Billy Connolly’s Route 66 Page 6

  I’d made my pilgrimage to Chess Records earlier in the week, before leaving Chicago on Route 66. But on the Sunday of my departure, a couple of hours before I left Adams Street, I returned to the neighbourhood for a unique experience. It had been a long time since I’d been to church on a Sunday morning, but now I was heading to Quinn Chapel, two blocks south of the old Chess Records building and an equally famous place in music and social history.

  Quinn Chapel is the oldest black congregation in America. Services have been held there since the 1850s, when its congregation consisted mostly of freed slaves and abolitionists. When slavery was still a fact of life in the southern states, the chapel was a safe house on the Underground Railroad, a secret network of travel routes that were used to guide slaves to free states and territories in the northern United States and Canada. In the years since then, a succession of black leaders and luminaries such as Martin Luther King, Booker T. Washington and Frederick Douglass, a former slave who became a leader of the abolitionist movement, have spoken from the pulpit at Quinn Chapel.

  On its own that would be hugely significant, but Quinn Chapel is also where gospel music really began in America. I’ve always loved gospel singers, especially Ray Charles and Etta James. So I’d been looking forward to experiencing a service of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, but I was very nervous before entering the chapel because I’m as close to an atheist as you can get. I think I am, anyway. It’s probably better to say I don’t believe in religion. So I was nervous in case I offended the congregation by being a disbelieving voyeur sitting among them. Even though they didn’t know it, I knew it. I’m not religious, but I’m not against people who are, and I don’t believe in telling people that they’re wrong. It’s not the right thing to do. All of this was bothering me terribly, but as soon as I got into the church, a big whitewashed hall, I was so overwhelmingly and pleasantly surprised that I forgot all about my qualms.

  First of all, there was a choir to one side of the altar and a girl standing front and centre, where the priest or pastor would normally stand. She was half singing and half talking, in that Aretha Franklin soul way. I nearly cried. My lip went all wobbly. I’m not joking, I had to tell myself to get a grip because there were a lot of people around me, singing, ‘Hallelujah, hallelujah’, and I didn’t want to draw their attention.

  I found a few empty seats and sat down to listen. Beside me was a chair with a Bible on it. After a while, a man in a light fawn suit picked it up, sat down beside me and started reading the Bible and mumbling. The service continued with more singing, more gesticulating and waving and praying, and I must say it pleased me greatly. A wonderful woman sitting behind the pastor was going, ‘All right, all right’ – agreeing with everyone – ‘Yes, sir … yes, sir. All right. Yeah.’ Then the man in the fawn suit turned to me. ‘Would you like a Bible?’

  I didn’t like to say no.

  He went off to get me one, returned, then pointed to his own so that I could find the appropriate page. I’m not a Christian now, and when I was a Catholic I didn’t know the Bible – we used a missal to guide us through the mass (Catholics and the Bible have a funny relationship, but that’s another story for another time). But I could follow the pastor’s preaching. I was enjoying it and having fun with a little girl and her young brother who were sitting beside me, faffing around and getting them to laugh and joke and jest with me.

  It was delightful. And what amazed me – even though it shouldn’t have, because it’s happened so many times when I’ve been among black communities – was the kindness and generosity of spirit shown to me.

  The previous day I’d been to the oldest cigar store in America. It’s in the centre of Chicago, next to the El. The crowd inside was mostly black and they were all watching the Chicago Bulls playing basketball. I had a shoeshine, bought my cigar and sat down. I’m not much of a basketball fan, but it was a very good game. One of the crowd of black guys recognised me while another thought I’d been in Monty Python. (It’s a recurring disappointment for me in America. Maybe the association is because I did The Secret Policeman’s Ball with some of the Pythons and that was a big hit in the States.) The guys were cracking jokes and having fun, then one asked if I’d like a drink.

  ‘No, I don’t drink,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to smell it, if you don’t mind.’ It was Maker’s Mark, a Kentucky bourbon whiskey, and I had a sniff. ‘Oh … memories. Memories.’

  The guys all laughed and smiled. Then one of them stood up, came over and handed me a ten-inch-long Bolivar cigar. A Havana. ‘Welcome to Chicago, Billy,’ he said.

  I nearly fell off my seat. Such friendliness, such overwhelming bonhomie and joie de vivre. And for nothing. All I had done was walk into the shop. And they had shown me such outstanding hospitality and kindness.

  So I should have known better than to be surprised at the homeliness that was shown to me in Quinn Chapel as everyone who came near me shook my hand, wished me a good day and said they were glad I was there.

  As I said, I’m not a believer any more and I don’t think I ever will be again. I used to be quite a sincere Catholic when I was a boy, but it hasn’t stood the test of time for me, especially when a child dies and some fool says, ‘Jesus wanted him for an angel.’ I just want to lash out when I hear something like that; I want to get violent. I think religion’s time has come and gone. They’re having a lot of fun just now throwing bombs at each other, aren’t they, all the peace and love merchants. That said, the spirit and the sheer enthusiasm in that room persuaded me that if I was going to be religious again, that might be the religion I’d go for. I certainly came out feeling much, much better than when I went in.

  It was just a joy watching that congregation of people at their best, worshipping as they saw fit. And what they saw fit, I saw fit. I wasn’t jealous of their faith, but I admired it. I thought a wee bit of it would do me some good. It took me back to when I was a boy, when I had faith. And although that’s gone now, visiting Quinn Chapel and being among a congregation of good people doing good was a happy experience, a wholesome thing to do. I’m glad I did it.

  Chess Records and Quinn Chapel border on to a neighbourhood of Chicago called Bronzeville, which in the early twentieth century became known as the Black Metropolis after half a million African-Americans fled the oppression of the South and migrated to the city in search of industrial jobs. The city authorities confined the new arrivals to this borough, which extended over a very small area between 29th and 31st streets. The conditions were extreme at times. For instance, twenty thousand people were housed in four twenty-two-storey buildings within very close proximity to one another. However, this mass migration brought music into the area. Bronzeville was a haven for jazz, blues and gospel. The great Louis Armstrong’s trumpet ignited the borough’s many jazz clubs. Muddy Waters and Buddy Guy created electric blues here, while Quinn Chapel and the Pilgrim Baptist Church gave birth to gospel music.

  Ever since then, Bronzeville has continued to bustle with celebrities, intellectuals, musicians and artists. The Regal Theater, located in the heart of the area, was demolished in the 1970s, but in its heyday it played host to the cream of twentieth-century American music. Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, Lena Horne, Dinah Washington, Miles Davis and Duke Ellington performed there frequently. The Supremes, the Temptations, the Four Tops, the Jackson 5, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Count Basie, Dizzy Gillespie, Louis Jordan, Solomon Burke, Dionne Warwick, James Brown, the Isley Brothers, John Coltrane – the list of performers at the Regal is like a Who’s Who of soul, rhythm’n’blues and jazz. What would anyone have given to be present at the Motown Revue in June 1962, when ‘Little’ Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Mary Wells and the Marvelettes and Marvin Gaye were on the bill? What a line-up.

  But until the mid-1960s, when the Civil Rights Act was passed, travelling through America was frequently fraught for African-Americans. Restricted to segregated zones in the South and often discriminated agains
t in other areas too, their journeys along America’s highways – including Route 66 – were far from simple. Some motel and restaurant owners welcomed black Americans; others blatantly discriminated against them.

  In 1936 a postal employee from Harlem, New York, came up with the idea of producing a guide to integrated or black-friendly establishments. Although initially it focused on businesses in New York State, Victor Green’s guide was such a success that within a year its coverage had spread nationwide. Under a banner of ‘Now we can travel without embarrassment’, The Green Book was particularly helpful to African-Americans who travelled through what were called ‘sunset towns’, which publicly stated that ‘Negroes’ had to leave by sundown or face arrest. Known unofficially as ‘The Grapevine’, the book became the inspiration for that fantastic song, ‘I Heard it through the Grapevine’, recorded by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Gladys Knight and the Pips, and of course, in its definitive version, Marvin Gaye.

  I went to meet Preston Jackson, an artist and activist who lives and works in Bronzeville, whose family made it across America using The Green Book. I’d intended to ask him about his family’s experiences, but we ended up talking more about the effects of growing old – like those single hairs that grow out of your ears or eyebrows – and the absurdity of Pat Boone singing ‘Tutti Frutti’. This lovely, intelligent, committed, talented man had come to the same conclusion as me and thousands of others: when Boone recorded ‘Tutti Frutti’, that paragon of clean living didn’t have a clue that the song was about prostitution and gay sex. (The original opening lyrics were: ‘A wop bop a loo mop, a good goddamn!/Tutti frutti, loose booty/If it don’t fit, don’t force it/You can grease it, make it easy’!)

  Preston has remained militant in the most gentlemanly, pure way. He’s a good man with a very good heart who cares deeply about the culture of his people and he tries to portray it through his art. He showed me his sculptures, many of which portrayed Harlem in its heyday and the years of its decline. We chatted about all sorts of things. Then, at the end of the meeting, my nemesis caught up with me again.

  As I mentioned earlier, in America I am often mistaken for one of the Pythons. Don’t ask me why, as I don’t look anything like John Cleese, especially when my long, grey hair is down, as it was that day. Nevertheless, it often happens. People will come up to me and say, ‘Excuse me. Are you John Cleese?’

  Or they’ll say, ‘I love your work.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much,’ I’ll respond.

  ‘So how are the other guys?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The rest of the Monty Python crew. Eric? Michael?’

  And my heart sinks.

  Sometimes I tell them I’m not John Cleese. ‘No, I’m a Scottish comedian,’ I say. ‘My name’s Billy Connolly.’

  ‘Oh? Incognito?’ And then they do the nudge, nudge, wink, wink thing.

  As it happened, earlier that day I’d told the crew about being mistaken for John. I could see that some of them only half-believed me. After all, no Brit would confuse my Glaswegian brogue for John’s clipped English vowels. But then, as I came downstairs from Preston’s gallery, a big black guy tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Are you John Cleese?’

  ‘No, I’m Billy Connolly.’

  ‘Oh … incognito?’

  Nicky, the producer, just exploded. The truth was revealed before her very eyes.

  Now I was back on my trike, heading southeast on Route 66, gradually coming to the edge of Chicago. It’s always weird when you leave a city. No matter how much you like the place, the outskirts always suck. You go from these gigantic palaces in the sky, like the Chicago Tribune Building and the Sears Tower (which I could see in my mirrors for ages) and then the surroundings get more and more shabby and rundown. The Windy City is a brawny kind of place, and here at its fringes are the factories, slaughterhouses and foundries on which it built its industrial might and reputation. The road darts between warehouses and over railroad tracks and makes a few turns. Then, suddenly, we were out in the countryside, joining Interstate 55 for about eight miles (it was built directly over Route 66 here, so you can’t avoid it) before leaving it to rejoin old 66. Even here, out of town and in the proper outdoors, it was a bit shabby, largely because it was reclaimed mining land and there was still a kind of messiness to it. And the weather didn’t help. It was another grey and windy day. Although I like rain and what it does, I was starting to feel we really hadn’t been blessed with good weather since arriving in Chicago. A bit of sun would have been welcome, especially now that we were on Route 66. Everybody’s image of the Mother Road involves bright colours – red and yellow, white and blue – rock’n’roll, hamburgers and hot dogs, Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry. But I was getting rained on all the time and somehow it didn’t fit.

  A few minutes later, I entered Romeoville, a town about thirty miles southwest of Chicago. Nestling between urban areas, this part of Illinois was mostly agricultural country, and Route 66 was flanked by wide-open plains that looked like potato fields, only occasionally broken up by sparse lines of trees or telegraph poles. Much of the produce from these fields used to be shipped from Romeoville along the Des Plaines River, which passes through the town, and the Illinois & Michigan canal system. Nowadays, nearly all of it goes by road.

  Romeoville used to be called Romeo when it was part of a twinned community with Juliet, a few miles further down Route 66. That romantic association ended in 1845, when someone realised that Juliet was most likely a misspelling of the name of the French pioneer Louis Jolliet, who first explored the area in the 1670s. The town decided to change its name in honour of him, but it still didn’t get the spelling quite right. It’s now known as Joliet. Meanwhile, jilted by its twin, Romeo acknowledged the busted romance and became Romeoville. Nowadays, it plays very much second fiddle to Joliet, which is the first significant city beyond the sprawl of Chicago.

  You might have heard Joliet mentioned in television crime programmes. It used to be a quarry town, nicknamed ‘Stone City’. Much of that lovely white stone seen on skyscrapers like the Wrigley Building in the heart of Chicago came from Joliet’s quarries. But these days the town is most famous for its prisons. They are the biggest industry in town. Imagine prison being your biggest industry – holy moly! – but that’s one of the strangest things about America. The Land of the Free incarcerates more of its people than any other country on earth.

  Joliet’s most famous prison, the Joliet Correctional Center, is known to millions of Blues Brothers fans as the lock-up from which Jake Blues is released at the beginning of the movie. It is also name-checked in Bob Dylan’s ‘Percy’s Song’. But it closed in 2002 and all the prisoners were moved to a much larger maximum-security facility, the Stateville Correctional Center, a vast compound on the edge of town that used to have a death row and conduct executions by lethal injection. It’s the kind of isolated place in which the US government is hoping to house some of the terrorist suspects who are currently stuck down in Guantanamo Bay. There’s another clink, the Will County Adult Detention Facility, on the other side of town, so you could say Joliet is book-ended by slammers.

  Driving through the outskirts of town, I passed an ice-cream parlour with a couple of Blues Brothers figures on its roof. Gimmicks like those two figures have been features of Route 66 ever since its heyday, when restaurants and motels would go to extraordinary lengths to attract the attention of passing drivers.

  There’s not much more to say about Joliet. It’s a pretty wee town with a river flowing through the middle, but, based on my experience, no people in it – except for one guy running along a pavement. I hope he hadn’t escaped from prison.

  4

  It Starts in Illinois, Let Me Tell You Boy

  A few more miles through the tall-grass prairies of Illinois, I arrived in Wilmington, turned a corner and came face to face with a wonderful sight – a twenty-eight-foot-high green spaceman in a silver helmet who advertised a drive-in restaurant called the
Launching Pad.

  Big guys like him are still common sights on Route 66. Some travellers make a thing out of trying to spot as many of them as possible. Originally, these giants were designed to catch the eye of potential customers who were driving past so that people would say, ‘Gee look, a giant. Let’s go and eat there.’ Later, when the interstates bypassed a lot of the communities on Route 66, even bigger giants were built, to catch the attention and wallets of people cruising past.

  The owner of the Launching Pad bought his spaceman at a restaurateurs’ convention in 1965 for three thousand dollars. Which begs the question: what kind of person lugs a twenty-eight-foot spaceman to a convention? I always thought conventions were held in hotel suites, and I can’t imagine anyone dragging a twenty-eight-foot astronaut into the Glasgow Hilton, no matter how much I stretch my imagination. But this fella had bought his giant spaceman for three thousand bucks and good on him, the entrepreneur that he was. I just wonder what he said to his wife when he brought it home. ‘Darling, I’ve got you a present … ’

  When that fella bought the big guy, it was just a big semi-naked model. Someone used to make a standard roadside giant – they all had the same trousers and always held their hands out in front of them. So the owner of the Launching Pad held a competition to give his giant a name and decide how he should be dressed. A ten-year-old girl won the contest with her suggestion of Gemini – after the Gemini space programme, which was all the rage at the time. They made a big space helmet and a rocket, which they put in his hands. The helmet made him look a bit like a giant welder, but maybe that’s just me. Strangely, two rockets have been nicked from his hands so far, although I can’t imagine what the dirty swines do when they steal a six-foot polystyrene rocket. It’s rather tragic. Did they take them home and play with them?