I wanted to share with you all this beautiful interview of my brother Wayne Baker Brooks!


Featured Blues Interview – Wayne Baker Brooks

“Dad would always tell me and Ronnie, ‘Whenever you write, make sure it’s not cover songs or (even) like a cover song. Do your own. Don’t do what others are doing.’”

Wayne Baker Brooks is the youngest male in a family of nine children born to the late Lonnie Brooks who passed away on April 1st. Dad burst on the scene in the late 1950s as Guitar Junior and brought the secret sauce of edgy blues and rock mastered in Louisiana and Texas to Chicago where he recorded a series of albums for Alligator, 1979’s Bayou Lightning being son Wayne’s favorite. Wayne’s brother Ronnie Baker Brooks (interviewed earlier this year in Blues Blast) has recently released a well-received blues CD Times Have Changed, featuring a wide variety of influence including hip hop. This first family of Chicago blues has played both together and later as separate headliners since 1976 when Wayne was six years old and brother Ronnie was nine.

“There was a time period when I was like six years old where my dad would have Ronnie and I help him write songs. He would have me on boxes and pots and pans. He would show Ronnie the bass line of what he wanted for the song, and he would sit there and come up with these grooves, man. Every now and then Ronnie and I would chime in with words like, ‘Say this. Daddy!’ And he’d say, ‘Yeah, that works,’ or ‘Nah, nah.’

“He was coming up with songs and demos that he would present to whatever record label. Most of the stuff we helped him with ended up on Alligator Records like Bayou Lightning. There’s probably four of five songs on that album that Ronnie and I helped him with for demos that he presented to Alligator. He would literally write the songs right there, man. When I look back in retrospect, man, that was my first songwriting class.

“Any time I was writing music, I always think of my dad saying, ‘Make a difference, do something different.’ And I always look at how those who are different will have a hard time breaking into the mainstream because people are used to what they like. They like what they like, and they’re used to it, (but) history shows that those who are different that do break through are the ones who last the longest and will stick around and be a household name and will be around forever in people’s hearts.

“So, my dad throughout his whole career did have a team of people always working behind him, him and his music. He had hits earlier on his career, but he never really hit that mainstream later in his career. And I think it’s because of his differentiality, him being different from others and that’s where the edge comes from. He was doing things Muddy wasn’t doing, Howlin’ Wolf wasn’t doing, Buddy, Junior. He was bringing in his own flavor of all of his experiences and where he lived.”

Wayne honed his style performing more than 150 shows a year with his dad and his brother. In 1998 he co-authored the book Blues for Dummies along with his dad, rocker Cub Coda, and The Blues Brothers’ Dan Akroyd.

“(Ronnie and I) are an extension of my dad’s legacy. My dad’s grandfather is the roots of the tree, and my dad is the tree, and we’re the branches. My dad set us up to take it further than what he did, and he took it further than what (his grandfather) did and he set it up for us to do that. He made it fun for us to want to do it. So, he did it in the most fun way. We had no clue what he was trying to do with his plan until we got older. His original plan was to have me on drums and Ronnie on bass and go out as a trio.

“Ronnie and I are the only two that plays blues music. Well, I take that back. I have an older sister that is a working minister that only sang gospel music and probably wouldn’t think about doing blues music. She thinks it’s the devil’s music. I think there’s a lot of stuff that’s being talked about in blues that she would never talk about like alcohol and champagne and reefer and the devil’s my friend and that stuff. She won’t embrace nothing like that. You know?

“My dad would let me use some of his guitars, but he’s never given me – no, he gave me an acoustic guitar. Ronnie has never given me a guitar. No, it’s more like real family stuff when we were young. Hand me down socks and hand me down jeans, and hand me down shirts. When I say hand me down, I mean really hand me down. Nothing in music I would say or dealing in music ’cause instruments and stuff was always around. It’s like it was ours anyway.

“So, we would pick it up, and sometimes Dad would say put it down. He would limit and make you want it and stuff. Completely opposite to Joe Jackson and his sons in the Jackson Five. Dad made it fun, and he made you want to do it enough to where he could limit it and use it to his advantage like, ‘When you get done with your school work, then you come over here and help me out with this,’ or ‘go clean your room and then you come in here.’ He made it so much fun as far as music. So, I wouldn’t say musically speaking, no hand me downs.”

An important ingredient in Lonnie’s lessons for Ronnie and Wayne was an all-inclusive eclecticism that folded in regional influences that go back at least four generations. Chicago was just the latest stop. Wayne remembers being open minded about genres of music when he was a deejay on the school intercom. “The last 15 minutes of school, they’d let me play records, and every time it would always be a Lonnie Brooks song, and then I would play Sugar Hill Gang ’cause that was like new, fresh, so I was giving them blues and hip hop at that young age.”

Part of that eclecticism was driven by the practical needs of being a fulltime musician. “There was a time period when they would call my dad the human jukebox because he had to play what was on the jukebox in order to appeal to his fans, but it was something that was unfulfilling for him. He always was into writing his own stuff, and the different flavors that he brought from Louisiana and moving to Texas and breaking that Texas rock back in the days and his Louisiana swamp feel and matching the Chicago blues sound and being way different was way before his time.

“And I think when you’re different, it’s harder for you to break into mainstream. So even with the song “Two-Headed Man” if you listen to the original recording on the Living Blues Vol. 2 on Alligator Records, that track was being performed like 15 minutes before they actually started recording because my dad was trying to get the band to find the groove of what he was thinking, and no one in Chicago knew what the heck he was trying to do. So, he just played it and had them play along with him until he felt like, ‘Ok, this is it. This is what I was envisioning now recording.’

“So, him being different was not instantly accepted even with the recording of the music, but he always would tell me and Ronnie, ‘Whenever you write, make sure it’s not cover songs or like a cover song, or do your own. Do what you’ve done or what you were thinking. Don’t do what others are doing and just because you see people cheering for that person ’cause they’re playing that certain song that everyone knows, they’re really not cheering or admiring your work. They’re admiring your work for some someone else’s work.”

“Real” blues is in the ear of the listener. Wayne whose worked with artists as disparate as Buddy Guy, Otis Rush, Jonny Lang and George Thorogood remembers a lesson learned from Junior Wells about singing and playing “Messin’ with The Kid.” “(Junior said) ‘How’d you learn how to play that?’ I said, ‘Man, listening to the record how Buddy played it.’ He said, ‘No, you’re doing that shit wrong.’ He played it the exact same way, and he said, ‘Now, you play it.’ And I played it, and then he said, ‘Now, you got it.’ It was the same thing.”

The Brooks family and the Luther Allison family have been tight since son Bernard Allison, Ronnie, and Wayne were all kids. “I remember as far as eight or nine years old, going over to (father) Luther’s house and Bernard and Ronnie attempting to start a band and Luther at various Chicago shows with Dad. Then, I didn’t see Luther for a while. I guess that’s when he moved to Europe, but I kept in contact with Bernard. I’d see Bernard every now and then when I was like 16, 17 years old, and then once I got out on the road at 18 I started seeing them off especially in Canada, France. We’d go over there, and I would stay there for a week and stay at his house for a week. Bernard and Luther are like family. They’re like extended family. Like he’s like a kid brother, Bernard.

When Luther passed away in 1997, Bernard covered his father’s gigs in Europe instead of going to his dad’s funeral. Bernard talked to me about this painful decision in 2007. “There was a few family members that didn’t understand, but at the same time I was doing what my dad wanted me to do and what I had previously talked to my parents at a young age about. So, when my dad was sick and in the hospital, I talked to him on the phone. He said, ‘I’m in the hospital. I need to be here and let the doctors do what they need to do. All ask you to do is could you finish these gigs for me?’ He wasn’t into cancelling shows, but in the back of my mind I knew I couldn’t be there. It would affect me too much. And he wanted me to continue what I’m doing. So, that’s what I did. He’s with me every day. I sing a song for him every night, and he’s smiling down.”