Johnny Dollar
CD 120.803
Johnny Dollar – My Baby loves me
Credits
Produced by Johnny Dollar (John L. Sibley),
Leo Davis & JoAnne Larson
Recorded by John Poston at ACME Recording, Chicago, Ill.
Edited by Gerhard Wessely
Liner notes by Davis Whiteis
Photos by JoAnne Larson
Cover design by Harald Ergott
Musicians
| Johnny Dollar | Guitar, Vocals, Background Vocals (5) |
| Herb Walker | Rhythm Guitar, Guitar/Synth. Solo (5) |
| Leo Davis | Keyboards & Piano |
| Johnny B. Gayden | Bass Guitar |
| Willie Hayes | Drums, Background Vocals (5) |
| Robert Fetzer | Guitar Solo (9 & 11) |
| Kevin “Bo” Holmon | Guitar Solo (1) |
| Darrell Creasy | Trombone (7 & 12) |
| Ozzy Stamford | Saxophone (7 & 12) |
| Steve Hawkins | Trumpet (7 & 12) |
| Vivian Williams | Background Vocals (5) |
Johnny Dollar
His pose is unmistakable, his very name evocative. Names like Stagger Lee, the Great MacDaddy, and Johnny Dollar have resonated throughout African-American folklore; they’re the names of outlaw tricksters, men clever and ruthless enough to forge their own way on their own terms through a hostile and dangerous world. Fierce and uncompromising in both combat and love, they will not be denied and cannot be tamed.
It’s unclear exactly when Mississippi-born John Sibley (or John Williams- in true trickster fashion, he’s adopted various aliases when the vicissitudes of life have required it) appropriated the name and persona of this venerable archetype; but no one who’s ever seen him in action – whether as a musician or as a man – can doubt the legitimacy of this claim.
He ambles onto the stage with a streetwise swagger, his lips curled into a knowing smirk. As he approaches the mike he tosses off a few intricate guitar patterns with arrogant ease, in a tone that’s sensual and insinuating one minute, razor edged and truculent the next. He sings in a silk-smooth voice tinged with grit; he purrs endearments to the ladies and growls out thinly veiled challenges to any man who might feel emboldened to intrude onto his turf. There can be no doubt: this is a Blues Man.
But not “just” a Blues Man. Yes, he cut his teeth on Chicago’s west side, playing guitar in Magic Sam’s rough-and-ready aggregation in the early 60s, but as a young man he also sang in a doo-wop group, and he had a keen ear for funk and sweet soul balladry. Fusing the roughshod blues he’d learned on the west side with the exploratory sophistication of R&B, pop and smooth jazz, he forged a style that could be equally at home in a backstreet gin mill and a well -appointed show lounge.
That meld of aggression and sensitivity – made sweeter by his vocals, which he patterned after the mellow-toned crooning of Lou Rawls-earned him immediate local recognition. By the 70s he was a south- and west-side celebrity; within a few years he was making a name on the burgeoning north side scene as well, and soon his reputation attained international proportions. In 1980 he cut his first LP My Soul Is Blue (Isabel) in France. He followed up in 1986 with JD’s Blues, on B.L.U.E.S. R&B. –
Since then, a combination of factors-the vagaries of the music business, the challenges of keeping a band together, his own admitted intractability (“I’m a time bomb, “- he told living Blues in 1996; “I don’t give a fuck. I like to be right down here on the street, …) – have consigned this gifted and charismatic artist to something approximating “backyard-diamond” status in Chicago. He remains a west-side mainstay but he seldom traveled any more; even his north side appearances have grown sporadic (although he does hold down a semi-regular gig at Lilly’s, on Lincoln Avenue).
This, Dollar’s first recording in over a decade , makes it clear that he’s lost none of his fire; his versatility or his commitment to honest and uncompromising blues expression. One hopes he’ll again be inspired and to rise to the challenge of maintaining a career as a working and travelling bluesman. In an era when a legion of poseurs and pretenders aspire to faux-blues immortality, a talent like Johnny Dollar’s is too precious to keep hidden under wraps, or submerged beneath the roar of Chicago’s west-side elevated train.
David Whiteis