MOVIE REVIEW : A RESURRECTED MOJO MAN IN ‘LOUIE BLUIE’

Howard Armstrong is such a marvelous creation that it’s hard to believe he’s a mere mortal. Full of impish braggadocio--even at 76 he walks with a strut--he’s like a colorful character culled from a raunchy Willie Dixon blues song.

“Louie Bluie” (at the Nuart through Friday) captures this venerable black string musician in all his ribald splendor. Born in rural Tennessee, Armstrong is a startling cultural treasure chest. He’s as at home re-creating the black “hillbilly” string music of a long-gone era as he is spinning funky yarns and showing off his X-rated drawings in a fat volume he calls “The ABC’s of Pornography.”

It’s no wonder that most filmgoers (or even pop fans) haven’t heard of Armstrong. Black string bands were popular all over the South in the ‘20s, livening up fish fries, medicine shows and the occasional white debutante ball with their syncopated jug-band music. But the South’s rigid color lines barred groups like Armstrong’s Tennessee Chocolate Drops from competing in fiddle and string-band contests (and for the most part from entering the recording studio--black musicians were forced to make blues or gospel records).

For years Armstrong languished in obscurity. Then, four decades after he first hit the chitlins circuit, Armstrong, accompanied by old-crony guitarist Ted Bogan, resurfaced in Chicago, winning popularity with a new generation of folk music followers. Showing a keen eye for detail, “Louie Bluie” director Terry Zwigoff lets us eavesdrop on a host of impromptu Armstrong and Bogan jam sessions (often accompanied by “Banjo” Ikey Robinson). The music is a treat, but the real show is Armstrong, whose fiddle style fits his personality--sly, exuberant and full of bravura twists and turns.

Outfitted in a burgundy beret and examples from what must be a closetful of loud suits, Armstrong is a flamboyant raconteur, given to such delicious self-mythology that his reminiscences have the sultry air of after-hours tall tales.

Regaling a young girl with a story of how he foraged for tools as a poor young artist, he gleefully explained, “To get my brushes I pulled hairs out of cats’ tails. . . . There wasn’t a cat in the whole neighborhood that liked me.”

If Armstrong harbors any bitterness about missed opportunities, he doesn’t reveal it here. He seems to have thrived as a resourceful outsider, with a hustler’s love for long odds and a performer’s zeal for every musical challenge. (As if to emphasize the wiles that allowed them to survive in Chicago’s ethnic melting pot, Bogan and Armstrong effortlessly perform beer-hall ballads, crooning in pidgin German.)

The documentary team shrewdly keeps a low profile, letting us enjoy Armstrong’s rambles through Chicago’s South Side and his trip back home to Tennessee. After performing in Maxwell Street’s open-air blues arena, Armstrong visits a street vendor, delightedly examining a vile of milky liquid labeled Pimp Oil. The encounter sparks a joyous anecdote about the old medicine show preachers. As Armstrong notes admiringly, they could sell anything--”the bottle was usually worth more than what was in it!” Coming from this foxy old mojo man, whose swaggering spirit reverberates through this entire film, that’s high praise indeed.

‘LOUIE BLUIE’

A Superior Pictures presentation. Producer Terry Zwigoff. Director Zwigoff. Camera John Knoop, Chris Li. Editor Victoria Lewis. With Howard Armstrong, Ted Bogan, James (Yank) Rachell, Banjo Ikey Robinson, Tom Armstrong.

Running time: 1 hour, 2 minutes.

Times Rated: Mature (some off-color language and material may be inappropriate for children).