There’s Still No Messin’ With the Kid

Everybody’s crazy ‘bout a sharp-dressed man, right? Well, almost everybody.

Junior Wells, who played the Coach House on Wednesday night, is one of the unlucky bluesmen of his generation who hasn’t yet been given his due, even though his sound has been assimilated by two subsequent generations of blues musicians and even though he remains the baddest-lookin’ cat to ever jam on the standard three-chord blues progression I-IV-V.

Playing to a predictably small turnout (O.C. not exactly being Blues Fan Central), Wells strutted regally to the stage--resplendent in a white cowboy hat with a black ‘do-rag peeking out underneath, a tightly pressed red suit over a plaid shirt set off by a golden chain and two-tone patent leather shoes that shone hot as 1,000-watt spotlights.

At 62, he looks bony and frail, but few cut so impressive a figure at any age. His presence remains remarkably sharklike, as if he were some ice-cool ghetto character from a surrealist urban art-house flick.

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Ripping through a set highlighted by his signature tunes “Messin’ With the Kid” and “Hoodoo Man Blues” as well as such standards as “Little Red Rooster,” “What’d I Say?” and “Got My Mojo Working,” Wells was in top form--mugging, trembling, dancing and strutting about the stage like a demented peacock, his trademark grin/sneer etched across his face, eyes shut tightly.

The funk influence of James Brown was apparent as always in Wells’ music. The band--guitarists Steve Borie and Andy Wahloff, bassist Herman Mason, drummer Vernal Taylor, trombonist Joe Burton, trumpeter Mike Barber, keyboard player Brian Berkowitz and exceptional tenor man Douglas Fagan--cooked and bubbled like a pot of grits with double doses of bacon fat and cayenne.

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The harp mastery of Wells’ heyday apparently is behind him. He used the harmonica for instrumental punctuation (and bizarre, comical noisemaking) more than for the inspired soloing that is a large part of his legacy.

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But that voice remains nothing short of revelatory. Growling like a furious hellcat, screaming like a greased-up JB in his prime, hitting falsetto whoops like a rapturous Little Richard, Wells was a dynamic, crackling bolt of energy--particularly as he closed the show by swaggering through the surprised and delighted audience, flashing his vocal chops, shaking eager hands and maneuvering some slick footwork.

Wells’ former partner, Buddy Guy, has reaped the benefits of what a strong publicity machine can do for a journeyman’s career, and it is past time that Wells receives similar attention. While Guy wins Grammys and adorns the covers of the music trade papers, while John Lee Hooker has become such a familiar figure that he actually is doing television commercials, while B.B. King is an acknowledged national treasure and a fixture on late-night talk shows, Wells continues to record for the obscure Tel-Arc label and to play to half-full nightclubs, even as he puts on a show to shame them all.

It must be enough to give a fella the blues.