Cleveland Blues

<div class='description'><p>"Fred Davis was a legend, but only in my living room. There was always music around my house, but as a teenager, I started digging deeper and deeper in to the blues records in my Dad's collection. That was when I started to get the Fred Davis story in fits and starts. Fred could play like T-Bone Walker and sang in a high, keen voice like J.B. Lenoir, he said. He used to front a jump band in Kansas City, before something went down that sent him to prison at Leavenworth. In the summer of 1967, he ended up working alongside my Dad at Harco, the Cleveland factory where my grandfather was an executive. They became friends, bonding over the B.B. King and Bobby Bland records blaring from the AM radio on the factory floor. Fred taught my Dad the rudiments of blues guitar, but his style. Instead of barring with his first finger, he wrapped his thumb around the back of the neck. That left his other fingers free to create big, ringing voicings that imitated the Kansas City horn sections he heard in his youth. Fred could play up and down the neck and, even when he played and sang just by himself, he sounded like a full band. Or, at least, so the legend went. These were only foggy memories from thirty years previous, passed down from a father to a son. But then we found the tape. A quarter inch reel in a plain white cardboard box, hiding on a shelf in the attic. My Dad explained how it came to exist: He found some friends (acquaintances really) who had a band