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Blues Cruise
On the trail of America's first roots music to see if and how it survives
By Eric Snider
Page 4 of 6
Delta bluesmen in the '20s and '30s played mostly solo or in duets, generally on acoustic guitars. There were some terrific axe men, but blues was primarily an art that involved singing, storytelling and rhythm. The years after World War I saw a steady migration of African-Americans from the South to urban centers like Chicago and Detroit. Blues came along for the ride, and in the '40s -- sparked by pioneers like Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson and Sunnyland Slim -- electric guitars, pianos, drums, basses, harmonicas and horns fleshed out the Delta sound to cater to urban dance crowds. From there it was but a short hop to rock "n' roll.
Today's Mississippi blues is mostly electric but compact -- sometimes featuring just a singer/guitarist and a drummer. The vocals are guttural and expressive, the playing largely free of contrivance. During our travels, we did not find the next Robert Johnson. We knew we wouldn't. By and large, the musicians we encountered had reached a career level commensurate with their talent. They were solid, earnest and occasionally inspired.
The clubs we hit were dives -- no ferns in sight -- but not disgusting. Even better were the handful of private performances that we experienced in musicians' homes -- by Super Chikan, 53, in his Clarksdale shed (playing a "chikantar," which he custom builds by putting a guitar neck on a five-gallon gas can); or by Little Freddie King, a native of McComb, Miss., picking a shiny National steel in his New Orleans apartment.
Near the end of our jaunt, we stopped in Natchez, a quaint casino town on the Mississippi River, south of the Delta. We arrived at the home of 71-year-old Elmo Williams in the early afternoon. He showed us into a dimly lit family room where his wife, Fanny, was watching a big-screen TV. His partner, drummer/ harmonica player Hezekiah Early, had not yet arrived.
"What kind of blues would you say you play?" I asked Williams.
"Rock "n' roll," his wife chirped playfully from across the room.
"Nah, it ain't rock "n' roll," Elmo said in a slow, gravely drawl, then looking toward Fanny, "Wait a minute, let me talk."
After a pleasant round of laughter, I told him the best way I would describe his rough-and-tumble CD with Early (Takes One to Know One) would be "wild blues."
"Yeah, you's could call "em wild blues," he said with a hint of a prideful grin.
Early, trim and youthful at 70, showed up with his harmonica but no drums and explained how he'd come to play both instruments at once (he duct-tapes the harp to a mic stand to free his hands). When Muhammad Ali came to Natchez in the "70s to film Freedom Road, he needed a harmonica player. Hezekiah landed the gig, worked 12 hours, made $100 cash and got some good advice. Ali urged him to learn to play both at once. So Hezekiah did just that.
The fellas felt like playing. Elmo pulled a Marshall amp into the living room and plugged in his black, hollow-body guitar. Hezekiah followed suit with his harmonica cord. Seated, they wandered into a shuffle groove that evolved into the standard "That's All Right Blues." Elmo showed off his uncanny vocal rendition of a harmonica and Hez joined him in an easygoing duet. The partners played a convivial, laid-back couple of songs that were quite removed from the wild style of their album. For the guys with the press card, the Cadillac and the pale pigmentation, though, it was a terrific way to spend an hour on a lovely Monday afternoon.
R .L. Burnside may well be the last of the great Mississippi bluesmen. Not that long ago, he made some pretty good money. Now he lives in poverty. We took the unintended scenic route to find his home, about 10 miles outside of Holly Springs, in an area marked by small, undulating hills.
His dingy trailer, catty-corner to another, sat in a gully with mud puddles, cars on blocks, old tires and other detritus strewn about. A half-dozen of his "13 or 14" grandkids, and about that many adults, milled in and around the home. Burnside, 77, sat on an old sofa within arm's reach of a rotary telephone. He barely moved. His cloudy eyes looked straight ahead.
Talking slowly and dropping consonants, a faint smile etched on his face, Burnside told us about the heart attack he had a year ago, followed by open-heart surgery. He doesn't gig anymore -- one can see why -- but he occasionally plays around the trailer. When I asked if he'd do us the honor, he politely declined, saying that someone had messed up his guitar.
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