The Blues

When I wore “a younger man’s clothes,” I was introduced to the blues by some guys with whom I served in the military. I grew up with jazz and country music in the house. Blues took a bit long to enter my life. Lately, I’ve reacquainted myself with the musical musings that, in some way, connect with me. Certainly most of the blues musicians I admire had it much worse than me; still, my first exposure to the blues was eye opening and life changing.

When I mention the blues, I prefer listening to some of the older guys – artists such as Robert Johnson, Son House, Big Bill Broonzy, Mississippi John Hurt and Skip James. In their lyrics and in their voices, one can feel pain. It is this quality that impacted me more than anything else. I appreciate some of the newer guys (with blues, newer means the 1960s and 1970s). Guys like Albert King and bar rocker Hounddog Taylor play a style of blues more analogous to the classic rock music with which I grew up. However, for all their bravado, there is something more authentic to be gleaned from the powerful voices, deft guitar playing and frightening wails of the older men who lived through the worse of racial hatred and economic depression.

The jazz movement was a natural extension of the blues and big band music of the 1920s and 1930s. Blues and country have so much in common – particularly some of the classic country music and not the over-stylized and over-produced mess that exists today. The same pain seen in blues musicians can also be heard in the tales of woe from early country stars. Yet, I still come back to the blues. The expression of life’s turmoil and difficulty is so real in their voices and lyrics and in the quality of their playing, it puts into perspective some of the new crop of singers attempting the same sound. What makes the newer music incompatible with the classic blues musicians are that the voice rings hollow…false. They have not lived it and so they are left to mimic it.

I encourage you to gravitate towards the sound of lost or spurned love as heard in Broonzy’s “Frankie and Johnny” or James' "Devil Got My Woman." Listen to a mixture of the old style religion and blues of Delta Blues legend, Son House, in “John the Revelator.” I dare you to listen to Robert Johnson and not think of the legend that suggests he sold his soul to the Devil for a chance at fame and fortune. He died so young, it seems to validate the story or at the least, give weight to the emotions he conveyed. These men (and women) who played the notes and belted out the songs represented the voice of generations and decades of misery, marginal living and hopes unrealized. Music was one of their joys and they used the medium to tell their story.

American music means a great many things to a great many people today. Each style claims an authenticity. However, if I may be a bit of a music snob, the blues represent the first true American music. Its devotees are spread throughout the world but we can visit the regions and hear the sounds and see the settings for ourselves. There is something timeless about their stories and I’ve been enthralled since my first exposure. If the blues ever became chic again, I would bemoan the Johnny-come-latelys but I implore more to venture into a record store (if you can find one) and connect. If you are open to it, it will change your life and your perspective.