Wild Bill's: Way off Beale but Right On for Music

" After a couple more quarts and the irresistible cheeseburger, Jim and I were feeling just fine, and we had plenty of company. It was later than we realized, about two in the morning. The band was showing no signs of slowing down, but we were. Reluctantly "

By Ross Gohlke

It must be an unspoken rule that Memphis blues joints off Beale Street have to be tucked inconspicuously away from the beaten path. On a recent Friday night when my friend Jim Cole and I went hunting for Wild Bill's, the only real clue that we were at the right strip mall was a full parking lot.

It didn't seem like the kind of street corner where I wanted to leave my car, but we followed the lead of all the others and ventured inside. From the moment we entered till it was time to drive home, we weren't disappointed.

Wild Bill's is nestled right in the middle of a mostly black neighborhood off Jackson, at the corner of Vollintine and Avalon. It's a restaurant during the day, and judging by the menu (and the cheeseburger I couldn't keep myself from ordering) they serve up hearty soul food three meals a day. A hand-scrawled sign behind the bar advertises "Boiled Eggs 35¢ Each." They also serve barbecue rib tips, baloney and cheese sandwiches, and quarts of Budweiser in case you get thirsty.

But on the weekends Wild Bill, the patriarch and proprietor of the place, opens his doors at night and has a party. The music is provided by The Hollywood All-Stars on Fridays and Sundays, and by the Memphis James Band on Saturdays. On this particular Friday night, as I imagine it happens most Friday nights, there were plenty of guest artists sitting in with the Hollywood All-Stars, mostly singers. One of them was Big Lucky Carter.

Walking inside I couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious. The space was much smaller than I expected, set up more like the diner it is during the day than a juke joint. The band was playing in the front corner. Of the 15 or so tables in the room, not a one of them was empty. And after settling into some stools at the counter an imposing man with graying hair (we later learned from one of his daughters who was working behind the bar that it was Wild Bill himself) collected a $5 cover charge from each of us.

As the only white folks in the joint we didn't mind paying it. Then he served us a quart of beer with two glasses, and I started listening to the music. My discomfort was laid to rest for good. About half an hour into the set, a woman sitting next to me at the bar leaned over and asked me if we were European. How tourists find out about it is beyond me. But it's obvious that they look harder than most Memphians.

Between the atmosphere, the crowd and the music, I felt like I was in a time warp, circa 1982. The band was playing a mix of blues and soul standards. When they would start into a particularly grooving song, the otherwise low-key crowd piled into the little space in front of the door that served as the dance floor. One of the highlights of the night was listening to Big Lucky Carter play the guitar. With a style all his own, he played the blues with an edge that a hip young reporter from New York might call punk rock.

Never exactly following the band's rhythm, Carter created an offbeat cadence that clashed and coincided with the band's groove at all the right times. When the band finally took a break, Carter wandered around greeting all his old friends before he made his way to the bar to do a little self-promotion with the newcomers. He told us about his recent tour in Europe and how hard it was to find musicians over there he could play with. We got the impression that he sits in with the Hollywood All-Stars regularly, reason enough to visit Wild Bill's some weekend.

That's not to say the Hollywood All-Stars can't command a room on their own. Listening to them play it was hard not to think in terms of "authentic music." These guys sound like they've been playing together for a long time. They can jam, they can rock, they can smooth things out for you. When one guest singer took the microphone, a bespectacled woman whose golden voice begged a key change, the band obliged with an imperceptible transition, as if they'd always played the song in that key.

After a couple more quarts and the irresistible cheeseburger, Jim and I were feeling just fine, and we had plenty of company. It was later than we realized, about two in the morning. The band was showing no signs of slowing down, but we were. Reluctantly we walked out, still trying to look inconspicuous. My car was right where I'd left it. As I unlocked the passenger door I thought, what a shame it would have been to park my car on Beale Street tonight instead.