Introduction

CHAMPION JACK DUPREE AND HIS BLUES BAND (1967)
1) Barrelhouse Woman; 2) Louise; 3) One Dirty Woman; 4) When Things Go Wrong; 5) Cut Down On My Over­heads; 6) Troubles; 7) Tee-Nah-Nah; 8) Caldonia; 9) Under Your Hood; 10) Come Back Baby; 11) Baby Let Me Go With You; 12) Garbage Man; 13) I Feel Like A Millionaire; 14) Right Now; 15) Georgiana; 16) Shake, Baby, Shake.
Hey, finally, after all those years, Champion Jack Dupree has a real blues band! Of his own! And, get that, not just a blues band, but a blues band Featuring Mickey Baker, like it says on the album cover! We're doing this like grown-ups — last year, in London, there was this cool chap John Mayall who did a record called Bluesbreakers Featuring Eric Clapton, and now he has provided me with an opportunity to record in London, on the Decca label, so it's only fitting that there would be somebody «featured» on my album as well... it's a whole new trend!
Seriously, all irony aside, this is the beginning of a whole new life for the Champ: for the first time ever, he is consistently being backed up by a stable, well-amplified, and, most importantly, qualified backing band. Mickey Baker was actually an old pal of the Champ's who'd already played with him in the mid-Fifties; by 1967, however, he'd also migrated to Europe, along the same lines as Dupree, and their reunion on British territory was quite fortuitous. I am not familiar with most of the other players, but the drummer is Ronnie Verrell, one of Britain's finest big band jazz drummers, and his individual style can certainly raise an eyebrow — he specifically caught my ear with some deliciously loud and even «vulgar» (so to speak) fills on ʽBaby Let Me Go With Youʼ (a transparent rewrite of ʽBaby Let Me Take You Homeʼ), where the arrogance of the drums actually overwhelms the fun and tasty parts that Baker plays on guitar.
There is not much to say about the songs on the album — provided you have traced Dupree's career all the way, you have heard most of them before, and provided you know at least a little about music in general, you have heard all the other songs before just as well: for instance, ʽGeorgianaʼ is really ʽGeorgia On My Mindʼ with slightly different lyrics (for some reason — perhaps, out of some strange understanding of honesty — Dupree usually left in «keyword re­ferences» to the original lyrics when covering classics; on the other hand, ʽI Feel Like A Millio­naireʼ, ripping off ʽWhen The Saints Go Marching Inʼ, is an obvious exception), and ʽShake Baby Shakeʼ is ʽWhole Lotta Shakin' Going Onʼ back-crossed with ʽDrinkin' Wine Spoo-Dee-O-Deeʼ. But you also know that this is of no importance.
What is of importance is that the Champ is having fun, and the boys in his band are having fun, too: probably the most fun they all had since... well, ever, because the Champ never had such a tight and well-oiled band beside him. Already on the opening number, ʽBarrelhouse Womanʼ, we have a cool funky brass section, an amusing whistle echoing Dupree's vocal melody in the back­ground — and a subtle atmosphere of camaraderie that more than compensates for leaving his piano skills almost unnoticed. For the most part, his piano parts are clearly heard on the slow blues numbers (ʽLouiseʼ, etc.), but this is nowhere as interesting as the rollickin' jump blues. An insane percussion part and a hilarious bass solo on ʽOne Dirty Womanʼ; a quirky-quacky lead guitar part on ʽCaldoniaʼ; the abovementioned crude drum fills on ʽBaby Let Me Go With Youʼ; the collective choo-choo train effort on ʽShake, Baby, Shakeʼ — there's so much simple, naïve, totally efficient fun on this album, it makes me forget and forgive all the mind-numbing repeti­tiveness and formulaicness of the Champ's underwhelming Copenhagen period.
Even something like ʽTroublesʼ, a laid-back dialog between Dupree and Baker, lazily strumming their guitar and tinkling their piano, as they jokingly discuss each other's problems of the past and of the present, is hilarious — to be honest, I do not understand even half of it, particularly since the Champion is laying his exaggerated «hare-lipped accent» on real thick, but on the whole, the dialog will definitely appeal to any fan of the Wu-Tang Clan, if you know what I mean. Ines­capable filler issues aside, this is a major exercise in self-rejuvenation here, and the first serious argument to prove that the Champion's emigration to the relative safety of the European musical community might not have been such a terrible mistake. Thumbs up.
WHEN YOU FEEL THE FEELING YOU WAS FEELING (1968)
1) See My Milk Cow; 2) Mr. Dupree Blues; 3) Yellow Pocahontas; 4) Gutbucket Blues / Ugly Woman; 5) Street Walking Woman; 6) Income Tax; 7) Roll On; 8) I've Been Mistreated; 9) A Racehorse Called Mae; 10) My Home's In Hell.
The most unusual thing about this album, recorded in London in April 1968, is that it combines both sides of the Champion: the old-fashioned one, with just the man sitting at the piano (occa­sionally accompanied by Christopher Turner on harmonica and Stuart Brooks on bass), and the «new look» one, with Dupree backed by a complete band — in this particular case, including drummer Simon Kirke and guitarist Paul Kossoff of the freshly formed Free, who, incidentally, had only just played their first gig together a few days before the sessions for Dupree's album (so it is not entirely clear who, technically, was helping who on this occasion).
The first side is typically playful and humorous, a little livelier on the whole than the man's Co­penhagen output and also leaning quite heavily on spoken word interludes and that whole «mu­sical diary» shenanigan that the Champion had developed so long ago. On ʽYellow Pocahontasʼ he decides to capitalize on the Indian theme, instructing British admirers on the ways of the Mardi Gras Indians — and even throwing in a gratuitous drum solo to show their «rhythms». ʽSee My Milk Cowʼ is announ­ced as «one of the foist numbers I ever wrote on my own» (funny, I didn't notice too much of a New York accent on the man over the previous decades), but there is, of course, no more true «writing» there than there is on ʽGutbucket Bluesʼ, which nicks the piano melody of ʽWhat'd I Sayʼ and, as usual, gets away with it.
Still, apart from assorted oddities like that, the first side is typical and predictable Dupree; natu­rally, it was far more interesting to see if he'd get anywhere with the guys from Free... and, unfor­tunately, he does not. Somehow, that feel-good, laid-back atmosphere of the first side is gone, and in its place we simply find stereotypical 12-bar blues. Kossoff is a better guitarist than most of the Danish or Swiss people he'd had by his side, but he does not fit in with Dupree's attitude like Mickey Baker, and he does not really play that much in the first place. The only upbeat num­ber is the boogie piece ʽA Racehorse Called Maeʼ, and it sounds like a stiff rehearsal piece, hardly worth anybody's time. ʽMy Home's In Hellʼ is a bold title, but if Hell should be such a slow and boring place with no action whatsoever, why should anybody be afraid of Hell in the first place? Disappointing.
All in all, it just feels like another attempt by Dupree to «educate» his listeners on the basics of the blues, rather than an attempt to have some plain simple fun. But what sort of listeners that had not already been educated on the basics of the blues by 1968 would want to get that education from Champion Jack Dupree? At least in 1960's Copenhagen, that kind of made sense; in 1968's London, it made no sense whatsoever. I suppose that the 17-year old Paul Kossoff must have been delighted to get a chance to play around a living legend, but that excitement is unlikely to get carried over to modern listeners. Thumbs down.
SCOOBYDOOBYDOO (1969)
1) I Want To Be A Hippy; 2) Grandma (You're A Bit Too Slow); 3) Puff Puff; 4) Blues Before Sunrise; 5) I'll Try; 6)

Going Back To Louisiana; 7) Ain't That A Shame; 8) Stumbling Block; 9) Old And Grey; 10) Who Threw The Whiskey In The Well; 11) Postman Blues; 12) Lawdy, Lawdy.

This one was recorded in London in early 1969, with a fairly large backing band and one of Dupree's finest temporary acquisitions up to that point — a young and unknown Mick Taylor on guitar, just a few months before joining the Stones. Fortunately for us all, Dupree agrees to give the man plenty of room, making ScoobyDoobyDoo indispensable for Mick fans worldwide; however, at this point Taylor was just a graduate of John Mayall's white bluesman school, and sounds like a slightly less experienced Clapton clone, so do not expect anything outstanding.
As usual, the songs are «self-penned» (you know what that means), with the exception of ʽBlues Before Sunriseʼ that the Champ probably did not want to tamper with out of respect for his dear departed mentor. The first track will have everybody rasing eyebrows — ʽI Want To Be A Hippyʼ is Dupree tipping his hat to the new times, and the most bizarre thing about it is that the song does not even try to be ironic: "Lord, I'd love to be a hippy / But my hair don't grow too long", the man states with, perhaps, a wink of sarcasm; "but I love the way the hippy carries on", he adds, and from then on it becomes a panegyric to the hippie way of life that he, unfortunately, cannot share (although he can at least get dressed as a court jester on the front cover, indicating that if the entire world has agreed to go crazy, then it'd be cowardly for old Jack Dupree not to follow).
Unfortunately, this is his only «sign o' the times» on the album: every other song is lyrically and melodically quite standard. But the backing band is solid, the rhythm section plays with energy, and there are plenty of boogie numbers (ʽWhiskey In The Wellʼ) to break up the monotonous monopoly of slow 12-bar blues. Of special note may be the short instrumental ʽPuf Puffʼ, on which Dupree does nothing but puff (indeed), while Taylor plays a simple, but hypnotic slide guitar melody with elements of Delta blues and country-western. Elsewhere, it is clear that Dupree was still paying close attention to whatever his peers were doing at the time: ʽOld And Greyʼ is pompous soul-blues in the style of B. B. King, while ʽLawdy Lawdyʼ is brass-ornated funk blues that brings to mind Albert King. Of course, Dupree's imitations could never properly pass for the real thing (heck, he does not wear that jester's outfit for nothing), but when taken in the proper context of his overall strange career, they add even more color to that biography.
That said, Mick Taylor, albeit already a much better guitarist than Paul Kossoff, is just as unsuitable for the Champion's lightweight style as was Paul — he, too, tends to take it all way too seriously, which is excusable for an overawed kid who got to play with one of the Delta eldermen, but does not do much to enhance the sheer comic pleasure of it all, like the Dupree / Baker duet did. As a result, this is largely just another historic curio, no more and no less.
THE HEART OF THE BLUES IS SOUND (1969)
1) My Baby's Coming Home; 2) You Rascal You; 3) No Tomorrow; 4) The Heart Of The Blues Is Sound; 5) The Japanese Special; 6) Hard Feeling; 7) Blues From 1921; 8) Don't Mistreat Your Woman.
Another alumnus of John Mayall, drummer Aynsley Dunbar, has been recruited by the endlessly charismatic Champion for these sessions, held in London in August 1969. Having actually been fired from the Bluesberakers, Dunbar had only just formed his own band — appropriately called «Aynsley Dunbar Retaliation» — and, apparently, they are all here backing Dupree, except for the first track which, in a rare stint of mind, he prefers to sing a cappella. Notable members of the band include Victor Brox, whom most people probably remember as the metallic-evil voice of Caiaphas in the original recording of Jesus Christ Superstar — in fact, he'd already been a pro­fessional blues singer and player by that time, although on this album he sticks to keyboards and harmonica; trombonist Nick Evans, known for a brief stint in Soft Machine; and guitarist John Moorshead, known for very little in particular, yet capable of grinding as mean an axe as any alumnus of the John Mayall school.
As for Dupree himself, he takes a slightly more experimental approach on the record. The tunes are fewer in number and shorter in length, leaving plenty of space for jamming and improvisation (keeping up with the spirit of the times), and there is also a pronounced jazz influence: the only song not credited to Dupree on the album is ʽYou Rascal Youʼ, credited to Louis Armstrong (in reality, it was written by Sam Theard, but Dupree was not much of a sucker for detail), and then there is the oddest thing the man ever took part in so far — ʽThe Japanese Specialʼ, a tribal groove featuring a discordant, almost atonal battle of trombones, saxes, guitars, and organs: sur­prisingly energetic and delightfully chaotic, it could be defined as «Soft Machine meets Jack Dupree» (referring specifically to Nick Evans' participation in it), except that there's really very little Dupree-ish about the track in general. Honestly, I'm not even sure if the Champ plays on it in the first place. But even if he is not, it is pretty cool to encounter four minutes of free jazz on an LP by a pre-war urban blues specialist, is it not?
Elsewhere, it is mostly the same schtick: super-slow 12-bar electric blues (ʽHard Feelingʼ; ʽDon't Mistreat Your Womanʼ), old-fashioned blues balladry (ʽNo Tomorrowʼ; title track), and a cute attempt to do a regular jazz-blues oldie with a piano and a blaring trombone over it (rather bla­tantly called ʽBlues From 1921ʼ). The sound is nice, and altogether it feels as if the band gels together much better than any of Dupree's previous white-boy outfits in London. However, that is because the band is a band, rather than a motley crue of vaguely interested guest stars — and the album might as well have been called «The Aynsley Dunbar Retaliation Feat. Champion Jack Dupree», given that his role is consistently diminished throughout the record. He does sound quite charming on that vocal-only number, though.
HAMHARK & LIMER BEANS (1977)
1) Hamhark & Limer Beans; 2) Let Me In I Am Drunk; 3) Somebody's Done Changed The Lock; 4) My Combi­nation For Love; 5) Walkin' The Road; 6) Phone Call; 7) (Tell Me) Who Do You Love; 8) Let's Try Over Again.
Sources documenting Champion Jack Dupree's life and travel in the Seventies are even more scarce than those that document it for earlier periods, and discographies after 1969 become even more confusing, as occasional new recording sessions get hopelessly interspersed with repacka­gings of and outtakes from earlier sessions. To the best of my understanding, after the release of The Heart Of The Blues Is Sound his productivity began to drop down; by the mid-, if not early Seventies he was back in continental Europe, too, and thus deprived of the company of rising stars on the British blues-rock scene.
The only definitively new album by the man, recorded and released in the 1970s that I know of and have access to is Hamhark & Limer Beans, allegedly dating back to a January 24, 1977 session in Paris, held by Dupree with a bunch of musicians with English and French names, not a single one of which is in any way familiar to me — so, essentially, it is back to square one and those lonesome Copenhagen sessions of the early Sixties. At least, he does have a full band, with additional keyboards, electric guitars, and a steady rhythm section. And it is also reassuring to hear that the old man's spirits had not drooped a bit: happy to go on doing what he'd already been doing, he is offering us even more rewrites of old classics and even more recyclings of old ideas, without, so it seems, getting even the slightest doubt that maybe the world around him may have finally had enough of him. Him? Champion Jack Dupree? No way. Couldn't possibly happen.
Thus we get another ʽDrinkin' Wine Spoo-Dee-Oo-Deeʼ (title track, with a fresh gastronomic twist to the lyrics and the guitarist seemingly aiming to imitate a young Keith Richards circa 1964 or so, with dubious results); another ʽLet's Try It Over One More Timeʼ (crudely retitled ʽLet's Try It Over Againʼ); another half-funny, half-silly talking blues piece (ʽPhone Callʼ, in which the old geezer briefly discusses the current political situation in America in an imaginary conver­sation with Gerald Ford on the issue of Jimmy Carter!); and a bunch of other 12-bar blues, blues ballads, and boogie standards. In short, nothing has changed, except for some names of some American presidents spinning around the immobile constant of Champion Jack.
The backing band is at least slightly fun: organist Michel Carras and lead guitarist (either Larry Martin or Paul Pechenaert, I do not know which) have a good chemistry and honestly try to intro­duce some energy and sharpness into the proceedings — but either it is the rhythm section that drags them down with lethargy, or bad production, or they just do not have the balls for the job themselves, anyway, even when the guitarist tries to sound «gruff», he is still caressing that guitar rather than whipping it, and the end result is tepid. Not that this ever bothered The Champion — he ain't here to play rock'n'roll, he is only here to tell us that, no matter what, he is still alive and no silly dilemmas like «prog vs. punk» are ever going to deter him from jotting down in his musical diary the simple everyday joys of eating baked beans, drinking corn whiskey, bedding (or, more frequently, failing to bed) beautiful (or ugly) women, and simplistically wisecracking on political matters. And the musicians — they may keep up, or they may fall out, this is not going to influence his mood one single bit.
BACK HOME IN NEW ORLEANS (1990)
1) When I'm Drinkin'; 2) Lonesome Bedroom; 3) I Don't Know; 4) Calcutta Blues; 5) Freedom; 6) My Woman Left Me; 7) Broken Hearted; 8) Way Down; 9) The Blind Man; 10) No Future.
The title says it all. After thirty years of living all over the place in Europe, now aged something like 80 (because nobody knows his birthday properly), Champion Jack Dupree finally finds him­self back in his hometown — for a brief while, for sure, but well enough to make his way to the nearest recording studio and lay down a bunch of tracks that would serve as the basis for his last albums. Exactly what he had been doing in between 1977 and 1990 is hard to ascertain: disco­graphies for that period are just as messy and conflicting as for the earlier years, usually mixing together re-releases of old material, part-time collaborations with other artists, and genuinely new stuff — although for Dupree, «genuinely new» usually means just another take on something from about 1940, with new session players and more modern production techniques. In any case, whatever he did produce in the Eighties is fairly hard to get these days, and only the most rabid of completists should probably bother getting it.
These records from the early 1990s, though, having been released on the Bullseye Blues label (run by keyboardist and producer Ron Levy), have the distinction of being American and, thus, somewhat easier to locate. Most of the musicians backing Dupree on this one are Louisiana natives, except for guitar player Kenn Lending — this guy comes from Denmark, yet another blues aficionado who'd struck a friendship with the Champ sometime in the early Eighties, back when his own Kenn Lending Blues Band was hailed as «the hardest working blues band in Den­mark». Like most of Dupree's collaborators, Lending sounds like a respectable bluesman, but one that is completely derivative of B. B. King and Eric Clapton, and therefore, just another humble sideman for Dupree.
The album is a big band affair, with plenty of brass overdubs, but the only outstanding thing about it depends on the context — I would be hard pressed to name another blues album from 1990 that would be recorded by a genuine pre-war artist with that much verve: Dupree's vocals sound completely unaffected by time, and although they have never been particularly special, the age of 80 is precisely that moment where the «nothing special-ness» has a good chance of being converted to greatness, as the record becomes an arrogantly time-defying moment in history. At this point, he can re-write and re-record his (or other people's) material all he wants, anything will sound awesome as long as he still hits those keys with full force and belts out those blues clichés with the voice of... well, with the voice of a grizzled old black man, but now that he's eighty and all, this voice serves him better than ever.
Commenting on individual tracks is pointless: by this time, we are expected to almost precisely guess the ratio of lush blues ballads to straightahead 12-bar blues to jump blues and rockabilly numbers on a CJD record, and apart from that, the album features no specific diary-style surprises: perhaps the very pleasure of recording in his homeland again automatically limited Dupree to the most basic styles of self-repetition. From the opening dance-blues chords of ʽWhen I'm Drinkin'ʼ to the closing slow blues of ʽNo Futureʼ, Back Home In New Orleans is one big party where even the sorrowful numbers surreptitiously ring with joy, and the best I can do is acknowledge that this happy feel exuded by the old man ends up being infectious. Above and beyond every­thing else, Champion Jack Dupree is a smiling survivor — and this is why it is so important for us to have this album from him, even if it does not truly deserve more than one listen.
FOREVER AND EVER (1991)
1) They Gave Me Away; 2) Hometown New Orleans; 3) Skit Skat; 4) Poor Boy; 5) Forever And Ever; 6) Yella Pocahontas; 7) Third Degree; 8) Dupree Special; 9) Spoken Introduction; 10) Let's Talk It Over.
Same producer, same musicians, same studio, same artist at more or less the same age — see previous review. This one, on the whole, is slower: the only fast boogie number is ʽSkit Skatʼ, where the Champ indulges a bit in fun, but unimpressive scatting (he ain't no Ella Fitzgerald, after all), plus the wild, tribal, politically incorrect groove of ʽYella Pocahontasʼ, meshing together bits of Bo Diddley with elements of the Creole skit ʽOoh La Laʼ that he'd recorded decades ago. All the other songs are slow blues numbers, the most striking of these probably being a cover of Eddie Boyd's ʽThird Degreeʼ — alas, much as I sympathize, a cover that would be utterly des­troyed in three years by Clapton's version on From The Cradle (I do have to wonder if he'd had a chance to be inspired with this version at all, since many of the licks played here by Kenn Len­ding find faithful, but superior, equivalents in Eric's performance).
At least this time we receive our «marking time» number: ʽHometown New Orleansʼ, predictably set to the melody of ʽSweet Home Chicagoʼ, symbolizes Dupree's triumphant re-entry into his town of origin — one last time before the final kick. I only wish the accompanying musicians would have been more enthusiastic about it, instead of sounding like working for money and little else. Too bad he could not involve Dr. John, at least, since the role of the piano player was already occupied (then again, a duet between the Champ and the Doctor might have broken up the boredom quite efficiently).
Other than that, Lending's guitar skills may be appreciated finer than usually on the long opening number ʽThey Gave Me Awayʼ (really subtle, thin, fragile tone on some of these licks, though still utterly Claptonesque), and Dupree's skills as a piano player are at their best on the aptly titled ʽDupree Specialʼ, where, midway through, he launches into a couple of nimble and fun solos that are more playful than technically perfect, but playfulness is his strong spot, and even if he ain't no Artur Rubinstein at age eighty, hearing him engage in a bit of ivory silliness at a time when most of his contemporaries would be fading away in nursing homes is still heart-warming. And this, I think, is the best possible conclusion for a laconic review like this.