 October 2006 |
|
|||
|
|
Text by Larry Benicewicz
|
|||
I first wrote about Robert Lighthouse about fourteen years ago when I was the local blues beat reporter for the Maryland Musician magazine, now the Music Monthly. Back then, he was a relative unknown in the Baltimore-Washington blues community and in all honesty was scuffling as a performer. In an attempt to both establish himself and put bread on the table, he often had to resort to playing in the streets for tips. But even then I admired him for many reasons besides the fact of his never having had a day job (no mean feat and a distinction which he proudly claims to this day). Then not yet thirty, this lean and lanky, long haired native of Sweden played with a passion and emotional intensity rarely seen in these parts. |
||||
|
And it wasn’t surprising to me in that having traveled abroad quite a bit, I witnessed first-hand the fanaticism many Europeans have for the blues, this uniquely American genre of music that most of its citizens take for granted. On the continent of Europe, our blues giants are treated like royalty and their engagements are invariably sold out; whereas at home they struggle to find work.
Indeed, many like Sherman Robertson, Sidney “Guitar Crusher” Selby, and Louisiana Red (Iverson Minter), just to name a few, have chosen to make a clean break from the Land of the Free to seek greener pastures overseas and haven’t regretted such a gamble in the least. Other noted bluesmen, all now deceased, who had similarly pulled up stakes and made permanent residences on this foreign soil included Luther Allison, Champion Jack Dupree, and Memphis Slim (Peter Chatman); although to be fair, in the case of these latter two of blues’ older generation, rampant racism at home was a factor in their departures. |
||||
 |
|
|||
 Well, I’m happy to report that since that period, things have changed dramatically for Robert, who thankfully (since he’s the father of a nearly three-year-old son) now no longer has to risk life and limb by hustling on downtown sidewalks for spare change. And this escape from such a tenuous prior existence is due not only to perfecting his vocal and guitar technique but also to expanding his ambitions. Although he had flirted with playing in bands when first interviewed by me, he wasn’t totally committed to the idea. But today he is regularly a member of an ensemble and, indeed, is quite comfortable in this setting, often backing the displaced Big Easy blues diva, Marva Wright. Secondly, since our long ago tete-a-tete, he has appeared on two compilations and recorded at least one CD he can call his own (more about that later), and has just released a Scott Shuman-engineered DVD aired and recorded by Mhz Networks (an independent, non-commercial, television network based in Richmond, VA, which delivers international, educational, and arts programming) at its Falls Church, VA, facility. And a third project, another live album under the auspices of mentor and producer, Wayne Kahn, is in the offing. Moreover, he has shed his “obscure” label. His confidence in himself has grown as he has matured as a songwriter, vocalist, and player and people have stood up and taken notice of him. This year alone is noteworthy in this regard. In June he was featured (along with Wayne) in an article in Washington’s City Paper and was invited to be headliner in Baltimore’s ever burgeoning Federal Hill celebration. After having spent the month of August visiting his homeland, he was a part of three major blues events in September---the D.C. Blues Society’s Festival held at the Carter Barron Amphitheatre (wherein he played solo and with Wright), the annual Alonzo’s Memorial Picnic (sharing the slate with renowned harp man, Mark Hummel) sponsored by the Baltimore Blues Society on Labor Day Sunday, and the Harford Music Festival, held on September 17, in Havre de Grace, MD, which presented Marcia Ball (and Robert by himself and again with Marva). In fact, during this last month, no artist in the territory has enjoyed a higher profile than Robert. But for him, this nearly two-decade climb toward recognition has been particularly difficult. |
||||
 Robert Lighthouse was born Robert Palinic in Göteborg, Sweden, on December 16, 1963. Of Yugoslavian descent on his father’s side, his surname translates roughly into English as “burning house” or “house lit up.” Thus, after his arrival in the States, his pseudonym became Lighthouse, a most convenient and clever blues sobriquet. Göteborg, a city on the strait of Kattegat in the southwest of Sweden directly east of the tip of Denmark is populous and on the scale of Stockholm. However, it wasn’t the blues club scene of Göteborg that launched Robert’s career, but a friend’s blues collection. Ola Fridholm, an avid blues aficionado, introduced the fifteen-year-old Robert to the joys of the electric guitar and his personal heroes who played it, such as Muddy Waters, Johnny Winter, and Jimi Hendrix. Robert, at the time, worked in a music store and was even taking formal acoustic guitar lessons in school, which, until he met Ola, seemed a like a drudgery. Soon after this “revelation,” he bought an old guitar and began honing his skills in earnest. For a while he hung out and jammed with neighborhood chums with similar musical inclinations—“nothing serious or organized,” to use his expression. Since Göteborg was rather limited in outlets for his brand of blues, Robert on occasion would play on street corners for tips. |
||||
At eighteen, Robert went to boarding school with Ola in the central Swedish town of Orebro. Robert depicts this institution of learning as part high school, college, and vocational technology center. It had a campus with a music department of which Robert took full advantage, attending classes devoted to music theory and even taking up the saxophone. During the course of his education there, Robert also became fast friends with Poa Aslund, a kindred spirit who shared many of his musical sensibilities, including the jazz stylings of modernist Larry Coryell and the melodic extemporizations of the late, legendary, Belgian-born gypsy guitarist, Jean Baptiste “Django” Reinhardt, who distinguished himself particularly as part of the Quintet of the Hot Club of France commencing in 1934. Still finding club work to be problematical in Göteborg, Poa and Robert formed a duo that worked during the winter performing ragtime, jazz, and blues for youth clubs and hospitals. Often, they would spend their summers on the island of Gotland, an old medieval town which had become a tourist magnet. There they would cater to the musical whims of the well-heeled visitors and all the while made a decent living passing the hat. |
||||
 This local street playing phase lasted about four years and then from 1984 to 1987, Robert hitch-hiked his way around Europe, including prolonged stops in Italy and Germany, where he again tried his hand at eking out a living with this humble acoustic instrument. This author can attest to a veritable plethora of such itinerant, scruffy, hustlers who are very territorial, staking claim to the terraces of bistros or outdoor cafes, especially where the foreigners on holiday congregate. One such creative panhandler is American Henry Wig (b. Anne Marie Dryg), a self-styled Billie Holiday, who, accompanied by longtime guitarist, Peter Lavalle, can be spotted nearly every day plying her trade on the Rembrandtsplein in Amsterdam; another such musical mendicant overseas is American expatriate guitarist, Laramie Smith, who stealthily makes the rounds at all the fashionable brasseries (saloons) in the Montparnasse quarter of Paris; while yet another is a crowd favorite--the huge, bearded, one-legged “Mad Hungarian” of Budapest, Deak “Bill” Gyula, who can’t speak a word of English, but memorizes verbatim the lyrics of blues songs. Competition is fierce for one’s place on this often disputed turf and not for the faint of heart.  After one of his return visits to Sweden in 1987, Robert decided to emigrate to the United States, a move which he had long been contemplating, since venues, especially in his mother country were rapidly drying up. Of all European nations, Sweden has the strictest laws prohibiting drinking and driving, which put a damper on the club scene as a whole. And ironically while their sexual mores are the most liberal, Swedes, in general, whether they are blues lovers or not, are most conservative (and thus circumspect) in promoting show business, especially any type which fosters late-night carousing. After traveling extensively throughout America, Robert eventually landed in Montana, hardly a blues Mecca. But there he met his future bride who had roots in the Washington, D.C., area (where he still resides in the near suburb of Glen Echo). After relocation to the Nation’s Capital, Robert immediately began looking for an ideal vantage point to publicly display his solo routine and soon settled upon the well frequented Metro stop on Connecticut Ave. in the Dupont Circle neighborhood, which was also the favorite haunt of fabled harp master, Charlie Sayles, and his then bassist wife, Kerry. |
||||
|
|
Robert recalled crossing paths with him and his spouse occasionally. It should be noted that Washington had always had a grand tradition of gospel/blues street singing, a part of which included the steel National guitarist, Flora Molton, who camped out on the corner of 11th and F Streets, NW, the last niche of her forty year “career” of concerts outdoors before her death at 83 in 1990. Then there was the seemingly ubiquitous guitarist Warner Williams, quite the man about town in his youth, who now teams up with harmonica player, Jay Summerour, forming the popular duo, Little Bit a Blues. And in the early days of their career, the talented tandem of Piedmont guitar exemplar, John Cephas, and harmonica player, Phil Wiggins, were known from time to time to set up shop alongside some bustling downtown thoroughfare. |
|||
|
||||
 Jesse Fuller, Oakland, CA, 60s, photo ctsy. Chris Strachwitz of Arhoolie Records |
 Once ensconced stateside, Robert began broadening his blues repertoire and became influenced by the recordings of Delta legend, Robert Johnson, and Dr. Ross. Dr. Ross (1925-1993), born Charles Isaiah Ross in Tunica, MS, recorded some gems for Chess, Sun, and the Detroit-based Fortune label —“Cat Squirrel”— which was covered by Eric Clapton and Cream in the late 60s. Ross was a familiar figure in Flint and Detroit, MI, from the 50s to the 70s as a one-man band—bass drum, harmonica rack, and guitar. Whenever Robert elects to present himself solo, this is also his basic modus operandi (sometimes adding a high hat). As a matter of fact, whether deliberately intended or not, his drum’s artless logo resembles that of both Dr. Ross and James Peck Curtis when they both played for the King Biscuit Time radio show over station KFFA in Helena, AR, in 1950. Another bluesman, the great Jesse Fuller, to whom Robert may owe a debt of gratitude, was also such a solitary performer and employed a similar but more complex rig called the “fotdella,” which also could supply a “bottom” or rudimentary bass to the mix. Fuller, nicknamed the “Lone Cat,” for decades could be heard on the streets of San Francisco (also Oakland) until he died in 1976. Does anyone remember Fuller’s immortal kazoo solo on “San Francisco Bay Blues,” yet another number appropriated by Clapton on his 1992 Unplugged venture? But Robert may have heard of the exploits of this true blues eccentric from residents on Market St., where he sojourned and performed for six months in 1989, after which he returned to Washington. By the late 80s, he was getting his act together, both literally and figuratively. Now he’d have to make a name for himself. Larry Benicewicz, Baltimore Blues Society |
|||
| Next issue: Part II: A LITTLE RESPECT | ||||
|
||||
But not only was I impressed with the zeal with which Robert tackled the material but also in what he selected to play. At his age, he could very well have been a Stevie Ray Vaughan clone whose untimely death not long before (1990) was still fresh in the minds of aspiring young bluesmen of this vintage. Instead, he proved well conversant with old school blues, that of Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, and the play lists of all the one man band wonders of yore, like Dr. Ross, Jimmy Reed, and Jesse Fuller. This latter group he probably emulated almost as much out of the necessity to be self-contained, as gigs then, as well as those of today, didn’t pay well and splitting the typically meager evening’s earnings with other sidemen was out of the question.
