$5 in; $2.50 longnecks, $3 bowling pins. Friday night fish fry costs extra. Some Worm regulars push the limits of BYOB, bringing a single Colt 45 tall-boy.
The Worm has a special vibe that begins and ends with patriarch Wilroy Sanders. He turns 74 in 2007. As far we can tell, Sanders is the elder of Memphis juke joint blues musicians. The producers of a 1999 documentary film about Sanders enthusiastically called him and his film "The Last Real Living Bluesman."
The music is closer to traditional blues than what you'll hear in other black Memphis nightspots. The house band is the latest incarnation of the Fieldstones, who in various forms, have worked Memphis juke joints for decades. Sanders instructed lead guitar and rhythm guitar players James Bonner and Houston Ross, respectively. James' brother Hrold, another Sanders disciple, plays bass. The rhythm guitar is a rarity in Memphis jukes, and its presence, along with James Bonner's superb lead work distinguish these ‘Stones from other bands out there. The crowd here- when it gathers- includes folks of all ages. As in other joints, a guest vocalist might pop onstage for a number or two. Gene Machine (possibly a stage name) did a fairly disturbing monolog about walking the streets of his neighborhood, Orange Mound, and violently punishing all those who, naturally, mistook him for James Brown. We first heard this routine about 3 weeks after Brown's December 25, 2006 death, but pish posh. Anyhow, Mr. Machine then launched into "I Feel Good." No one mistakes him for the Godfather now. But Mr. Machine's next number, another Brown, "Please, Please, Please," was one of, if not the best performance of anything we've ever heard in a juke joint. Ross's clear and plaintive harmony and Machine's good growling make this sound more like Wilson Pickett with the Falcons than a washed-up knock off.
We weren't the only ones feeling a little inspired. Though Sanders had earlier declared that he wouldn't sing this night, he ambled to the stage and grabbed the mic. The guitarists usually bounce and sway through every tune. James grins broadly and works out his, um, guitar face. He'll jump out into the crowd and cavort with the audience. But when Sanders sings, the guitarists stand still, side by side, eyes closed, heads thrown back a little. The atmosphere intensifies around Sanders. His repertoire goes back to the Mississippi mud on his boots, to use a euphemism current in black Memphis.
The Worm can be as strong as a juke can be, and it can be about as uplifting as a funeral. Hopefully what we caught was a sign of what's coming together over there. The crowd and the music both outdid what we saw there six months ago. Hopefully they can keep the wolves away and continue the progress.