By Jeremy Burgess

Photos by Art Meripol

This story appears in Birmingham magazine's February 2017 issue. Subscribe today!

November 12, 2016 was the first time I met Henry "Gip" Gipson, but he spoke to me as if I were familiar.

We were set up on a couch inside a trailer parked alongside a driveway, one of the many hideaways residing on his property. After Gipson milled about for an hour and a half--shaking hands with old friends and new, pumping air into a four wheeler tire, and picking on his guitar as the crowd began to find their seats--I finally pulled him away from the commotion. What I expected to be an interview ended up feeling more like a sermon.

But, that's the nature of Gip's Place. For more than 60 years, the beloved Bessemer juke joint has been part concert venue, part church, part fortress of gratitude. No matter what's going on in the outside world, be it widespread political turmoil or police sent to uphold city regulations, Gip's Place provides a stronghold every Saturday night for anyone that wants to join the party.

And no man is turned away.

--



One might say that the blues is a paradox. A joyful noise born of hardship--or more accurately, an outlet of expression for a desire to overcome that hardship.

It's fitting, then, that Gipson's labor of love was born out of an act of hate.

Henry Gipson was born in Perry County, Alabama in 1920. One of his first loves was the blues, a love that guided him to juke joints throughout town.

"I used to steal out the house and go to hear people playin' as a child," Gipson says. "I could go to these places every now and then."

By 12 or 13, he began to make music of his own. "That was just picking up a guitar and foolin' around with it," Gipson says, noting that he didn't begin playing seriously until a few years later.Nevertheless, a bond had been formed.

This was before the Civil Rights Movement began to take shape, however. Opportunities were limited for Gipson, and even when he was allowed to play for an audience, he wasn't always welcomed.

One of those instances took place at a venue in Hueytown, Ala., a story that he recalls all too vividly in the documentary "Gip" by Patrick Sheehan. As Gipson was performing, a white man offered him some food, and a little girl passed him a plate minutes later--an act that a group of men took offense to, "all of it because white folks don't pass anything to black folks," as he says in the documentary. They assaulted him on the spot, stomping his body and his hands with their boots and sending him straight to the hospital.

Though Gipson's physical wounds healed, the emotional wounds remained. All was not right with the world, especially the world he'd been born into, and this latest run-in was a cruel reminder of those injustices. Feeling detached from and unsatisfied by his situation, Gipson sought to create a refuge of sorts, where all people would be treated equally and accepted unconditionally.

"This saved my life," Gipson says. "Because after I was stomped and blood was everywhere, on account of some fools being deliberate. I decided that I would do some things. Let me find out why we can't come together."

And what better way to do that than with the blues?

--

"Sometimes he's in a playin' mood, sometimes he ain't. Tonight he's in a playin' mood."

Diane Guyton, Gipson's booking agent and general confidant, let me know early on that tonight was going to be a good one.

"He ain't drinkin' right now," she adds as Gipson ironically picked at a Jack Daniel's guitar, while folks began to fill in. "He's runnin' on his water so we're doing pretty good."

At Gip's Place, Gipson is the opening act, the intermission, and the closing number. While the visiting band for the evening loads their gear onto the stage and the sound man checks the levels, the man who's played alongside the likes of B.B. King, John Lee Hooker, and Chuck Berry sits to the far side of the stage, perched below the pink and blue neon sign that bears the juke joint's moniker, picking on his guitar and singing from the heart, even when you can't make out the words.

And when he's not on the stage, he's hard to miss.

As the master of ceremonies, Gipson says hello to just about everyone that walks down his driveway and puts on a wristband. He pauses for photos, all the while shaking hands and hugging strangers and old friends alike.

There's always a new face or two at Gip's Place on a Saturday night. As Alabama's only remaining authentic juke joint--and one of the few left in the country--it's the real deal, bringing in visitors from all over the world who want to experience a piece of music history.

I'd spent nearly three decades in Alabama and had never been. But one visit on a brisk fall evening was all it took for the magic to sink in.

The cozy quarters that still left room for dancing. The rows of smoked meats cooking on the grill. The glowing green and blue lights sparkling as they reflected off the trees above. The couple who got engaged midway through the evening. The modest television projecting sounds of LSU putting a hurting on Arkansas. The dozens of tables outside surrounded by mismatched plastic chairs, wooden chairs, folding chairs, even a computer chair or two. The aging but sprightly dog, Missy, showing love to visitors just as her owner taught her. The banners and signs and photos and flyers covering every inch of the building. The coolers full of bring-your-own beers.

And of course, a diverse crowd congregating pleasantly in spite of the recent culmination of a brutal election year.

Beyond the perimeter, we were a nation divided. At Gip's Place, none of that seemed to matter.

--

Less than four years ago, the future of Gip's Place was uncertain.

City officials in Bessemer, including Mayor Kenneth Gulley, were concerned with the legitimacy of Gipson's operation. Because Gip's Place is in the middle of a residential area--despite being around longer than just about any neighbor living there--complaints surfaced of noise, traffic, parking, and other inconveniences, all of which were amplified by the fact that Gipson didn't possess a business license.

So on May 4, 2013, local police showed up (as promised) and told Gipson that he had to shut the show down or else they'd do it for him.

It was quite the ordeal, from the first rumblings of civic unrest to the official public hearing. Thankfully, there was a camera crew there to capture it all.

At first, Nashville filmmaker Patrick Sheehan only set out to do a short documentary, a sort of historical file to help preserve a cornerstone of local lore and its aging proprietor. But when the pieces began to fall into place, he

realized that he and his crew had a much bigger story on their hands.

"We knew the city had been threatening to shut him down for over a year, so we really didn't see that as part of the story," Sheehan says. "It wasn't until the city came and shut him down that we realized we were going to make a full-length documentary."

The original six-month timeline stretched to three and a half years off and on, culminating in May of 2016 when Sheehan and company "got [their] ending" after facing some structural questions.

Gipson's popularity had already been on the rise as a result of the city's attempts to shut Gip's Place down, and Sheehan's documentary--named, simply, "Gip"--is helping keep one of Alabama's sacred relics fresh in the minds of many. It premiered last summer at the Sidewalk Film Festival and has since gone on to screen at other highly-touted film festivals like Indie Memphis and Cucalorus in Wilmington, North Carolina. Plans are currently in the works to expand the film to a larger audience.

Gip's Place is a true Alabama tale, and "Gip" is the latest chapter. Lord willing, there are still a few chapters left to be written.

--

"There's no place in the world like this place here, let me tell you."

King Bee of Montgomery, Ala. was the latest band to grace the stage at Gip's Place, but their praise was an echo of all who came before them.

And why not? One might say things are better than ever at Gip's Place. Peace has been made between city officials and local police, and the turmoil only brought more attention to the juke joint. Gipson just turned 97, and as his legend continues to grow, more and more people will line up to witness his story--and to attempt to tell it.

I'm one of those people now. There were many before me, and there'll be others soon. But what is there new to say about Henry "Gip" Gipson at this point? How do you add to a story that's been told so many times?

As I soak in my surroundings, a local bystander finally checking off a long-overdue destination, I'm reminded of one of Bruce Springsteen's best lines: "The poets down here don't write nothin' at all/They just stand back and let it all be."

"Down here" is Gip's Place as much as it is anyplace else. And while I wasn't tasked with poetry per se, it was nonetheless a bit daunting.

But Gipson wasn't bothered by such as that. Because in his mind, it wasn't about him--it was about me.

"I don't know why He sent you here to want to make a recording," he says to me. "But if I was to do the thing that He said, and He said 'Turn no man away' ... and He means that today...'Turn no man away, for you may turn away your own angel' ... you might be my angel."

Minutes later, I stopped recording, and Gipson made his way to the stage to preach for a while before playing "Amazing Grace" on the harmonica to open

the show.

Saturday night didn't feel all that different from Sunday morning that weekend. We sang, we danced, we ate and drank. We came together, just as he'd

envisioned it in 1952.

And just like always, the invitation was open to all.

Details

Gip's Place | 3101 Avenue C, Bessemer | Open every Saturday at 8 p.m.