Little Walter and the Children Of The Future

Why Paul Butterfield Matters....

Little Walter and the Children of the Future

Of the graphic artists who came to fame in the 1960s for album art, as well as Zap and other underground comix, Victor Moscoso was an anomaly. Unlike line artists like R. Crumb, Spain and Rick Griffin, Moscoso was a trained fine artist who had studied with Josef Albers (while at Yale), among others, and had also attended the San Francisco Art Institute.

So when I got my copy of the first Steve Miller Band album I was unprepared for the music within or the gatefold album cover. I had been reading early versions of Rolling Stone, and thought I was getting a blues album (the word “Blues” had been a part of the band’s name but dropped for the album). The psychedelic cover, dripping with blobs of iridescent blues and pinks in which Moscoso had reversed out the album title—Children of the Future, along with a tinted photo of the band—was not what I expected.

What I had anticipated was something more along the lines of the first Paul Butterfield album—a pic of some tough looking guys with music to match. But Miller’s music, which definitely showed a blues influence, was solid rock tinged with what many would call “psychedelia.” Miller played some fun harmonica, which was a growing interest. I grew to love Children over time. As well as the artwork. Moscoso became one of my favorites of the famous poster artists in the days of the Fillmore and Avalon ballrooms in the late sixties.

The other was Rick Griffin. His early drawings were a highlight of L.A. based Surfer Magazine, and his character Murphy was always finding trouble and great waves in black and white adventures. But when he abandoned surfing for the art scene in San Francisco, Griffin’s line drawings took on a new dimension in detail and beauty, and he was more or less adopted by the Grateful Dead. His “flying eyeball” bridged him into color, and his posters for the Dead were and still are arresting and memorable. Griffin died young—motorcycle accident—after a religious conversion beautifully rendered in The Gospel of John. (In the early 2000s a friend in the harmonica world would introduce me to Londoner Peter Golding, a collector of Griffin originals. Small world.)

But I’m digressing…

The Miller recording wasn’t like the Chess selection at the Record Bar—in any way. In fact, nothing at the store compared to those Chess albums in appearance. First, the sleeves were mostly black and white. No nonsense, not even an attempt to engage the eye. And my favorite of the bunch—Little Walter’s Hate To See You Go—was just a headshot that occupied the entire sleeve, Walter looking straight into the camera. A hard look.

It was hard to figure out which lines in his face were natural and which might be scars from some bit of violence. It was evidence of a rough life, which I would later verify as I learned more about Walter and his lifestyle and tragic, early demise.

I had been playing harmonica, for a while, in rock and roll bands at while in college at both Clemson and Jacksonville Universities. We had a small and devoted following at both and a guitar player had recommended I add harmonica to my lead singer’s role. I had discovered Butterfield in 1967. And in the Summers was playing bass, a bit of harmonica, and harmony vocals for a trio covering hard country—Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Buck Owens and Hank Williams. So I was also hearing country harmonica and fitting it into the arrangements as best I could. I was getting exposure and buying everything I could that might include the harp.

Butterfield had REALLY opened my ears. His playing was melodic, propulsive, and had great presence. He was and remains my lodestone, what drew me into the instrument.

But nothing prepared me for Little Walter.