By Jacob Katel
By Karli Evans
By Jose D. Duran
By Pablo Chacon Alvarez
By Kat Bein
By Abel Folgar
By Laurie Charles
Along with Amos Milburn's "Chicken Shack Boogie" and Eddie Cochran's "C'mon Everybody," Koko Taylor's "Wang Dang Doodle" is among the greatest party records every committed to wax. A huge R&B hit for the Chicago-based singer back in 1966, "Wang Dang Doodle" is a vivid, almost surreal snapshot of a particularly wild house party, where snuff juice seeps into the floor, the smell of hard liquor and fried fish permeate the smoke-soaked air, and a cast of oddly named revelers -- Boudoir Crawlin' Red, Automatic Slim, Butcher Knife Totin' Annie, and Pistol Pete among them -- are all obviously having one hell of a fine time. Buddy Guy's lacerating guitar fills give the song an edge of violence and danger, while Taylor tears into Willie Dixon's lyric, savoring every lurid line, growling with the kind of gusto that suggests someone must have told her before recording it that she'd never be able to match Howlin' Wolf's version cut four years earlier.
She did, though, and the song became a crossover pop hit for Chess Records (hitting the number-58 slot on Billboard's pop chart), helping to establish Taylor as the mightiest of female singers in male-dominated Chicago blues. She would never again hit the pop or R&B charts, but Taylor has managed to forge one of the most successful careers in contemporary blues via her 25-year association with Alligator Records, for which she has cut seven albums, in the process earning thirteen Grammy nominations, one Grammy Award, fifteen W.C. Handy Awards, critical hosannas in the mainstream press, countless TV appearances, and a turn on the big screen in David Lynch's 1990 film Wild at Heart. Through it all, however, the 64-year-old Taylor remains surprised at her good fortune, appreciating her rewards yet mindful of how rare such success actually is.
"I'm just honored to make people happy with my music and to receive all the nominations," she professes during a morning phone interview from her home in the Chicago suburbs. "You can't win if you're not in the race, and I've had the chance to win. That means just as much to me as if I win."
You can probably trace Taylor's humility to her meager upbringing in Bartlett, Tennessee, a once-rural, now-bustling town near Memphis, where she and her family worked the farm and the cotton fields. "I was born way out in the country," she recalls. "We'd chop cotton; we had hogs and cows. I grew up singing gospel along with the other kids in the children's choir, but I would also listen to the blues all the time on the radio. Rufus Thomas was a DJ at WDIA at the time, and B.B. King was on the radio then [on WDIA] in West Memphis, Arkansas. My dad always said that everybody in his household had to go to church on Sunday, and we did. The blues was always called the devil's music then, but he didn't know I was in love with all these records we'd hear on the radio."
Using rustic, homemade instruments, Taylor and her brothers would sing and play behind their shotgun house while their father was away in the cotton fields. "My older brother made him a guitar out of baling wire that he wrapped around some nails that he had put [on the wall] behind the house. My younger brother made himself a harmonica out of a corncob. Of course I didn't need anything but my mouth because I was singing. Back in those days, we didn't know what electricity was, because we suredidn't have any. But we'd sit back there and play our own little music. That was our recreation then."
Taylor cites the seminal blues singer/guitarist Memphis Minnie as her first source of secular inspiration, in particular Minnie's "Me and My Chauffeur Blues" and its flipside, "Black Cat Blues," both widely played hits in the early Forties. "I'll never forget the first time I heard that record," she says. "It just stuck to my ribs. I fell in love with those songs and they just stuck with me. They were the first blues records I heard that I really listened to and paid attention to. They just struck something in my mind."
At age eighteen she married Robert Taylor, and in 1953 the couple moved north to Chicago to escape the poverty and racism of the South. "He wanted to go up there and find a good job, and I said, 'Well, if you go you ain't gonna leave me down here to chop cotton.' So I came up to Chicago with him. We took a Greyhound bus, had 35 cents and a box of Ritz crackers between us. We didn't know what was going to happen to us in Chicago, but when that bus got to 63rd Street and I saw all of those lights and everything just lit up, I said, 'Good God, this must be Heaven.'"
While her husband worked at a packing house, Taylor landed a job as a servant for a wealthy white family who lived in Chicago's North Shore area. At night the couple would hit the South Side blues clubs, catching gigs by masters such as Howlin' Wolf, Elmore James, and Magic Slim. After sitting in with the Wolf during a Sunday-afternoon jam session, Taylor was ushered into the Michigan Avenue studio of Leonard and Phil Chess, who paired the gravel-voiced chanteuse with songwriting ace Willie Dixon. After a few unsuccessful singles, Dixon fitted her with "Wang Dang Doodle," singing and playing bass on the song as well.