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" God put the wisdom in me. I just take four keys and go all over the piano. "
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By Heather Gates
Mose Vinson shuffles toward the doors of the Center for Southern Folklore but stops short to rest on a stool. Across the street, in Handy Park, music screams loudly from a van. One of the Center's employees stands near Vinson's post and tries to draw visitors in, shouting to no one in particular to check out the evening's fantastic lineup. It's Friday night and, as always in mid-August, it's hot and humid. The crowd is growing especially large on Beale Street tonight because it's the night before the 20th anniversary of Elvis' death. But Vinson doesn't pay any attention to all the hoopla. "Hey Mose, how ya' doin'," one man suddenly shouts from the street. The middle-aged man, who traveled with his wife from Okeechobee, Fla., looks as though he got to Memphis on no more than a wing and a prayer. He's a bit scruffy, but his eyes brighten when he sees Vinson. "Hey, do you mind taking a picture with my wife?" the Okeechobian asks Vinson. Vinson utters something inaudible and barely lifts his head before the wife has her arm around Vinson's shoulder and the picture is snapped. "We just love you Mose. Keep up the good work," the couple shouts behind their back as they head out onto the street again, probably to drink more pink concoctions in long glass tubes and listen to music spilling from the clubs. Again, Vinson pays no attention. After all, in his 80 years he's heard plenty of accolades and has spent plenty of time on Beale. In some ways, Vinson has become a misplaced music legend in Memphis, but he clearly reigns as king of the "boogie woogie" blues, a unique combination of jazz, blues and the big band sound that became his calling card long ago. He's gone unheard through the years, except for live performances. Other than one German CD in which Vinson performs with Bukka White, and an assortment of minor roles on other musicians' releases, including on the Bear Family's Sun Blues boxed set and on James Cotton's Cotton Crop Blues, Vinson's never had his own time in the sun. But thanks to his first CD, released in August, Vinson's signature brand of blues finally will get some play. It was produced for the Center by Judy Peiser, the Center's director, Jim Dickinson and Knox Phillips. Mose Vinson: Piano Man is pure Vinson - raw, full of soul and always entertaining. Interspersed between cuts, Peiser and others interview Vinson. Usually Vinson's responses are muddled and confusing, but somehow you instinctively know what Vinson's trying to say. It was a difficult project to complete because Vinson was in bad health and hospitalized for a short time. But it had to be done, Peiser says. "It was a labor of love." "My feet are sore," Vinson says as he reaches for Peiser's crooked arm to leave his perch outside the Center's doors. As a routine, Peiser picks up Vinson from the Wesleyan Towers, a retirement home on Highland, near Central Avenue, a few hours before he goes on the Center's stage. Vinson has always relied on others for taxi services because he's never gotten his driver's license. Vinson and Peiser make their way to the nearest set of chairs. The crowd watches, wondering how this man, who's hunched over, barely able to lift his feet, and without one eye, will be able to play. First the employees say hello and give him a loving pat on the back; then the visitors join in. "He calls like 500 times a day (when he performs)," one employee says about their beloved Mose. "He'll call at 12:30 and say he doesn't feel like coming or he'll tell us to have Judy pick him up. We tell him that she won't pick him up until 5:30, that's five more hours. We'll get it straightened out and then he'll call back five minutes later." Vinson was born in 1917 in the Holly Springs, Miss., area. In the early '20s, Vinson, his parents and his siblings moved to Memphis because "they all got tired of the country," Vinson says. The youngster attended "country school" until the third grade. His daddy gambled, shooting dice mostly. As a young boy, Vinson learned to play the piano on his own. "God put the wisdom in me. I just take four keys and go all over the piano," he says as he wiggles his disjointed fingers over an imaginary piano. "The left hand backs me up." Vinson says he can read music but can't play what he reads. He will tell you, without hesitation, he plays the good stuff, the kind of music that makes you shout. "They ain't playin' no good stuff now, it's nothin' but a whole lot of noise," Vinson says about most of today's blues musicians. As for Elvis Presley, who still attracts thousands of fans even 20 years after his death, especially on this Friday night before the tragic anniversary, he's simply "all right," according to Vinson. "He was good but he was a clown with all that hip-shakin'." Vinson has been sitting in the audience, patiently waiting for his turn to perform. He goes on at 8 p.m., after Keith Brown, an acoustic blues guitarist who recently won the Beale Street Blues Society's Talent Competition. Vinson is listening, enjoying the young talent on stage. An East Coast-based poet takes over after Brown goes on break to dispense her passions and heartbreaks about Elvis to an curious yet humored audience. Vinson sits quietly, wondering what she's talking about. One teen-age visitor stares at Vinson as he walks by, unimpressed by the poet, but intrigued by the old bluesman. After a few moments, the boy returns with a copy of Vinson's CD. "Will you sign this?" the teen-ager asks. Vinson takes the pen and slowly writes his name in cursive. Then a couple approaches and asks Vinson to sign their copy of his CD. Clearly, Vinson likes the attention and appreciates his spontaneous fan club. Just then, Vinson sees a young girl sitting behind him with her parents. She's about 7 or 8, with white blonde hair and blue eyes. Her name is Claire. "See that baby there? I can make her play," Vinson says. "Mose loves little kids," Peiser interjects. Suddenly, Vinson stands and summons Claire to the stage with him. He ignores Brown, who has returned to the stage and seems puzzled by Vinson's impromptu performance. Vinson brings Claire near him and the piano, takes her tiny index finger and begins belting out a tune. The piano literally starts shaking as Vinson and his new student play. After one song, Peiser suggests that he take a break and let Brown return to his set. Although Claire doesn't say a word the entire time, her face reveals the experience was worth a thousand words. "I got that baby goin'," Vinson says when he returns to his seat. "Did she play that piano good or what?" Claire returns after awhile with Vinson's CD she bought with her parent's money. He signs it, again slowly and in cursive. She says thank you and then leaves after throwing a hefty tip in the tip bucket. Who knows if Claire will ever return to Beale Street. Surely, however, she has taken some of it with her. Nowadays, Vinson tires easily. His health hasn't been good. He says he spends his days alone, mostly catching up on his rest and cooking soup or greens. His wife, Beulah Mae, whom he separated from years ago, died some time ago, and he has no children, nieces or nephews. But he has his family at the Center. They threw him an 80th birthday party last month and watch over him every day either by phone or in person. And if you ask him how his strangely misshapen hands feel - his prized possessions - Vinson looks straight at you, wide-eyed, then wiggles his fingers in the air. "They're just fine," he says. "And they're still goin' strong."
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