“Bukka!” The foreman’s voice was a powerful thing, able to drown out even the sound of tanks being built. “Bukka! Two fellas here to see you! Make it quick! Ain’t stayin’ late.”
Booker White got up from his assembly station and looked around the factory floor awkwardly. He hated when people called him by that name. Once people found out who he was, that’s all they’d ever call him.
“Bukka?” Asked one of the men soon as Booker got near enough to hear him.
“Booker.” He corrected, looking them and their cheap suits over. “Who might you be?”
“You get our post card?” Asked the second man.
“You sent that? I ain’t lived in Aberdeen ever. Or near it years.” The post card had shown up a week back, addressed to him by way of a city he’d written a song about.
“Blues, roots music, it’s filled with emulators. You? You’re an originator. Time to make people remember that.” Declared the first man. “We’re gonna reconnect you with your fans.”
“I haven’t any.” Booker snorted. “Or I wouldn’t be doing this crap.”
“Bob Dylan covered your song, Bukka. You’ve got fans.”
Booker White had no idea who Bob Dylan was.
Booker “Bukka” White was one of the original Delta bluesmen. He was cousin to B.B. King, and gave him his first guitar. Bukka’s nickname came from a misspelling of his name that his record label let slip through on his second record. After the blues wave subsided, he slipped into obscurity and jail. Booker White was rediscovered in Memphis working at a tank factory after Bob Dylan covered one of this songs.