“Are you going to be in Chicago next month? I want to introduce you to Eric.”
It was the summer of 2007, I just finished grad school and was preparing for a move to Connecticut when I found myself hanging out with Hubert Sumlin after an afternoon guitar workshop. Along with Bob Margolin, Hubert had flown in that day to give an informal clinic/performance that had everyone in the room hanging on every note and every story about Muddy and Wolf.
Anyone who had the fortune to be around Hubert described him the same way. “It’s like hanging out with your ultra-cool grandpa.” From the moment I met Hubert it was like we had known each other for years. There were two stories from that day that sticks out in my mind about how generous, warm, and exceptional of a person he was.
After the aforementioned clinic, it was common for the artists to hang around and sign autographs, take pictures and meet with all the students. As I was helping to pack things up, I noticed a young student–maybe 13–who was telling Hubert how excited he was to see him at the upcoming Crossroads Festival that was taking place in Chicago the next month.
“You going to Eric’s show?” asked Hubert
“Yeah, it will be my first real concert,” said the student
“Here is my cell number. When you get there, give me a call and I will introduce you to everyone,” responded Hubert
Yes, a genuine guitar legend gave a young kid, who he had never met before, his cell number just to make that kid’s experience that much better. I don’t know for sure if they hooked up or not, but just watching that happen blew my mind.
Once the clinic was over, Hubert and I drove Margolin to O’Hare (he had an engagement in Pittsburgh the next day) and then I took Hubert to his hotel. Since it was just an overnight trip for Hubert, he had only packed his guitar and a medium-sized duffle bag. He asked me I could help him with his bag since he was just an old man–his words, not mine–and of course I agreed.
After we checked in, we went to his room and as soon as I placed the bag on his extra bed, he told me to sit down. He wanted to show me something.
“It’s somewhere in here,” he said as he opened his bag.
My eyes opened wide once I got a look inside the bag. Other than maybe a change of clothes, the bag was overstuffed with what seemed like hundreds of pictures.
“I want to give you some of these pictures. There was one that reminded me of you,” said Hubert as he was shuffling through a visual history of modern blues. As he passed me photos of him and Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Eric Clapton, B.B. King and virtually every other well-known bluesman I couldn’t help but wonder what he could possibly be looking for that even gave him any passing resemblance of me.
After we spent about an hour looking through photos and Hubert telling me the stories behind them, I figured it was time for me to go. He had a 4am pickup and I had to get back to the workshop.
“Leave me your address, I will send it to ya when I find it,” said Hubert.
“Sure, absolutely,” I said. And then it happened.
“Are you going to be in Chicago next month? I want to introduce you to Eric.”
At that moment, every second I had spent with my hands wrapped around a guitar struggling to squeeze out anything that even remotely sounded like music had come full circle. I also considered what my wife would say when I called her and said I was quitting my job and staying in Chicago for a month to meet one of my guitar heroes.
Of course, against my not-so-better judgement, I thanked Hubert profusely. He gave me a hug, thanked me for everything and off I went. The following summer our paths crossed again in Connecticut and although I am sure Hubert didn’t remember me he made everyone feel like a relative that you haven’t seen in a while.
Although I can’t say I spent time trying to pick off lick from those old Wolf albums, I know every phrase Hubert played. They have been handed down through nearly every guitar player who plays over a 12-bar with any authenticity.
Thanks Hubert. You will be missed.
