Jim Brewer with Special Guest Dan Smith — Take It Easy Greasy

Have you ever heard Chicago bluesman Jim Brewer? Or perhaps let’s back up and start at: Have you ever heard of Chicago bluesman Jim Brewer?

Granted: It’s not exactly a fair question given that Jim remained one of the city’s great insider secrets, hiding in plain sight outside at the Maxwell Street Market as well as inside the No Exit coffeehouse for decades on end. Brewer’s extra-lean discography certainly didn’t help spread the good word; his recognition ended up inversely proportional to all those years of rousing service on sidewalks and stages. Undervalued and under-recorded: It was the same shortchanged fate that befell other local heroes like Arvella Grey, Maxwell Street Jimmy Davis, John Henry Barbee, Jimmie Lee Robinson and, to some extent, even Honeyboy Edwards.

Ride along “Jim’s Highway 61,” and those points get underscored. You’ll also quickly realize that the blind fretsman was meticulously skilled with a crisp, dynamic sense of play. All sorts of fluid moves on the strings embellish his repertoire. Secondly, the Delta made the long, northbound journey with him in 1940, up from his birthplace in Brookhaven, Mississippi, just a little south of Hazlehurst, where Robert Johnson came into this world. Not only did the region come back out stylistically, but his lyrics likewise bore shards when, for instance, exalting 61 (as did fellow bluesmen from Fred McDowell to Roosevelt Sykes) or nicking gravel-throated Tommy McClennan’s perceptive line drawn from the tongue-wagging logo plastered on the side of a Greyhound bus.

And, lastly, despite being spied firing up onlookers on Maxwell Street with a full-on electric guitar belching out through a knee-high amplifier, Brewer typically shot holes in the blanket theory that every axe around town got plugged in. At least whenever tape was rolling to make him an album. Yes, even in Chicago—the corporate headquarters of electrified blues—Mississippi country roots ran far closer to the surface than expected every time Brewer made six acoustic strings ring out like a street-corner orchestra.

Take It Easy Greasy now posthumously doubles his recorded output. Because, let’s face it: the Jim Brewer LP vaporized not long after its 1974 release on Philo, since relegated to a cratedigger’s dream. In turn, that left 1983’s Tough Luck (Earwig) as his lone, accessible long-play. A fantastic record—but the only record you could lay hands on.

That’s why Greasy—graced with a cover photograph of Jim in his natural habitat, out on the streets, axe in hand—goes a long way to heightening his legend. This generous gathering of 16 tracks—not a one of them ever before released—follows Brewer back and forth between studio and gig, starting at a house-rent party in 1966 and winding up at a special concert in 1984 (four short years before his 67-year-old heart gave out). More often than not, he’s heard before assorted appreciative audiences that turn into putty in his entertaining hands. For as much as “Step It Up and Go” dishes out one zinger after the next, “Jim Brewer’s Talkin’ Blues” hams it up all the more to the crowd’s delight. So, while his chops impressed with their technique, his engaging personality charmed the room.

The combined setlists beat a path between Illinois and Mississippi. “That’s Alright” is Jimmy Rogers’ hit for Chess Records, but stripped way, way down. “Don’t You Lie to Me” is as openly onery as “It Hurts Me Too” is self-admittedly miserable. “See See Rider” is just downright homicidal. “Oak Top Boogie” takes off in a flash versus “Tell Me Mama” and “Must I Go or Stay,” whose slow, sad, steady rhythmic plod is pure Delta. On the other hand, the bass run rumbling through the latter, like the two-timing committed in the former, is pure audacity. And the sweet, lilting melody whisking along “Corinna, Corinna” benefits from some mild amplification, which also puts a little extra oomph behind that single note intentionally hung in midair just to up the drama.

Over the course of this hour, Brewer works alone; his lone bandmate is the makeshift drummer in the form of his stomping foot. Well, except for that Wisconsin night in 1984 when Reverend Dan Smith and he entered into a vigorous duet. First, Smith grabs his harmonica as well as the reins, taking “The Train,” a chugging instrumental feat of artistic hyperventilation, all for himself. Then, the power of two kicks in. Smith, who made a wad of records of his own, sings “Babylon Is Falling Down” in between bouts of harping; Brewer motors nonstop. What a great value, since you only need to hear the chorus once and it will stick around the rest of the day.

Performing was in John Brewer’s blood. Take It Easy Greasy judiciously honors that fact.

Label: Earwig

Release date: 3/21/25

Label website: earwigmusic.com

Reviewed by Dennis Rozanski