His weight in his best years was pure 300 pounds (in our opinion, say, 135 kilograms true).
And six feet two inches tall (no less than 194 cm).
He was light and weightless on the stage - like a fluff caught by the light of the midday sun.
The heat he exuded seemed incredible.
Words were cut rather than a chef's knife.
And the thoughts hidden between those words - and even more true.
More often than not, he sang.
Simple songs.
Kind of a bit too fast blues at times.
And so, to be honest, it was not cut by anything, only from the furnace, from the fiery crucible rock and roll came out - take care of your fingers, do not grab it with your hands.
And he danced endlessly.
With the right hand, sort of ... what?
Wiping the screen of a portable but not yet invented laptop?
Or the windshield of a luxury Caddy?
A man with such an appearance (the group did not lag behind on stage either) could easily destroy the quotes of world stock exchanges, manage an intergalactic crime syndicate and broadcast the most popular children's program with songs and dances on the radio and on TV.
Big Joe Turner.
Smiling bully.
Intelligent punches.
Black as night.
Secretive as the sky.
And was he really?
Joseph Vernon Turner Jr. was born on May 18, 1911 in wondrous Kansas City, sung by all the rock minstrels (and why?) local people take for granted).
His father, rumored to be an excellent cook, died in a train accident when Joe was only four.
Mom had no choice - in those days life was not one to two sugar and molasses - and she went to work as a laundress.
The grandmother who lived next door helped to raise the future star and his older sister.
Obviously, they were poor.
Maybe poorer than church rats, but they don't know how to sing, but baby Joe has been wailing in the church choir since childhood (sometimes too loudly), adored gospel music, singing them from night to morning, imitating his beloved uncle Charlie Fisher, and two other uncles on the go and from the summer adopting the skill of playing the banjo, guitar and violin.
What were the times then?
Well, Elvis was not in the plans!
Well, perhaps only in the divine.
However, like other future titans of rock and roll.
What time was it?
Segregation.
Burnout of easy and fast money of the golden devil.
A premonition of terrible troubles and monstrous circumstances.
In the summer of 1921, Mamie Smith herself, the first dark-skinned diva to record a gramophone record, came to Kansas City with concerts - Crazy Blues, the sweetest sugary and aching cheekbones.
Smoldering, like a coal in the night, a hot thing.
Joe Turner bought the record - he had any money that fell from uncles in his pockets.
He also loved Bessie Smith and Ethel Waters - both of them good.
You see what a craving for female high vocals!
To the real voices of the era!
The man loved women, he understood a lot about beauty.
Since childhood.
At 12, he jumped out the window, fleeing the fire, and broke his legs.
What kind of dances are there?
But did he have faith in his heart?
And he sang gospel songs so that the dead would rise to matins.
Climbed out.
Won.
Therefore, however, he danced all his life - did not dance.
But with what savage grace, with what primitive grace of a hungry lion!
The devil knows what it was.
The legs passed, although they ached in bad weather and raw materials.
And another disease stuck in the liver firmly - a passion for the city blues.
Where everything is confused: the cries of newspaper peddlers, the groans of those doomed to the hopeless strap, the well-fed exclamations of those who have picked a fat jackpot, dirt and luxury, the stench and scent of a big city - whatever its name.
Joe Turner, I think, is why he became the first of the blues-shooters - "screamers" who turn on the already excited audience by constant roll call with the orchestra and the audience.
Fire, not man.
On the street (in many ways) he was at 14. In his father's hat and painted mustache, he looked not exactly imposing, but drive and temper did not take away - he could sing blues lamentations verses continuously, for three hours in a row.
Not alone - in tandem with some blind gentleman from the blues world named Johnny Creech.
Together they roamed the streets of Kansas City, and Joe always had a donation mug - it's easier for a sighted person not to be fooled (you remember the official nickname of Missouri).
“The range of his knowledge was enormous,” however, unlike Vasily's cat of the Strugatsky brothers, Turner remembered all the blues (and, as eyewitnesses assure, all the gospel songs) by heart.
And in addition, he composed himself.
Were there not many such nuggets, contriving to squeeze out of the urban poor, like water from dry cottage cheese, 50 cents a day?
Turner went to work as a bartender.
To be sure, in a couple of places at once - in Kingfish Club and Sunset.
It was here that he received the nickname Singing Barman: as soon as the audience was packed, Joe threw glasses and glasses, rushing to the microphone.
His voice was loved.
He was accompanied by the future boogie titan Pete Johnson, who had an amazing ability to lead a furious rhythm, "covering with the keys" the singer's voice.
Prohibition reigned everywhere.
Whiskey poured like a river of fire, turning into water at the first appearance of the cops.
People yearned for happiness, albeit at a high price.
Fast blues, too fast blues with rough and jagged words, only raised the degree of action.
Nothing.
It was possible to live.
Blessed times.
It was only in 1938 that Joe and Pete were lucky enough - John Hammond, the great discoverer of the stars of the first magnitude, noticed them and invited them to perform at one of his From Spirituals to Swing concerts in the fashionable and famous Carnegie Hall.
And it started, rolled.
True, not right away.
Joe Turner didn't fit well into the box.
It took several years to sweat.
He happened to be on the same stage with Benny Goodman, Billie Holiday and even with Duke Ellington.
He has recorded with Art Tatum and Count Basie.
Note again: he was always accompanied by good, no, very good keyboards.
In 1951, a fruitful contract with Atlantic Records was signed, Joe recorded powerful blues standards (who only remember about them now!) - Chains Of Love and Sweet Sixteen.
And then he took another small step, very important for all progressive humanity - and became a rock star.
Singing and speaking back in 1954 (quite in Aesopian language) Shake, Rattle and Roll (written by Jesse Stone).
The same one - Bill Haley and Elvis Presley.
But only the first one.
And another one.
And the building of the American stage establishment with varnished hairstyles and ironed trousers, tenaciously grasping the motionless microphone, smudged in time and space, cracked.
It scattered, crawled like snakes in all directions of the world, coffin the foundation, crumbling the walls ...
Who contemplated the picture of destruction?
Yes, these are the very future kings who have already tore the strings in the South, forgetting how it is - picking boogers in the nose.
They were 17-18.
They had tried a lot of things by 1954.
A lot and fast.
Flames blazed in their chests, a smoky ambulance went straight to Memphis in their heads, and Big Joe Turner turned 43, he was heavy, mobile, immense and fast.
And the lyrics of Shake, Rattle and Roll were more than dubious.
All these dresses shining in the sun, devils in nylon stockings and one-eyed cats looking lustfully at the entrance to the fish store - all this was too much so that Joe himself, while recording the hit, some phrases “chewed and swallowed”.
The world is hiding.
Since childhood, Bill Haley, blind in one eye, picked up the song, cleaned up the text and replaced it with a "more decent" one, but left the one-eyed cat at the shop.
The charts collapsed under the pressure of such fine fellows.
Elvis took Turner's full text and sang Shake, Rattle and Roll, leaning out of the locomotive at full speed, humming and sweeping away everything in its path.
Madmen.
Troublers.
So rock and roll rose from the roots to the sun.
Infused with the gloomy and stifling air of the primeval undergrowth.
Thick - do not wade through without tearing out your eyes.
And Turner, the humblest and most insidious Big Joe Turner, wrote after the departing steam locomotive of the South Well All Right, Flip Flop and Fly, Hide and Seek, Morning, Noon and Night and The Chicken and the Hawk.
And he retired to his well-deserved peace, as if never leaving the stage.
The most powerful of the dinosaurs.
Quite a modern passenger.
The modernized electric locomotive of rock.
And he was accepted into all the halls of all glory without controversy, rallies and unnecessary reasoning.
Joe was friends with Bill Haley, and Haley, in turn, never forgot to call old Turner at the recording session.
Supporting the old man in all his endeavors.
With Elvis Turner crossed little, but it did not matter - all the kings of the South gave Joe his due, everyone knew "where, including legs grow".
To the gallery page
Turner lived for his own pleasure, recording albums from time to time, each and every one of the highest quality and professionalism.
Somehow he did not strain, it seems that in childhood it was enough.
He walked measuredly, held on easily.
He sang fervently.
Or here: the chamber and incredibly deep, touching 1973 album, made with Count Basie - The Bosses.
An adornment of every decent vinyl collection.
44 minutes of travel through enfilades and halls with signs "For employees only".
Ray Brown on double bass.
Aesthetics of a great era.
The sound of the sea in your ears, not ... Today, Big Joe Turner looks like a revered local saint.
"How?!
You do not know?!
And everyone here knows! "
Today it looks like a diamond found in the river sand: “Zaechka, just look!
What the hell!
Plastic bottles all around, but here it is! "
This is the Present.
With one of his Shake, Rattle and Roll, old Joe plugs a good half of the modern stage into his belt - and they dangle behind his belt, knocking down with dejected empty little heads.
A soothing sight.
A true healing balm with 144 healing herbs.
Accept.
A couple of teaspoons a day.
I'm like a one-eyed cat peepin 'in a seafood store,
I'm like a one-eyed cat peepin 'in a seafood store.
Well I can look at you till you ain't no child no more ...
Ah, shake, rattle and roll,
Shake, rattle and roll,
Shake, rattle and roll,
Shake, rattle and roll.
Well, you won't do right
To save your doggone soul ...
Shake, rattle and roll!
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.