Imagining Robert Johnson:
A Fictional Account of the Bluesman
Scores of books and articles attempt to capture the story of Robert Johnson. But so much of his life remains unknown. This small book tries to fill in those holes based on the spirit of his music.
As a music reviewer for a newspaper in upstate New York covering nearly 50 shows a year, I still hear the Delta bluesmen in the bones of today’s commercial music.This book is for those who hear that too--who hear the echo of Mr. Johnson leaving town, leaving a woman, waiting for his train, sitting against a tree strumming his guitar, searching for his next song.
Excerpts
-- --
He walked across the room, sat in the chair near the lamp, took out his notebook and looked at the line “blues falling down like hail.” He didn’t think he could do better than that line, and he thought about crafting a song around that line. He wanted it to be the only line in the song. He knew no one would record a song with one line, though he equally knew that the song should be no more than that. Someday, he thought, someday they’ll hear his ideas, beyond anything people are playing now . . . but for now, he’ll abide by the rules, it’s a white man’s game and he wanted in more than anything else.
-- --
He sang again the final two lines: “But I’m leavin’ this mornin’, I believe I will go back home.” He opened his throat and repeated the line with more muscle. Then he pulled it back, and repeated it over and over, softer and softer until he ended with a whisper, the small group of listeners leaning forward to hear. It was inaudible from the back rows, but they could see he was still inside the song, so everyone stayed silent, still in his grasp until he looked up, met their eyes and smiled. He knew he could hold still any crowd, pull them into the world of his song, and then release them. He needed the right place, and the right people. A street corner was not the right place, but it was the right people.
A Fictional Account of the Bluesman
Scores of books and articles attempt to capture the story of Robert Johnson. But so much of his life remains unknown. This small book tries to fill in those holes based on the spirit of his music.
As a music reviewer for a newspaper in upstate New York covering nearly 50 shows a year, I still hear the Delta bluesmen in the bones of today’s commercial music.This book is for those who hear that too--who hear the echo of Mr. Johnson leaving town, leaving a woman, waiting for his train, sitting against a tree strumming his guitar, searching for his next song.
Excerpts
-- --
He walked across the room, sat in the chair near the lamp, took out his notebook and looked at the line “blues falling down like hail.” He didn’t think he could do better than that line, and he thought about crafting a song around that line. He wanted it to be the only line in the song. He knew no one would record a song with one line, though he equally knew that the song should be no more than that. Someday, he thought, someday they’ll hear his ideas, beyond anything people are playing now . . . but for now, he’ll abide by the rules, it’s a white man’s game and he wanted in more than anything else.
-- --
He sang again the final two lines: “But I’m leavin’ this mornin’, I believe I will go back home.” He opened his throat and repeated the line with more muscle. Then he pulled it back, and repeated it over and over, softer and softer until he ended with a whisper, the small group of listeners leaning forward to hear. It was inaudible from the back rows, but they could see he was still inside the song, so everyone stayed silent, still in his grasp until he looked up, met their eyes and smiled. He knew he could hold still any crowd, pull them into the world of his song, and then release them. He needed the right place, and the right people. A street corner was not the right place, but it was the right people.
-- --
He looked around at the men asleep in the dark corners of the boxcar. Is that a white guy in the corner? He felt these invisible travelers to be more his kin than his own blood. Together they were Depression casualties, perpetually on the run, each with their reasons, their own self-righteous stories. RJ knew that this living, this freedom they so-called enjoyed, was one fine line away from a steel chain on the ankle, 10 hot hours in the fields, white or black. A lynching was always one mistake away. “Any of us could wake up any time and find ourselves ankle-chained to a line of strangers,” he whispered, plucking a single string and bending up the note.
-- --
He recently started to bring his songs to a full stop, hold it there, make time stand still, and then jerk it forward. But he liked how this new jazz stuff kept the beat moving right through the number—no stopping or slowing anywhere—that kind of steady and dependable forward motion worked well for dance numbers, and if he had to improve any part of his performance, it was to better accommodate the dancers.He knew if he was to make a living as a bluesman, he was an entertainer first, a musician second.
-- --
RJ had been thinking a long time about adding a set of drums to his sound. Too often he heard tired spots in corners of the tune that needed a type of energy he couldn’t provide. He often wished he had someone else to propel the song forward, to provide motion, or the illusion of motion, so that he could focus on the song, and not just advancing the song. . . . He was pleased with his new drummer. It gave his songs a fresh outlook, revealing parts of the song that he didn’t notice before.
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