Whether playing it on stage or on the air, John Earl Williams is ‘buried in the blues’

David Renzi

Monday, June 2, 1997 | 11:59 a.m.

You can usually find him one of two places, both of them popular musical establishments. At the one, the Sand Dollar Lounge, he sings the blues. At the other, KKLZ 96.3-FM, he plays them.

It is just sound human-interest tactics that any profile of John Earl Williams begin at one or the other, and this one begins at the radio station, where Las Vegas' ambassador of the blues hosts the weekly "Cruisin' for a Bluesin'."

Williams had left instructions to meet him outside KKLZ at about 6:30 p.m. on a recent Sunday, a half-hour to air time. Almost on the dot on the appointed day and time a red pickup pulls up and two men step out. They are approximately the same height, look approximately the same age.

In fact, with their spectacles, middle-age spreads and gray-streaked beards, they could be the same guy. Leaving the truck, they look like cells splitting.

"This is my alter ego here," he says of the man.

This is actually his engineer, Bill Martin.

"Be sure you mention him."

Williams appears pleased at the news that Martin won't only be mentioned, but engaged in actual conversation. This occurs just inside the front door, in the lobby.

"It's been a helluva good time," Martin says of his association with Williams, "plus a learning experience. Until I started working with him, I didn't realize I was a blues fan."

Williams returns the compliment.

"He's not only conscientious of his work, but he likes the music, and that makes the difference." (Williams pauses for effect.) "He paid me to say that."

This portion of the interview would elicit the following information and opinions:

* The show had its sixth anniversary on April 19. Says Williams: "It went by fast, huh? Lot of blues under the bridge."

* Williams is surprised that the blues has gone over as well as it has on commercial radio. He says it's a sign of the times, citing the influx of blues as background music on television ads.

* He has joined the ranks of the nonsmokers. "I quit those things," he says, referring to Martin's cigarette. "'Bout damn time," Martin quips. "I hate buyin' for two."

* He moved to Las Vegas from Texas, via Europe, in 1986.

* He has played at the Sand Dollar with his group, the Boogieman Band, for six years. His wife, Shirley, whom he met in Amsterdam, Netherlands, manages the bar.

* Williams calls the radio show his favorite two hours of the week. "I get to play exactly what I want to play. You reach a whole lot more people on radio than I can on stage. You get more feedback. The people who come out to hear the band already know what they're gonna hear. On stage I'm dealing with band members saying, 'Oh, let's not do that one, let's do this one.' Even when people call in and say, 'John, play some swing blues,' I will if I have it. If I don't, I'll play something like it, so I'm still playing what I want."

* Being on stage and on the radio have similarities. "You walk out, throw it out there and if it flies, it flies. Once you've said it, you can't get it back."

Williams looks at his watch.

"We're gettin' close to 7, aren't we?" he says to Martin at five minutes to, his inflection making it less a question than a statement. "C'mon in."

This is the cue to head down the hall and into the studio, where "Barry" is finishing his shift and the station's classic-rock programming is giving way to the blues. Jim Morrison is singing the last strains of "Break on Through," his baritone voice engulfing the studio, and Williams and Martin, sitting across the console from each other, are waiting to do just that.

"You got 30 seconds," Martin says.

Playin' the blues

The date is May 18. Dates are important on "Cruisin' for a Bluesin'" because Williams plays a musical tribute to a blues artist (or artists) whose birth or death coincides with that week's show. This time it is singer Big Joe Turner and multi-instrumentalist Taj Mahal. He also has a segment on a harmonica player ("Harpin' It") and another on a guitarist ("Guitar Smokers Pick of the Week").

Williams starts compiling selections for Sunday's show on Monday or Tuesday, adding material throughout the week. It isn't something he gives much thought.

"Music is my life," he explains during the Turner piece. "All I do is listen to music or play it. I'm pretty well buried in the blues all week long."

Williams' speaking voice betrays his Texas (Dallas-Fort Worth) origins, but his radio voice is an amalgam.

"I was brought up in Texas listening to Wolfman Jack. And my father had a bunch of records of Lord Buckley (a '50s theatrical performer who made a name reciting Shakespeare in hipster ebonics). It's kind of a mix of the two. I dug the style."

"He's got his own distinct voice," Martin says. "People recognize it."

When the Taj Mahal track ends, Williams lays on the Lord Buckley for his listeners.

"Hey hipsters, flipsters and finger-poppin' daddies, this is John Earl from the Boogieman Band..."

And so it goes for the next two hours.

Singin' the blues

It is three days later, a Wednesday night at the Sand Dollar. The Sand Dollar is what the Rum Runner used to be until the latter's owners went and messed it up (e.g., barring the bikers, installing lights and remodeling, the sum total taking the testosterone right out a perfectly rough bar).

Williams says the Sand Dollar has an anti-biker policy also, but you'd never know it to look at the beefy boys with the ponytails down the back and tattoos up the arm who enter the bar in the middle of the first set.

If anything, everyone else looks out of place. The lounge, naturally dim, is made more so by a low ceiling painted black. The bar is three-sided and surrounded by video-poker players, the machines casting a glow on their pasty faces.

The place is redolent with smoke, beer and blues, a jukebox supplying the latter continuously until John Earl and the Boogieman Band take over (10 p.m. Tuesday and Wednesday, 9:20 p.m. Friday and Saturday).

A narrow pathway separates a side of the bar from the lounge, which features the lone concession to this nautically named tavern: wooden dock posts with thick cord rope serving as a bridge between stumps.

This is John Earl's home away from home, a bluesman's castle. You can imagine the disappointment when, between sets, he goes against type and swigs from a bottle of nonalcoholic beer.

"I chase my tequila with O'Doull's," he says, redeeming himself. "It's what I call a compromise."

This is a busy week for the band, which is preparing for another "JuneFest," KKLZ's annual classic-rock festival. This is the fifth consecutive year that Williams and the Boogieman Band will open the show.

Williams says this particular incarnation, which joined forces with another Las Vegas blues band, the Lost Boys, is the finest in a string of Boogieman Bands. He floated that opinion at KKLZ and expounded on it at the Sand Dollar.

"It's the first band I've had in this town where everybody knows how to play the blues. I had bands with guys that were good players, but were more rock players -- rock players that were playing blues. This is the closest to a pure blues band. These guys all like the blues, too."

Williams, 50, says the capability of the players is a reflection on their maturity. Ages range from mid-30s to early 50s. The members are Jeff Greenberg, piano; Art Groom, organ; Mike Gravits, saxophone; Sid Fisher, guitar; Tim Fahey, bass; and Pete Savino, drums.

Pitching the blues

If Williams has a niche, it is perhaps spokesman as much as singer.

"He's been very instrumental in helping build a local scene here through his radio show and his involvement with the Sand Dollar," says Bill Cherry, former president of the defunct Las Vegas Blues Society, editor of the bimonthly Las Vegas Blues News, host of "Blues Legacy" (KUNV 91.5-FM, 2-4 p.m. Sundays) and leader of the blues band Blue Cherry and Friends.

He compliments Williams' vocals ("strong") and his band ("topflight"), but saves his best praise for Williams' talent as a huckster.

"He is a great promoter."

Asked how he perceives his place on the local scene and how he thinks others perceive it, Williams says, "Fortunate and dead lucky. The first being my feeling, the second being other people's."

Fortunate, "because I've had the opportunity for the radio show and to play with the musicians I've played with, to lead my own band and showcase our music."

Dead lucky, because of same.

"I can't worry about that," he says of others' opinions. "I don't even think about that. If they are (jealous), they should spend more time getting their act together. But I don't know if anyone is jealous about what we're doing."

But Williams acknowledges KKLZ's influence on his career, calling it a catalyst.

"It's helped us become known locally and regionally."

And that's a good way to keep the blues at bay.

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