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back of a telegram form by the poet Langston Hughes. It was sung by Spann, rather than Waters himself, because Waters –
like Hooker and many other Southerners of their generation – didn’t read too fluently; and Spann, fifteen years younger and considerably better educated, was far better equipped to sing
lyrics which had just been placed in front of him.
    Newport survived, and both Waters and Hooker did considerably better than that. (Incidentally, history repeated itself less than a decade later when, in the wake of the late-’60s
flirtation between jazz and progressive rock, the 1968 festival included a rock night headlined by Jethro Tull, the Mothers Of Invention and The Jeff Beck Group, and all those bad kids – or
rather, their younger brothers and sisters – went wild again. Tsk tsk tsk. However, this time there was no moral panic: they simply stopped booking rock acts.) Seeming simultaneously shy and
feral, Hooker stood up in his slick sharkskin suit with Muddy Waters’ band behind him, and performed deep, brooding versions of classics like ‘Maudie’, a surprisingly mordant song
dedicated to his then wife, and ‘It’s My Own Fault’, later to become a cornerstone of B.B. King’s repertoire. He climaxed a rocking finale of ‘Come Back Baby’ by
walking offstage, still playing, and leaving the band to finish the tune; a marked contrast to the downhome demeanour of Cage & Thomas, wearing their best church suits and broad-brimmed hats
and busily playing away while seated in their folding chairs.
    More than three decades later, it is Hooker, Mr Natty Urbanite of 1960, who performs from a chair and sports the broadcloth-three-piece-and-Homburg-hat which is the traditional formal dress of
rural black Southerners. Nevertheless, the wooden Newport stage still looks the same, and the tranquil bay is still crowded with the yachts of the opulent. However, in this, the golden age of
corporate sponsorship, the Newport Jazz Festival is now the JVC Jazz Festival and is spread over a variety of sites, including the original setting in Newport, Rhode Island, itself. You reach the
grounds via immaculately maintainedroads of neat bungalows where the weekend yard sale is a way of life, a sobering contrast to the pot-holed death-traps of New Jersey. Hooker
is received like royalty. He barely has time to disembark from his limo before he is surrounded by well-wishers. Nevertheless, he heads for shelter at the first opportunity, unlike B.B. King, who
tours the backstage area, greeting one and all with the ambassadorial graciousness which is his trademark. Once ensconced in his trailer, Hooker’s co-stars queue up to pay their respects.
Virtually his first pair of visitors are a lean Englishman in his late fifties with a majestically pony-tailed silver mane, and a bulbous, bearded, bereted gent leaning on a Louisiana conjure
stick.
    They are, in fact, John Mayall, ‘the father of British blues’, and the New Orleans piano maestro Mac ‘Dr John’ Rebennack, and they’re almost knocking each other
over in their eagerness to be the first to receive the passive handshake and the ritual greeting, ‘Huh-huh-how you doin’, young man?’ Excitable young women in shorts and halter
tops vie with each other to be photographed sitting on his lap. Taking care not to dislodge his homburg, they feed him chocolate and icecream. The fearsome Boogie Man, the soulful, compassionate
bluesman, the galvanic preacher: all are now replaced with the genial, guffawing, sleepy-eyed teddy bear.
    As three o’clock approaches, The Coast To Coast Blues Band mount the stage, inspect the rented amplifiers, keyboards and drums, and declare them adequate. Cupp and Fischer have squeezed
themselves into the drop-dead dresses normally reserved for after dark, and some of the male band members have gone so far as to change their shirts and comb their hair. The venerable sage’s
only concession to the heat is to remove his jacket and