That night at happy hour, Little Joe is dragging. The guys in the band have to go upstairs to get him to come and play. He does the whole set sitting down on the piano bench, with none of his signature tongue-playing or unexpected outbursts. Perhaps because it's Valentine's Day, the crowd is small. But despite feeling sick, despite the lack of audience, Little Joe plays one of the best sets he's played in weeks, floating from one influence to another until it sounds like no one else but Little Joe. Still, Reg Burns seems a little worried.
"I don't think I've ever seen him sit down through a whole song before," he says from his seat at the bar. "It's like watching a sick little puppy."
Deron Neblett
Deron Neblett
Friend Reg Burns says Little Joe's music brings tears to his eyes.
It is just a few days before his March 1 birthday, and Little Joe Washington is in the hospital. Reg had shown up on a Friday evening at the Continental to check out I.J. Gosey playing happy hour, and he knew Little Joe was still ailing. So Reg figured he'd throw some rocks at the back window, call out his name. Little Joe came down the stairs, said, "Hey," and Reg Burns took one look at him and decided he looked terrible.
"Emaciated, even for him," he says.
So he got Joe into his car and hustled him to Ben Taub Hospital. They waited in the ER for an hour or so, and then eventually Joe got an IV. He hadn't been keeping anything down for a week, Joe said. It was decided that Joe should be checked in for more tests, and he got a room on the sixth floor.
Joe is sharing the room with three other men, but he's the lucky one by the window with a fine view. He says he spends most of the time sleeping, curled up in a fetal position under a white blanket. His legs shiver. A navy-blue ski hat that he sometimes wears rests precariously on top of his shoulder-length dreads. Sometimes, in the middle of dozing, he opens his eyes suddenly and as wide as they will go, then closes them and drifts back off.
"I'm not happy or unhappy, I'm just cold," he remarks.
On the food tray by his bed are the remains of Popeyes chicken that Chris the guitarist has brought by, and some unopened cartons of milk. Reg delivered him a chocolate milk shake, which Joe devoured. Little Joe shuns the hospital food.
One of Little Joe's doctors, Liz Han, says they want to observe him and do more tests, but they can't keep him if he doesn't want to stay, of course.
"He's quite willful," she says.
When the doctor isn't there, Little Joe asks me for a cigarette, which I don't give him. When the man in the bed across from Joe asks for one too, Little Joe leans in as best he can and says conspiratorially, "These guys -- they're alcoholics."
Then Joe wonders if his bass player Paul will come by, and maybe bring a chessboard.
"You play chess?" I ask.
"Checkers too," says Joe, like it's a well-known fact.
Joe promises that when he leaves the hospital, he's going to clean up his act and not drink anymore at all. He'll just play his guitar. After he promises he starts whining in that Little Joe way that only makes you want to deliver whatever it is that he is asking for.
"Won't you please bring me some sweet potato pie?" he says, dropping his head against the pillow. His skinny frame pops out of the blankets like a stick figure, all lines and right angles. I tell him I worry about him, but he just shoots me a wicked grin and says, "Don't worry about me, I'm cool."
A week later, Little Joe is discharged from the hospital. Chris picks him up, takes him back to the Continental. Reg Burns stops by with fruit. The band decides they will play the following Wednesday, if Joe is up to it.
Wednesday arrives, and the backup band is on stage playing, but Joe isn't. It's almost 7 p.m., and Joe probably should have started a half hour earlier. Reg says Little Joe is copying James Brown's style of making the backup band play a few songs before deeming the situation worthy enough for him to take the stage.
"Pretty soon we'll need a cape," says Reg.
Suddenly, from the back corner of the club, Little Joe makes his appearance. He's dressed in a fitted black jacket and a white hat, and he's clutching a cigarette. He struts up on stage and grabs his black guitar. The band has put a barstool on stage for Little Joe to rest on, but he uses it only half the time, preferring to saunter about as he plays. The music sounds tight, and Joe's guitar playing is excellent. It is as if Joe was on a vacation in Tahiti, instead of a bed at Ben Taub.
After just a handful of songs, Joe stops abruptly in the middle of a tune and without explanation puts his guitar down and walks off the stage. His bandmates look at one another, and drummer Mike Simon approaches the microphone.
"I guess we're taking a break," Mike says as Joe makes his way to the bar. "But let's hear it for Little Joe Washington! Back from the dead!"
