Johnny Winter’s Road Dawg Doc

While his blazing version of Dylan’s “Highway 61” plays in the background, the film opens with footage of Johnny Winter setting up for a show in Tampa. Producer/filmmaker Greg Olliver tells Winter he has a goal for Winter for the day, to come up with a title for the documentary he’s shooting. “How bout Down and Dirty,” says Winter, donning his black stetson adorned with two rattlers with fangs bared on the crown and going onstage for another blistering show.

Winter’s notoriously parsimonious with words, but when he does speak, he gets right to the heart of the matter. His choice of words is perfect for the task at hand, at Winter goes at it without a hint of pretension or guile, telling his story exactly as it happened, warts, drugs and all. But to his and the producer’s credit, they don’t dwell on the bad times. Winter talks about ’em when prodded, but he’s more interested in talking about the music he loves and why.

This documentary is a refreshing change from a lot of the so-called biopics featuring “experts” who babble inanely about the subject. Winter participates on camera for much of the film, and the majority of the talking heads here are Winter’s band members and brother Edgar. The footage was shot over a two year period by Olliver, and features more off stage coverage than on. But it’s never dull. Winter’s quips are dry and to the point, no filter separating what’s in his heart from what comes out of his mouth.

The words “Deep in Connecticut” are superimposed over a shot of Winters’ house. A quick cut to the interior reveals Winter flipping thru vinyl albums, selecting Robert Johnson’s King of the Delta Blues Singers and playing “Crossroads Blues” on his turntable. “That is so good,” Winter says. “I couldn’t believe it when I first heard it- nobody could play slide that good.” He sings along for a few bars before adding, “Cream did a version of it, but it wasn’t that good- not even close,” he cackles. “Every blues player in the world does a Robert Johnson song, he was just the best. If you like blues, you’re gonna love Robert.”

Winter was always gracious with his fans, hanging out long after shows, sitting in his small travel trailer signing autographs for hours. But a fan who keeps pulling out album after album from a seemingly bottomless bag for Winter to sign irks him even though he doesn’t show it until the man is gone. “Think people sometimes bring too many things to get signed?” Oliver asks Winter off-camera. “Damn right they do,” Winter says, glaring at the camera.

The film doesn’t pull any punches. Even the band makes unflattering observations about their boss. Bassist Scott Spray reveals that drummer Tommy Curiale asked him if it was OK to go out and do a gig with Winter, who weighed 90 pounds at the time and was still drinking and smoking. “Johnny was a walking skeleton,” says Curiale. “He couldn’t walk, couldn’t speak.” But with the help of a trainer and encouragement and support from guitarist/ manager Paul Nelson, Winter got better, as footage of him playing a scalding rendition of “Dust My Broom” on the David Letterman show in 2012 demonstrates. Although sitting down, Winter’s performance is as raucous and lively as some of his work years ago.

“I’ve wanted to do this since I was 12,” Winter says. “I always knew I was gonna make it in music, I was sure of it.”

But what Winter didn’t know was how badly drugs could hinder his talent and career. “Janis Joplin said ‘Anything that makes you feel that good can’t be all bad,’” Winter says. “She was wrong. It’s a terrible drug,” he says of his experience with heroin. “I had to try it.”

Winter doesn’t try to dodge his past mistakes. When producer Olliver asks him why people should watch this film, Winter replies “I’ve been through a lot of shit. I always like stories about people with drinking, drug,women problems- it’s interesting.” Olliver tells him that they don’t usually end well. “Yeah, but mine has,” Winter says, laughing.

Brother Edgar pops up to explain that a great deal of their success came as a result of their parents’ support. “Daddy was a musician, our parents knew we were special, encouraged us.” But at least one of the boys didn’t always accept the form of support that was offered. “I was in the church choir,” Winter says. “Got kicked out cause I was singing too loud.” ‘I said, “I’m not singing too loud, these other fuckers are singing way too quiet. So I quit.’”

Thankfully Winter found another outlet for his talents, performing right up until the end, passing away at the age of 70 in 2014 in Switzerland. “I’ve had one of the best lives anybody could have,” Winter says at the end of the film. “Been able to do exactly what I wanted to do, get paid for it, and have people love me for it. It’s been a great life.”