Deep-fried and sanctified

Clarence Scott has to be the only man in Chicago who has posed for pictures with both Ronald Reagan and X-rated comic/blaxploitation movie hero Rudy Ray Moore. Both photos are prominently displayed on the walls of his South Side home. We've heard of music breaking down barriers, but this is in the realm of the ridiculous.

Thing is, Scott is used to such contradictions. Blues fans may have seen "Li'l Scotty" working the crowd at various South Side venues, while subway riders on the Red Line may have seen "Reverend Scotty" journeying from car to car, preaching God's word while selling religious buttons. Just last year, he released two albums: a blues disc called Hot Dog (credited to Li'l Scotty) as well as a gospel effort titled God's Got The Last Word (by Evangelist C. Scott). Scott sees no conflict with putting a 26-minute religious sermon on one disc and "Shake Your Floppy Booty" on the other (guess which song's on which).

"Actually, you can't go to hell for singing the blues," says Scott. "If you know Christ is your personal savior, you don't have to worry about nothing because everything you do, it belongs to Him anyway. Everything God makes is good. We mess it up. We make it bad." In a twist on an old theme, Scott doesn't believe that blues takes its cues from gospel—in fact, he's convinced that it goes the other way around. "When you sing the blues, you're singing about your woman, your love, a love song about love. God is love. Your typical gospel record or secular record, it ain't nothin' but the blues! They take the blues and turn it into a church record."

With his diminutive size and penchant for flamboyant clothing (he owns 22 pairs of joyously garish "pimp shoes"), 60-year-old Scott is one of the most distinctive figures on the Chicago blues scene. His music career dates back to the late '50s, but his time in Chicago is comparatively short, as the capper on a career that has taken him through South Carolina, Virginia, New York and Boston. "I was like a wander boy," he says. "Wander here, wander there. I didn't have no family, so I was on the go trying to find a new adventure." Apparently, Chicago agrees with him, as he's resided in the city for more than 20 years.

Scott's life began in South Carolina, where "my mama always said, 'You could be something, but I don't know what you're gonna be.'" As a younger man, he was involved in the Civil Rights movement and survived a tragedy when his home was firebombed, resulting in three and a half years spent in a hospital. Later, while playing live dates in the '60s, "I was doing James Brown. I was smaller and light on my feet and they used to call me Little James Brown Jr.," he says with a laugh. It was the beginning of a blues odyssey that has continued to this day, save for a year's lapse in the '80s when he got his minister's license. "I let my career go for a while," he now says without regret.

To see Scott in his true element, catch him on a Friday or Saturday night at Lee's Unleaded Blues, where he occasionally sits in with Johnny Drummer's band as part of a semi-revue that also includes the infamous Gaylord—the Arkansas Belly Roller, known as much for his dry-humping hip grinds as his singing and harmonica playing. Scott only gets to sing two or three songs, but he puts a lot of oomph into that 15-minute slot, casually strolling around in a bright red suit while beckoning the ladies in the audience with tender phrases like "take your false teeth out, mama, and let me suck on your gums."

Like veteran soul hitmaker Solomon Burke, Scott's evangelical side has endeared him to several blues stars. "They would call me sometimes, three or four o'clock in the morning. Tyrone Davis, Artie White, Little Milton, Ted Taylor—all these people were personal friends of mine." Albert King, the late left-handed guitar picker with the style Stevie Ray Vaughan copied, didn't warm up to everyone who crossed his path, but apparently Scott passed the test. "Albert King was very old-timey," he reminisces. "I was his best buddy, man. He didn't allow nobody on his bus [except me]. When he'd come to town, first thing he'd do is call me to go get some food!"

Even though Li'l Scotty enjoys crisscrossing between the juke joint and the pulpit, he doesn't plan on doing it forever. "I won't be singing blues that long," he explains. "I feel that God is changing me." Chicago's gospel choirs definitely have something to look forward to.