False Allegations Read Online Free PDF Page A

cassette tapes: no 45s, no CDs, no 8–tracks. Whatever you want, he’ll find it and put it on tape, but that’s the whole deal. You can order a mix from him too, but he won’t label it or break it down. Only way to crack the code is bring it back to him and play it on one of his machines. Then he’ll tell you whatever you want to know. That’s how I found a sweet, controlled harp version of “Trouble in Mind” by Big Walter Horton. And a different, much rougher take on Paul Butterfield’s trademark “Born in Chicago.” Not a studio edition, you could tell Mike Bloomfield wasn’t there that night. Boot doesn’t do Top 40, and he thinks rap should be against the law. But he’s got the biggest collection of blues and doo–wop on the planet, so he pulls a wide crowd— anytime you visit his joint, you can find Army Surplus side–by–side with Armani.
    There’s no headphones— everything sounds like it was coming out of a radio speaker in the fifties.
    I hit the long shot. The Prof was there, standing on a milk crate, treating a half–dozen guys and one Swedish–looking girl in floor–to–ceiling black to one of his lectures, holding forth like he used to do on the prison yard. He acknowledged me with a quick, sharp movement of his head. I got the message— he was having fun, not working.
    “Hey Boot!” he yelled. “Here’s Schoolboy. You know what my man wants, right?”
    “I got a new one,” Boot said, looking out from under the green eyeshade he always wears. “Live. From Dupree’s, in San Diego. Not even a month old.”
    “How many cuts?” I asked him.
    “A full cylinder,” he said. “Six beauties. Clear like you was right there too.”
    “Boot,” the Prof put in, a teasing tone to his rich voice, “you get many calls for that Henske broad?”
    “Yeah, we get lotsa calls,” Boot said, jumping to my defense. “She got many fans, man, all over the world. They call her Magic Judy. That’s why it’s only a half for the tape.”
    “Half” was half a yard, fifty bucks. The usual tariff for one of Boot’s tapes was a hundred— you got a discount if the artist was popular enough to justify him running off a decent number of copies. I handed over the money, declining the offer to listen to it first. I knew Boot’s stuff was always perfect. Besides, I only listen to Judy when I’m alone— what we’ve got, it’s just between me and her.
    “Do you have a No Smoking section?” a guy in a denim shirt asked, frowning at the Prof lighting up.
    “Yeah,” Boot told him. “It’s right out front. Under the lamppost.”
     
     
    I stayed there a couple of hours, just listening. To the music and to the Prof getting it on with anyone who wanted to try him. Nice to be in a place where you could play the dozens without it ending up in blood.
    A young guy with a Jewish Afro and granny glasses got into it about who was the strongest bass in all doo–wop. “Herman?” the Prof mocked. “Man, Herman didn’t have no bottom. Herman’s bass was Mosley’s falsetto , chump!”
    The music took over. The Mystics blending on “You’re Driving Me Crazy,” Son Seals wailing his pain about the loss of his spot–labor job, the Coasters with Doc Pomus’ immortal “Young Blood,” a crew calling themselves the Magic Touch doing all a capella stuff from the fifties, a nice soft blend. Charley Musselwhite’s “Early in the Morning,” Ronnie Hawkins and the Nighthawks with “Mary Lou,” Koko B. Taylor, Marcia Ball, Elmore James, Janis, Big Mama…
    Boot didn’t just hold yesterday’s treasures, he carried tomorrow’s crop too. A back–country hard–edged band with a lead singer who knew all about pain pounded over the speakers. “That’s Paw,” a busty young woman in a white T–shirt with “DON’T! BUY! THAI!” blazed across the front in red letters said to me. “Mark Hennessy’s singing. Don’t you think he’s amazing? That’s where I got this shirt— at one of his