By David Whiteis
I first met Junior in January 1979. I’d just driven to Chicago from New England in a sputtering Datsun loaded with all my worldly possessions, on a pilgrimage to the blues mecca. The city was still digging out from under the great blizzard, but on my first Friday night in town I negotiated my way through the snow-choked streets to Theresa’s Lounge, the world-famous basement juke at the corner of 48th and Indiana.
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That’s not to say there was something false about Junior when he was onstage–the side of himself he chose to show the public was an important facet of who he considered himself to be. Junior claimed to have fathered upwards of 34 children, and the bevy of girlfriends and ex-girlfriends who regularly showed up at his gigs (as well as some of the stories they told) indicated that his reputation as a player was probably well deserved. His songs were full of sexual boasts, and his demeanor onstage was self-confident to the point of arrogance.
Junior was hardly anonymous, but he never attained the mainstream celebrity that artists like Buddy Guy have enjoyed. Nonetheless, he had friends from all walks of life and he certainly could have afforded to move to the suburbs if he’d wanted to. Instead he chose to remain close to the community that gave him his start. Until the end he lived in the south-side home where he’d resided for years with his mother, Lena, who died in 1995. He never stopped frequenting his old haunts, like the Checkerboard, where he’d come to share a few drinks, maybe sit in with the band. Junior was proud of the role he’d played in making the south side of Chicago the most fabled urban blues stronghold in the world.
