in/audible - Ibiblio

SOUL STORIES FROM N.C.
An introduction to local R&B musicians from the 1960s and ‘70s
Naw, I heard he’s dead,”
responded the middle aged Afri-
“Slim?
can-American woman to my
question about the whereabouts of a mysterious
old-school musician rumored to have
come from Burlington. Here I was at the
end of Spring Break ’03, entering a tiny convenience
mart in this central N.C. town and
asking the woman behind the grill about a
“Guitar Slim.” I was desperately seeking a
lead on the last guy I wanted to interview
for a small oral history project on local soul
musicians of the ‘60s and ‘70s; this was a
quest fueled by curiosity, obsession and the
desire to get a really good grade in one of my
final classes at UNC-CH. Time for trawling
was coming to an end. School would
resume in a couple days, and I would be back
in the grind, going to class and working at
the campus radio station, WXYC. While in
Burlington, I vowed to talk to everyone until
I found my man.
I didn’t know much about “Slim.” I owned a
45 rpm single of his, which I loved. Released
on the Boro label, a tiny, long-defunct soul
operation from Greensboro, the 36-year-old
A-side is “Mini Boogaloo,” which features
a cute, funky, middle-paced tune played
by a 4-piece band of scrappy guitar, happy
organ, competent bass and bucket drums.
The music isn’t killer on its own, but several
charms are provided by vocalist “Slim,” who
first opens his mouth for a playful exchange
with an unidentified woman not too far into
the song:
“Slim:” Hey Baby where’d you get that miniskirt
from?
Unknown woman: I made it baby.
“Slim:” You must’ve run out of threads as
short as it is!
The band cuts back in, and “Slim” proceeds
with instructions for a new dance that
commands miniskirt wearers to “raise it
up,” “move it side-to-side,” etc. Inspiration
had come from the college-aged women
who often strutted down Market Street in
Greensboro circa 1968. Notably, “Slim’s”
local product delightfully rolled up two
BY JASON PERLMUTTER
national soul crazes into one – songs about
doing the boogaloo and songs about miniskirts.
This fantastic soul invention was partly
responsible for my curiosity and obsession.
“Who were these guys, how could I
find them, and what other records did they
make?” I asked myself constantly. By spring
break, after a bit of sleuthing, I had met two
of the three major players behind the “Boogaloo.”
Producer and co-writer Curt Moore,
in his 60s, was living in a small, smoky Winston-Salem
apartment, peddling household
goods out of the back of his cars, writing
poetry about the romantic union of an older
man and a young woman and hatching plans
for an autobiography about his days selling
records to national companies like Atlantic
and Nina Simone’s label Ninandy, founding
the first African-American beauty pageant
in North Carolina and chasing women.
Meanwhile, co-writer and organ player
Roy Roberts was in Greensboro, producing
and releasing blues CDs from his home
studio and opening his own juke joint off of
Liberty Street in Winston-Salem. Here was
a versatile, still successful professional musician
who had found the blues in the last
decade or two, having started with R&B in
the ‘50s, shifting to soulful ballads in the late
‘60s, playing funk with his group the Roy
Roberts Experience in the ‘70s and switching
to country as disco deejays replaced
many live soul acts.
Though Moore and Roberts were
accounted for, “Slim” remained unknown,
and no amount of Googling helped, even
after learning from Roberts that “Slim” may
have been an “Edgar Moore” from Burlington.
Robert’s tip offered potential, as Curt
agreed on the town, but he thought he
would’ve remembered “Slim’s” first name if
in fact their surnames were the same. Curt
advised that I go ahead on to Burlington,
to a section called Morgantown, and ask
around.
I took this advice during spring break and
located said neighborhood, a tiny one on the
24 IN/AUDIBLE fall 2004
northern outskirts, with several churches
and a bunch of run-down one-story 1940s
houses. My approach was to casually drive
around, concealing my self-consciousness as
the only white guy in this African-American
part of town. Multiple times, I pulled my
car up to houses where people were in the
yards or on the porches, and I rolled down
my window or got out, asking about “the
musician from here they called ‘Guitar Slim.’
I think his real name is Edgar Moore.” The
answers were discouraging; no one seemed
to remember my man.
Finally I came to a guy in his 50s, who
responded positively with the nickname
“Puddin’ Moore” and directions to a newer
house outside of the neighborhood; I’d know
the place by the black Cadillac in the driveway.
Directions were sketchy, and I found no
such car; I wasn’t sure I was in the right place.
I continued to drive until I came to the tiny
convenience mart, located in a small shopping
center that oddly was in the middle of
a residential area. After the “dead” response,
the day’s most discouraging, I checked the
next-door barber shop and received directions
to the same street that should’ve had
the Caddy. No dice still, and it got dark, so I
headed back to Chapel Hill.
The next day, I returned to the old neighborhood
for another shot at finding “Slim.”
I was encouraged by a man who, perched
on a ladder and painting a house, paused to
say he remembered my man and thought his
name was “Edgar Moore.” Directions were
given, which led me to the same street that
should’ve had the Cadillac. I was also advised
to look for the mailbox with “Moore” on it.
Why hadn’t I thought to check the mailbox
yesterday? No matter, I found it today, even
though there was still no Cadillac in the
nearby driveway. I pulled up and got out of
my car, only to find two locked storm doors
and no doorbells. Peering through a window,
I spotted a vintage black & white photo of a
young man with his guitar. This had to be
the place. I could hear a TV, so I alternated
knocking on both storm doors for five min-