THE LAST TIME I SAW OTIS RUSH
The last time I saw Otis Rush was the final night of the 17th Annual San Francisco Blues
Festival (1989). There was an unannounced impromptu gathering of noted blues guitarists
(Ronnie Earl, Duke Robillard, Otis Rush) at The Sweetwater (in Mill Valley), and word got
around pretty quickly…but not quickly enough. By the time we arrived the place was
packed and the big galoot guarding the door was NOT letting ANYONE in. NOBODY.
Nevertheless, somehow I managed to convince him that I was somebody, and, that Otis
Rush was not really there so much to play guitar as to be interviewed by me. It must have
been a convincing argument—whatever I may have said—because he let me in. He held
my friends ransom at the door, but I strolled on in. Such is the power invested in a
business card and a press pass.
So, Otis Rush was leaning back in a stick chair, in the passage between the stage and the
stairway that leads down to where the infamous Tribute to Percy Mayfield pool table
incident took place. After fighting my way through the crowd, I went up to him and
introduced myself, handed him my card. Then I pleaded with him—as well as a man might
plead with Ronnie Earl’s blistering guitar scorching the hairs on the back of his neck—“Can
you get us into this place?”
Otis Rush studied my face for a while, moved a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the
other, nudged the brim of his cowboy hat up a bit with one knuckle, smiled and crooked his
finger motioning for me to come closer.
I leaned in, placing my ear within inches of his mouth. “You’re already in,” he said.
The last time I saw Otis Rush was the final night of the 17th Annual San Francisco Blues
Festival (1989). There was an unannounced impromptu gathering of noted blues guitarists
(Ronnie Earl, Duke Robillard, Otis Rush) at The Sweetwater (in Mill Valley), and word got
around pretty quickly…but not quickly enough. By the time we arrived the place was
packed and the big galoot guarding the door was NOT letting ANYONE in. NOBODY.
Nevertheless, somehow I managed to convince him that I was somebody, and, that Otis
Rush was not really there so much to play guitar as to be interviewed by me. It must have
been a convincing argument—whatever I may have said—because he let me in. He held
my friends ransom at the door, but I strolled on in. Such is the power invested in a
business card and a press pass.
So, Otis Rush was leaning back in a stick chair, in the passage between the stage and the
stairway that leads down to where the infamous Tribute to Percy Mayfield pool table
incident took place. After fighting my way through the crowd, I went up to him and
introduced myself, handed him my card. Then I pleaded with him—as well as a man might
plead with Ronnie Earl’s blistering guitar scorching the hairs on the back of his neck—“Can
you get us into this place?”
Otis Rush studied my face for a while, moved a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the
other, nudged the brim of his cowboy hat up a bit with one knuckle, smiled and crooked his
finger motioning for me to come closer.
I leaned in, placing my ear within inches of his mouth. “You’re already in,” he said.
