By Dennis Lund

“… If our society dictated that one had to be white or black, I would be black.” — Johnny Otis (1922-2012)

A LITTLE MORE THAN A YEAR AGO I wrote a brief tribute to Vallejo-born Johnny Otis, wishing that his “health would hold out for as long as you desire.” Mr. Otis passed away last week. I hope his passing was at a time appropriate for him and his family. After 90 years of living, one has to believe it was.

Johnny Otis was a man who lived in two worlds. Christened John Veliotes, he was born of Greek immigrants and raised in a black neighborhood of Berkeley. His music career started at 18 as part of “Count” Otis Mathews’s band, and he soon changed his name to Otis to honor the Count and because the name “sounded more black.”

Mr. Otis, who identified more with the people he grew up with than with those of his own color, made the quote at the top of this column in summarizing who he was: a man who crossed divides, a man who felt more welcome in the world of the blues.

The black community has a long history of acceptance of those of mixed race, who too often have been rejected by the white community. This has come not so much from necessity but from open, heartfelt desire.

Mr. Otis, of course, was not mixed race — he was who he was, a man who identified more, and was more identified, with the community that welcomed him. It was he who transcended skin tone to decide he was black.

His first big hit was 1945’s “Harlem Nocturne,” an instrumental tune that brings to mind the “Bright Lights, Big City” images of the streets of New York. His best-known song, though, may have been 1958’s “Hand Jive,” a song every teenage girl seemed to know in 1966 and sing in unison while doing that “crazy hand jive.”

I recall, as a teenager, staying up late on summer nights listening to the “Johnny Otis Show,” which consisted of two hours of “living room” chats with musical friends, generously broken up with songs from legendary blues and R&B singers: “Big Mama” Thornton, best known for “Hound Dog,” which Otis co-wrote, Eddie “Clean Head” Vinson, “Blind Lemon” Jefferson, “Big Joe” Turner, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Jimmy Reed, Ivory Joe Hunter and many others. (It seemed mandatory that to be a blues singer one had to have an identifiable moniker capitalizing on a physical characteristic or infirmity.)

I loved that music — the steady bass pounding, the simplicity of the beat, the lyrics that came not from the heart but the soul. And at that age I was just beginning to understand the hidden entendres in the lyrics of Etta James’s “Roll With Me Henry” or especially Big Joe’s “Shake Rattle and Roll.” I cringed when I first heard Pat Boone’s bowdlerized version of Turner’s classic, recorded to sell records to those who knew no such angst. Boone became rich while Big Joe was still singing in bars as late as the early 1980s when he was 70 years old.

But the blues were made for dark bars, soft lights, and rooms thick with smoke — rooms filled with people wanting momentary escape from life’s struggles. That’s where much of the talent thrived that Johnny Otis discovered.

Among those he discovered were James — whose passing last week at 73 garnered more notice than his — and Jackie Wilson, Big Jay Neely, Little Willie John, and Hank Ballard, who wrote “The Twist” that Chubby Checker made famous. Johnny Otis discovered Little Richard, too.

In the mid-1990s, I was reintroduced to the “Johnny Otis Show,” now broadcasting out of his home in Petaluma. I listened to it hoping to fondly resurrect memories of yesteryear. Much of the music remained the same, updated with newer stars, but the banter was a bigger factor and had turned more political, away from the stories of Los Angeles in the ’40s and early ’50’s, when Central Avenue was the center of L.A.’s dynamic jazz and blues scene, filled with many clubs and restaurants featuring such icons as Charlie Mingus, Chico Hamilton, Charlie Parker, Lionel Hampton and of course Johnny Otis.

The politics resulted in my turning off the radio — I sought memories, not discourse. But I think now Mr. Otis, recognizing a need for healing as few people could, was trying to send a heartfelt message.

In 2008, I believed the healing was upon us. We had elected a man who could bridge that divide. The president-elect — raised in a white world, but with an avidity for the black community — knew both worlds. Others also hoped for this; as testimony, recall the tears of joy on the faces at post-election celebrations. Before us lay an opportunity for the new president to close the divide.

Mr. Otis was a man to be admired and missed for many reasons, not least of which is how he transcended racial divisions, bringing a certain healing to many, myself included. I listened to Johnny Otis on a regular basis for many years before learning he was white by birth, and black by choice. Learning this, I came to a realization of the inconsequence of race.

When I heard he’d died, I pulled from my record collection his double album “Live at Monterey,” recorded in 1970. The liner notes sum up not just the album, but also Johnny Otis the man:

“This is no gallery of museum pieces set up to rekindle a lost past, no futile exercise in nostalgia; instead it is a meeting ground where ages, races and backgrounds coalesce.”

Dennis Lund graduated from California State University-Long Beach with a degree in mechanical engineering in 1981 and has resided in Benicia since 1992.