Chasing the ghost of Robert Johnson
Sometime in my early 20s, I fell in love with that beautiful yet enigmatic sound of the BLUES.
As soon as I heard those painful wails from Son House and Howlin’ Wolf, and that mournful guitar playin’ of Robert Johnson, and that erratic cry of the harmonica by Little Walter and Sonny Boy Williamson, and that somber yet soulful voice of Bessie Smith, I was hooked for life.
It did something to the soul and I never did quite recover. I devoured all the books I could find about this raw art form. I read biographies, learned about the toilsome lives of these old bluesmen, and the place they came from.
The Mississippi Delta. I had to go and experience it for myself.
So here I am, torn Levis, battered soul, and that old trucker hat sittin’ loosely on my hungover head, cruising down legendary Highway 61 south out of Memphis with the windows down and the radio up as Jim Morrison wails those Roadhouse Blues.
The future is uncertain and the end is always near.
Those words bite deep. I’m in a mood, man, and I figure there’s nothing left to do but LIVE and let go of the grudges and seek out moments that set the core ablaze with ecstasy. That’s my aim.
With a full tank of gas, a light rucksack, and a styrofoam cooler of cold brews sloshing around in the trunk, I’m heading down to a barren place of grueling poverty and open skies to discover the music of it all.
I’m in the Mississippi Delta. Deep down in it. The most southern place on earth. It doesn’t take too long driving around here to realize that this is one of the few places left in this country unscathed by the gnarled appetite of modernity.
And I’m here for it.
by Erik Rittenberry
from Poetic Outlaws
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