ROCK HILL He swims in the snazzy suit, too big now, with a little fray to the trouser cuffs. But still sharp. Just like one of his old bands, Sammie Moore and the Sharps, named for their sharp clothes.
The socks are red, the tie striped and knotted perfectly. A few hairs that were processed for decades cover the sides of his head, but the top is shiny bald. Not a God-given tooth in his mouth.
But the 69-year-old fingers are lithe and quick and magic.
The smile might be even better.
On Hagins Street in Rock Hill, on his sister s porch, Ironing Board Sam is finally home.
He s home 43 years after he last stopped in. And 53 years after he first left Crawford Road on a bicycle, with 11 cents in his pocket, to play rhythm and blues.
He learned to play boogie-woogie on a pipe organ at church, like a thousand other bluesmen did.
He says Bobby Plair Sr., one of Rock Hill s oldest and longest-playing musicians, gave him his start playing keyboards and paid him $10 for a gig all those years ago. Plair said, Could be, but it s been so long ago.
In Rock Hill all those years ago, there was no Ironing Board Sam. Just a memory of a skinny kid named Sammie Moore.
The nickname he carries comes from a keyboard he rigged into an ironing board after his organ burned up.
The hook caught on, so he set up future keyboards on an ironing board when he played.
Make a name for yourself, you run with it, Ironing Board Sam said.
He started in house juke joints in Winston-Salem, N.
C., where a brother lived, then headed south to Miami, where he caught on with Nature Boy Robert Montgomery and later a band called The Five Men of Rhythm.
He said he played with Frankie Lyman of doo-wop fame and Isaac Hayes and Jimi Hendrix at clubs.
He played Nashville and Memphis and was on an old television show for black entertainers from decades ago called Night Train.
He laid down a few records, and played anywhere and everywhere.
In 1964, his father died, and Sam came home.
He played a gig in Charlotte and left again. A kid then 9 years old named Larry Miller, his nephew, remembered the visit.
Drove a big Buick, he did, and I got in trouble because I sat in the back seat and messed with some pictures he had back there, Miller remembered like it was yesterday.
Over the years, Sam played in New Orleans and Europe and claims to have played in the 48 mainland states of America. He played one time in an aquarium. His ironing board keyboard was always the hustle.
The voice and the magic fingers did the rest.
He burned through a white 59 Cadillac, a canary yellow 64 Cadillac and countless other big cars, four wives and a million all-nighters. He drank because, Music playin men, they drink sometimes, you know, Ironing Board Sam said.
He always played. For big money or small money.
Like so many in the music industry who were never the biggest stars, Ironing Board Sam lived by his wits.
When he had money, he spent it. When he didn t, he moved on and made more.
When he had a car, he drove one.
When he didn t, he walked or took the bus.
None of the photos from the old days remains with him. He doesn t have a single CD or record he ever made.
He has just one videotape of two Night Train appearances.
But the fingers travel with him. The voice, too.
He knows countless songs, and will play them if anybody asks. His voice still soars.
He sings his owns songs, plus Fats Domino, James Brown and old blues classics and so much more.
He carries a portable keyboard and an extension cord to find power.
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