–17, 122, 225 Wenders, Wim, 10, 24n4 White, Bukka, 96, 100, 190n29, 259n54 White, Josh, 46, 72 Wicke, Peter, 160, 244 Wiesand, Stephanie, 40, 90 Wiggins, “Detroit” Gary, 193n83, 197n160, 206 Williams, Big Joe, 12 (fig. 1.1.), 41, 96, 129–30, 149, 182 Williams, John “Memphis Piano Red,” 187–88, 197n163

320

Index

Williamson, Sonny Boy, 37 (fig. 2.2.), 40, 72–73, 88, 93, 102, 133n27, 179–80 Winkler, Karl “Kalle,” 252, 254 Winter, Johnny, 107, 142, 161, 190n19, 235 Witherspoon, Jimmy, 47, 214 Wolff, Udo, 107, 176 (fig. 4.6.), 176–78, 195n116, 195n124, 204, 215, 218, 225–26, 229–31 Woodstock (festival, 1969), 8, 15, 97, 140, 233, 237, 246 Wortham, Rosay, 164, 197n160 Wright, Richard, 16, 64 Wyman, Bill, 82

Y Yardbirds, The, 101–2, 135n53, 139, 179–80, 197n150 “Year of the Blues” (2003), 4 Young, James Osborne “Trummy,” 45 Z Zenit, 170, 235, 242 Zerbe-Quintett, Hannes, 156 (fig. 4.4.) Zimmerle, Dieter, 74n7, 96 Zschockelt, Alfons, 50, 78n58, 80n89 Zweig, Arnold, 152 ZZ Top, 107, 190n29, 218, 235