If things don’t get better

I’m going down to the river

I’m gonna take my old rocking chair

And if the blues overtake me

I’m gonna rock on away from here

To relieve the daily stress of my work as a lawyer, I early on took to using my lunch break for long walks from my office in San Francisco’s Financial District – down to the Ferry Building to walk along the Embarcadero and the bay, up Russian Hill, or through North Beach up Telegraph Hill to Coit Tower, then down the Filbert Street steps by the old cottages reachable only by foot, flocks of wild parrots squabbling in the lush trees around me.

I took in the chaotic scenes in the markets of Chinatown, old women elbowing each other aside in their quest for tonight’s vegetables, while their husbands gambled at games of Go for hours in Portsmouth Square.  Intense chess matches at the Powell Street cable car turnaround, while young drug dealers did their thing nearby at the entrance to the Muni station.  People of all kinds relaxing in the grass on a sunny day in Washington Square Park, the smell of garlic and the sound of voices speaking Italian in the air.  Young ballerinas walking briskly to and from rehearsals around the Civic Center.  It was a colorful feast for all my senses.

As a music lover, I was especially lucky to come across street musicians busking for spare change.  They ran the gamut, from young classical musicians playing violins and cellos in the BART stations, to the middle-aged jazz sax virtuoso playing Coltrane on a dark, empty street corner, to the woman in a silver spacesuit who sang in a high, reedy voice about subjects only she could understand.  Once I passed through Justin Herman Plaza just in time to catch U2’s last note in a surprise appearance, wondering who had vandalized the Vaillancourt Fountain with black spray paint.  It was Bono, who was cited that evening for “malicious mischief.”

Approaching the cable car turnaround at the foot of California Street one day, I heard blues music that instantly caught my attention, and only sounded better and better as I got closer.  I made my way through the large crowd of office workers, bike messengers, and tourists to see who was making such beautiful, soulful music.

They were a couple.  She was a strikingly beautiful black woman, probably in her late-forties, standing tall and smiling broadly while she played the bass, singing in a rich, deep contralto.  You could feel the joy and the pain in her words.  Her partner was a white man maybe a few years older, sitting before a pared down drum kit, kicking the bass drum and high hat pedals while he played electric guitar and a harmonica on a neck rack.  He played and sang with a growling vengeance, from somewhere very deep down.  With slicked back graying hair, he had blue eyes and a gold tooth.  Not the smiling type, he looked like a man who’d done some time.  He reminded me of Neil Young if he’d lived his whole life on the streets.

Their songs told hard, sometimes violent, stories but – as the blues have always done – spoke of survival and overcoming hardship in a way that soothed the soul.  The crowd was entranced and beaming as the pair powered through classics like Sweet Home Chicago.  Their cardboard tip box was overflowing.  They introduced themselves as the Chicago Blues Brother and Sister, recently arrived from that city.  Knowing a bit of the history of Chicago blues, and having loved seeing blues shows there at Kingston Mines, I knew right away these two were the real deal.  I stayed as long as I could then left a few of dollars in the box, enjoying the warm thank you I got from the lovely bass player.  I smiled myself all the way back to the office.

They disappeared for fairly long periods, but they always returned and I fortunately ran into the Blues Brother and Sister many times over the next seven or eight years.  They blew me away and lifted my spirits every time.  I bought a cassette tape they were selling once and played it back home for my family.  I thought we should have a party and hire them to play, though I wondered about the interesting interaction between them and us and our suburban Marin County friends, so very far removed from scraping by on the streets by playing the blues.

They intrigued me.  She often looked profoundly sad, and maybe a little frightened.  He seemed dark and intense.  As I tend to do, I spun out in my head what I thought their story might be.  It was not a healthy relationship, probably living just a half step off the streets.  I imagined him as controlling and abusive.  I imagined both of them living with alcoholic and other chemical demons.  He didn’t always treat her right, by a long shot, but she stayed with him – or left and came back – and their self-destructive dance went on and on, spiraling ever downward.  I hoped I was wrong, but had a feeling my imagination was, this time, probably not too far off the mark.

I hadn’t seen them in quite a while when I was walking through Fort Mason one afternoon with my oldest son, a blossoming young bass player himself.  I heard their music wafting our way from down below, at Fisherman’s Wharf.  Excitedly, we followed the sound to Ghirardelli Square and there they were, out in front, playing as always to a big crowd.  They looked haggard, but that’s not necessarily a bad state for playing the blues – at least from the listener’s perspective.  I was so glad my son finally got to see these people play the music I’d been talking about for years.

That was the last time I ever saw them.

A year or so later I was reading the paper on my way to the office on the Larkspur ferry.  Buried in the back pages of the Chronicle, a small article caught my eye.

S.F. Man Held In Death of Girlfriend Found In Bay

San Francisco police arrested a man on suspicion of killing his girlfriend, whose body was found floating in San Francisco Bay near Treasure Island last week, police said Wednesday.

Bruce Brooks, 52, faces homicide charges for allegedly killing Juliette Williamson, 50, police said.  Someone phoned police May 17 and reported that a woman had been killed in San Francisco and her corpse had been dumped in the bay, police said.  The body was discovered by the U.S. Coast Guard last week.  Police have no motive for the slaying at this time.

Brooks and Williamson lived in San Francisco and played in a blues band called Chicago Brothers and Sisters.  Williamson, whose stage name was Juliette Valentine, crooned such tunes as “Everyday I have the Blues” and “Trouble in Mind.”

My blood ran cold as a terrible chill ran down my spine.  Taking no comfort in having been so near the truth in my ruminations about their story, I felt unspeakably sad for her and my tears flowed.

They had both seemed haunted, and they were.  He had beaten her to death with a hammer in a drunken rage during a violent argument – one of many between them.  Serving fifteen years to life for her murder, he still professes his love and writes songs about her from prison.  The tragedies recounted in the blues are often true.

I think of them often as I walk through San Francisco, passing the spots where they used to play.

Copyright © 2014, Daniel W. Hager. All Rights Reserved.