Piney Brown — You Bring Out The Wolf In Me! (1948-1962)
Piney sure had the voice. That special kind of voice perfectly suited to his line of work: shouting the blues, starting in its 1940s heyday.
That was the era when volatile chemistry began reacting between hard-shelled blues, elastic jump blues and upscale rhythm-and-blues, culminating in the eruption that was rock-and-roll. Adding to the excitement, Brown began laying down a trail of adrenaline that spread across a wide, colorful bouquet of record labels. His discography bore streaks of cobalt blue (Apollo), watermelon red (Jubilee), mustard yellow (Duke), desert-sand khaki (Cimarron), and brick burgundy (Mad). More colors, via more labels, kept cropping up.
Because there was no stopping the Alabama-born dynamo from bouncing from studio to studio over the next several decades.
Gratefully, You Bring Out The Wolf In Me! makes that march through time by chasing down far-flung singles here and there to provide a panoramic view. Over the course of its hour-and-some, the go-to, one-stop compilation rounds up 26 gems, starting with 1948’s swinging “That’s Right, Little Girl” and running through 1962’s hully-gully-able “Unemployed.” Lots more sweating lies in between.
The curtain raises as the ’40s give way to the ’50s. While Sonny Boy Williamson I, Muddy Waters, and obscure Texan Luther Stoneham were off doing their own thing at the time, Piney started thriving in that alternate blues world where wailing harmonicas and slide guitars were not the kings—but wailing saxophones and sparkling pianos were. Uptown, not downhome. And above all the hustle, he soared. More precisely, he soared lyrics, as if shot from a cannon. Miles below, a horn band du jour (Ed Wiley’s troop, Abie Baker’s orchestra, Brown’s own Blue Flashes, etc.) provided an early form of jet propulsion.
An example? Seventy-five years after “How About Rockin’ With Me?” got etched into a 45-rpm platter, you can still feel the whoosh of its manic panic accompanied by an astounding concussive blast. Brown, planted at the microphone, is feeding off the pandemonium coordinated between a pack of saxes and the floorboards quaked by the rhythm section. Cue into Piney’s enthusiastically sung desires and you’ll find his nightlong request very similar to that put forward by Muddy’s “Rock Me” as well as B.B.’s “Rock Me Baby.” Except worlds apart, sonically.
The heave-ho blast of “Pack Up, Move Out” is another fulfilment of the need for speed. Yet “Why Do I Cry Over You” mopes. “Have Mercy” pleads on bended knee, desperately. “Lovin’ Gal Blues” sports an opening trumpet blast parroting Brown’s wide, smashmouth tone. “Mourning Blues” is the resident finger-popper. And “Whispering Blues” spreads like honey.
Some songs instead demand attention simply due to their title alone. Such as the intriguing “Walk a Block and Fall.” Correct, it is a boozy stumble. Or the high drama proclaimed by “Sleeping In an Ocean of Tears,” a product of the short-lived Brooks & Brown team.
“Ooh You Bring Out the Wolf in Me” tops that list, earning title-track status. At this point, his singing found a serrated bite that coincided with the toothy grin flashed while on the prowl. The series of howlings he pulls off clinches the deal.
Adding to the collection’s merits is its linear chronology. Not only can you listen to Brown’s voice age. But you can likewise track the evolutionary arc of musical styles across the decades. Like when the 1950s, the bulk source of material here, incrementally develops its own time-stamp. The harmonizing men backing “Don’t Pass Me By” are only a 'shoo-be-doo doo-wah' away from slipping into doo wop whereas “Talking About You” rocks—well, sock-hop-style.
Then “Sugar In My Tea” arrives with a hint of sinister. No longer are we in the golden age of those gregarious horn platoons and their sophisticated power.
Times had changed. And so had trends. By the start of the 1960s, bands were slimming down
while growing tenser, earthier—bluer. (Not that “Life Is Funny” isn’t a shot of pure, sugary pop, right down to a sign of the times: a willowy flute solo.) By then, the electric guitar heard in, say, 1949’s “Gloomy Monday Blues” lost its cufflinked cool, trading in a jazzy demeanor for a fierce one. Here, the meanest bull in the pasture is the sharp, needling fretsmanship of Lefty Bates, right-hand man to everyone from Jimmy Reed and John Lee Hooker to The Dells. Brown’s delivery certainly adapted to far less spring-loaded arrangements as well by condensing down and gaining a dangerous edge. It had become less about piercing the high heavens with all of his throat, and more about crawling into the crevices of the heart. The 1960 single’s flipside, “My Love,” did not release its stranglehold grip in spite of pledging undying affection.
Sorry for all this beating around the bush to make the simple point that you shouldn’t dare shy away from meeting Piney Brown, via Wolf, due to his name (potentially) not ringing any bells.
Hearing the bullhorn lodged in his throat has never been the problem. Folks in the back row cannot miss those booming ‘Y-E-A-Hs’ ripping through “That’s Right Baby.” And in no way could the pounding given by “Kokimo” be considered as faint.
Hearing of this secretly-famous blues belter, however, is where the rub historically lies. Because for as vibrant as his recordings are, the major (and tragic) disconnect came in the linkage between quality of output and resultant fame. Piney Brown never caught afire as did some of his competing shouters, thereby missing out on becoming as much of a household name as did, say, personal idol Wynonie Harris, Roy Milton, or the genre’s head honcho, Big Joe Turner. Shame about that.
The story goes that Columbus Perry (1922–2009) received his flashier stage name from an upgrade of the first iteration: Piney Pine Top. Yet it was 1930s Kansas City club owner Thomas “Big Piney” Brown who was immortalized in Joe Turner’s “Piney Brown Blues,” a song which spread like wildfire from everyone including Little Walter to the Paul Butterfield Blues Band. (The most disorienting version has to be the one Muddy cut in 1966, drenched in—of all things—glitzy brass.) Even if misconstrued, any misplaced name recognition certainly helped boost business for the singing variety of Piney Brown. That, however, still wasn’t enough to push him into universal public awareness. Regardless, he kept right on venting his blues up to the very end, when One of These Days, his final album, released in 2006—three years before his passing at age 87.
Piney’s musical touch extended other ways, too. A young, upstart guitarist by the name Albert Collins learned the ropes as a member of his 1950s road band. James Brown is said to have picked up “The Popcorn” from overlapping with him at King Records. And he played a hand in blues harpist Jerry “Boogie” McCain burrowing his hard-blowing instrumental “Steady” into the grooves of a Rex Records 45.
In the end, though, Piney Brown’s lasting gift became transmitting energy to stir listeners. Try not moving a muscle or singing along while You Bring Out The Wolf In Me! spins. That is mission impossible.
Label: Koko-Mojo
Release date: 6/5/26
Distribution website: MVD Entertainment Group.com
Reviewed by Dennis Rozanski
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