"And we made rye. All of it was made from sour mash. We'd cull it with what we called 'charter chips.' We'd burn 'em till they get as black as that ashtray there, wash 'em off, then drop 'em in the jug with the whiskey, and the whiskey would turn out brown or solid red."
This was "quality stuff," he says, and at a mouth-watering 100 proof, Elmore and Sam's moonshine could knock you for a loop.
"Since it's all over and done with, I'll tell you. We had an in with a couple of cops from Jackson. We sold around the black neighborhoods--$5 for the clear moonshine, $7 for the red whiskey, and that rye, we got $10 a gallon. The still was runnin' 250 to 500 gallons a day. We used a Ford for deliveries. When we got off the road that's what we would do."
Myers says he earned more loot from whiskey than music. While the Broom Dusters toured, the burners were left off, letting the hooch age on its own. They gave up the still after four years, in 1959, after they had nearly been caught.
"There was a federal man, name of Sam Newman, white guy, sent a lotta people to prison," Myers recalls. "He'd say, 'If you're sellin' whiskey anywhere in the state of Mississippi, I'm gonna catch you.'
"One night I said, 'Elmore, seem like I hear a cowbell ringin'.' Elmore said there was no cows supposed to be out in that pasture. Then I looked up and saw a light flash in the trees. And he said, 'Yeah, I hear the cowbell now.' I said, 'We need to turn off the boiler and get outta here. That ain't no cow. That's Sam Newman with a bell'--him and his henchman, a black guy. I coulda picked him off with my Winchester, wouldn't nobody ever know it."
Myers, whose eyesight was much better then, spared the cow-impersonating Fed. Even though "a whole lotta people wanted to kill him," Sam says he died a natural death years ago, and that the henchman was killed in a craps game.
Like other elder statesmen, Myers bore witness to the extraordinary transformation of the blues audience, from black to white.
"It has been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt, blues has no color barrier," he says. "But somewhere down the road, blacks [who are ashamed of blues] have forgotten their heritage. They've lost something. And what they have lost, that is what the white person has gained."
These days, when not on tour with Anson and the Rockets, Sam Myers is the most eminent regular at Dallas blues clubs--particularly at Schooner's, which he walks to by himself, sometimes arriving in the afternoon. Many have witnessed his dirgelike trek from bar to stage when he's called up during a jam. Nonregulars who block the aisle or touch him risk getting elbowed upside the head, as he clears a path. But suddenly, a local blues jam becomes world-class the moment Sam Myers' deep, resonant voice welcomes the ladies and gentlemen.
Hash Brown, who runs the major blues jams in town, roomed with Sam for two years, and considers Myers "my father, older brother, and uncle." He tries to pit Myers with the best players. If someone doesn't cut it, Sam will berate the motherfucker midsong.
"He's notorious for beatin' up on drummers," Hash says. "He's cantankerous because of his vision, but I don't blame him. A lotta people don't realize what he's done and who he is."
"There's a lotta guys never leave home, sit around and wait all day," explains Sam. "They're not pros. They never take their guitars out, never rehearse. But they come out for the jams. They think bitterly of me, because I won't play with them."
Last fall, Sam was jiving Cold Blue Steel guitarist Shawn Pitman at Schooner's, telling him to "play your guitar, asshole." Pitman's cousin charged onstage and cold-cocked the legally blind Myers and knocked him momentarily unconscious. The assailant escaped the bartender's tackle, and hightailed it out of the bar. The next morning, cops informed Myers they'd arrested his attacker, who was already scheduled to be incarcerated on other outstanding charges.
"If the cops hadn't found him, I was gonna have him killed myself," says Myers, who maintains his old Chicago underworld connections are still pistol-hot.
Seniority is often punished in the music business, but it would be a cultural loss if Sam Myers--an official American treasure--doesn't get the chance to record a solo album while his musical powers are still strong. "That would be the greatest thing I'd like to do," he admits.
He'd fly his old friend Robert Jr. Lockwood in from Cleveland to play acoustic guitar. From Chicago, he'd summon Chess drummer Odie Payne out of retirement, and gather his favorite old horn players. "I still have unreleased material I'd like to see on wax, tape, or CD, with my name on it," Myers says.
And what would this landmark album be called?
"Sam Myers' Contribution to Music.
