I just learned a few hours ago that Koko Taylor, The Queen of the Blues, passed away today. A prototype of the contemporary female blues shouter, she had an illustrious career as a recording artist for both Chess and Alligator , which are at the top of the list of prolific and important blues record labels. When Koko started her career, she was a cleaning lady for rich white people, and by the time her career ended today, she had become a cultural icon, who was sought out for timely photo opportunities by, you guessed it, rich white people.

I am not going to pretend to have been a close friend of Koko, because I really wasn’t. I really resent the flurry of e-mails that profuse at moments like this, sent by perhaps well-intended fans who can’t wait to be the first one to e-mail the tragic news. It’s almost as if there’s this maudlin blues death watch. It may be intended as respectful, but it’s just plain creepy. In spite of that, Koko’s popularity and reputation are enhanced and illuminated by the intense interest in her passing. Tragic but simultaneously touching.

So at the expense of being perceived as a poseur I will say my piece. No, Koko and I weren’t close friends, but we knew each other. When I first started playing professionally back in 1974, I met Koko. I was a soaked-behind-the-ears kid, and she was an already established recording artist in her early forties. I was playing with Mighty Joe Young, who was a personal friend of Koko’s. Many a night we would play in town, usually at a North Side joint called the Wise Fools Pub (a bar which was among the first to regularly bring black blues artists to a mostly-white part of town). Koko would come in and Joe would call her up and we’d play Wang Dang Doodle and Koko would do her thing and the small but noisy crowd would erupt and there would be a standing ovation and suddenly we were in Carnegie Hall. I was impressed. Koko’s passing really hurts like many of the other deaths of blues players has not.

You see, I was “coming of age” as a player in the blues scene at that time back in 1974. Working for Joe Young and because of his friendship with Koko, I was afforded the opportunity to socialize with Koko and Pops (her husband at the time, until his passing). They were two people who treated me with kindness, attention, respect, and sincerity, all of the things a young new musician needs to flourish. I particularly recall a fabulous seafood gumbo dinner cooked by our bass player Cornelius’ wife Mildred. The food has never been equalled since, and the company included the Taylors. I will never forget that day. I even got the chance to drive to Koko’s house with Pops to pick up some whiskey for the party (it was Sunday and we were out of hooch). I was young, eager, full of the blues and delirious about my future in it. It was a time for me that was magical and can never be matched, only remembered. I view the death of Koko Taylor not only as a loss for the music which she championed. Her passing is also a personal loss in my life, again not because we were close, but because it is just another startling reminder of the accelerated passing of time. In addition, it recalls the passion and blissful ignorance of a young man  who was ecstatic about his newly found role in a music and culture which he found refreshing, exciting and comforting all at once.

I am not a religious man, as those of you who have visited this site before already know, but I know that Koko was religious. So, in respect and deference to whom she was, I will say this: God bless you Koko, and God rest your soul. Thanks for the music and the good times.