Playwright: Jackie Taylor. At: Black Ensemble Theater, 4450 N. Clark St. Tickets: 773-769-4451; www.blackensemble.org; $55-$65. Runs through: Aug. 11
Howlin' Wolf has always defied "living-the-blues" stereotypes: The man born Chester Arthur Burnett didn't smoke, drink or do drugs. He married only once and remained faithful until he died to the wife he adored. He managed his career wisely, negotiating for royalties in his recording contracts rather than one-time fees, and conducted his business in accordance with legal protocol—even regarding withholding social security and health insurance on his band's paychecks. He wasn't a gymnast like Jackie Wilson or a crooner like Smokey Robinson, but affected a fighting-rooster stance and a vocal delivery as dangerously fascinating as that of the beast inspiring his sobriquet. From such contradictions spring compositions now considered classics of his musical genre.
Romantic myth dictates that artists spend their lives fleeing in vain from their demons. Behind his swagger—and at six-feet-six and 300 pounds, Howlin' Wolf onstage could be a terrifying presence—might have been the painful scars of a childhood marred by cruelty and deprivation, but what distinguished Burnett from his self-destructive compatriots was his faith in the promise of relief from past suffering. This is the premise for Jackie Taylor's script, facilitating the return of Rick Stone, playing the role he created in 2003.
The show's title, after all, is "In the Memory of Howlin' Wolf"—a distinction affirming our location as the Great Hereafter, in a club on Heaven's south side, where we share in the reminiscences of the songwriter/performer who died in 1976. His recollections are mostly pleasant ones—but truth demands antagonists, here personified by protege guitarist Hubert Sumlin and legendary rival Muddy Waters serving as devil's advocates, flanked by a bandstand chorus participating in the action with Sophoclean congeniality.
The necessity of placing Robert Reddrick's combo down on the checkerboard-tile floor to craft their endless variations on the three-chord 12-bar progressions at the foundation of Da Blues soon becomes apparent. Like with most Black Ensemble biodramas, music dominates the evening. Stone's replication of Wolf's midnight prowl and gravel-throated bark (with a few sweet high notes creeping in, nevertheless) is flawless, but he can't do two hours all by himself, mandating full-cast dances and solo turns by other luminaries of the era—Big Mama Thornton, Bobby Bland and Muddy himself. "As long as they remember you," our host reminds us, "You can live forever." Amen and "Aaah-oooo-wooo!" to that.
