Monday, February 20, 2017

Only Remembering Robert (Not Claiming to Mark a Damn Thing)

Greenwood Commonwealth, Mar 26, 1992.

by John Butch (in the Greenwood Commonwealth December 29, 1999)

Arthneice Jones has played the blues most of his life and doesn’t expect it to live much past his generation of musicians. Truth is, said Jones, a Glendora native in his mid-50s, the younger folks don’t know the blues he knew growing up in a rural, segregated, dead-end Mississippi. And they wouldn’t want to.

Walking down Issaquena Avenue during Clarksdale’s Sunflower Blues Festival this fall, Jones looked toward the refurbished train station that will house the expanded Delta Blues Museum. He then pointed beneath the railroad trestle to the decay of what used to be the “black” downtown where President Clinton stood for his photo opportunities during his July visit.

“The blues ain’t on this side of those tracks,” Jones' said. “It’s on that side.”

Many say the blues are as dead as the legendary Robert Johnson in the Delta, killed by the mechanical cotton picker and technology, the depths of yesteryears pain soothed by todays easy comforts and universal civil rights.

Musically, it has given way to hip-hop, soul, country - nothing resembling the piteous moan of Johnson’s vocals. A few older players still teach, but more in the manner of historians keeping a traditional craft alive than as a living, evolving art form. Socially, Jones maintains, life has become too comfortable and predictable for even the most down-and-out. 

James Thomas Jr., whose father Son Thomas was one of the Delta’s more well-known latter-day bluesmen, said he sings to honor his father’s memory. Thomas hopes the next generation of African Americans rediscovers the blues and adopts it as its heritage.

“When I go play, it’s something for him and me to go promote his music--to get everybody to feel the blues,” Thomas said of his father. “Like he said, there’s a lot of ways to feel the blues. Have a good woman, she quits you, that’s the blues. Ain’t got no money, that’s the blues. You know if you’re broke you got the blues right there. I’m living a life of music I hope will mean more later on.

A $10,000 cenotaph honors a person buried elsewhere--the legendary Delta bluesman Robert Johnson--at the Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church cemetery in Morgan City. The other side has a photo of Johnson (right). NO BIRTH OR DEATH DATES--a prime indicator of grave markers.

Tom Hagenaars, 33 (left) and Irene Smits, 31, both of the Netherlands, share stories about Johnson with Bert Robertson, Greenwood fire-fighter and former Morgan City. catfish farmer, and Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist Church pastor the Rev. James Ratliff Jr. (right). while looking through guide books in the Mt. Zion cemetery where Johnson is not buried but honored like a BOSS.

“He died back in 1938, and I didn't even get on this earth until 1948," said James Ratliff Jr., pastor of Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church, where Robert Johnson is reportedly buried. Ratliff said he believes Johnson's body would have been buried away from the church near the highway. “lt he was out here at all,” he said.

What’s left are the memories, museums and the music. And the legacy of the musicians. In Morgan City, for instance. they come from around the world to pay homage to Robert Johnson.

Once there, visitors like Dutch couple Tom Hagenaars and Irene Smits do the things common to modern-day pilgrims who seek cultural icons where their ancestors might have sought religion. They compare notes with their travel guide. Pose for pictures with the “King of the Delta Blues Singers” monument erected in Johnson’s honor, and chat with the Rev. James Ratliff`Jr. of the Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church, where a $10000 stone obelisk stands on the spot where Johnson's ole evil spirit would have caught that afterlife Greyhound Bus, and took off smooth into the never...... 

Hagenaars. 31, doesn’t play an instrument, Smits confided as her boyfriend circled the monument. Smits, 25, watched as Hagenaars carefully stepped over plastic flowers, beads. cigarette butts, guitar picks and other flotsam left as Johnson’s tribute - reading every word of the rich engraving. He lives for the music, she said. “lt`s because I`m a big Rolling Stones fan that we came. If you dig deeper into their music, you have to come here," Hagenaars said. He was delighted to find Love In Vain, which the Stones covered on their 1969 album Let It Bleed, at the top of the list of Johnson’s songs etched into the marker

Don‘t Get Their Due

With few exceptions - the obvious being BB. King, who has transcended the genre by recording with major stars across the rock and pop universe, and John Lee Hooker, who no longer records because of ill health -- white musicians from the Stones to Erie Clapton to the late Stevie Ray Vaughn to Johnny Lang have become the blues guitar heroes.

"Disco and rap music got the rap generation with Boom! Boom! Got the one beat to it." Thomas said. "Lot of young whites play good blues and are really interested in it. I think the white players like it because of the feeling they have, something really fascinating – the sound. The feeling is different, but a good blues sound is good music and they like to listen to it.”

Wade Walton. 76, a Clarksdale barber for 55 years. signed his first blues recording contract in 1958. He said many of the white players like Vaughn and the local bands that circulate through Southern blues festivals have the music. But they don’t have the personal experience to make it original. “The way we lived was a lot of it. When they come to town, they had a curfew, 12 o’clock. That was for black people,” he said “I’ve been mistreated in this town. The police, they was all white then, used to go upside my head with a blackjack.”

Walton said he began wearing his trademark barber’s coat as a form of identification, hoping police would recognize him and leave him alone: “The blues come from that kind of stuff. Hard times. Good times. No money. The blues come from that. I wouldn’t think a lot of the kids understand. A lot don’t pay attention to it. They don’t seem to get into the blues.”

An Early Lesson

Marco Stewart, a Clarksdale native, learned about the blues sitting in Walton’s barber chair as a kid. The older man played harmonica and the strop, beating out time as he sharpened his razor on the thick leather.

A successful West Coast rap and R&B producer, Stewart is attempting to showcase some of the old blues artists as well as expose the Delta to other live music through Mingles Sports Bar & Coffee House. The first of what he hopes will become a Delta franchise has opened in Clarksdale’s train depot, which he’d like to see turned into a miniature Beale Street.

Stewart said he plays around with the blues but never plays it. It does, he said, influence his musical style as a producer. "lt takes listening to someone who created it and was around it years and years. You never get the full understanding of it in a week or two weeks: it`s impossible. That’s why you’ve got to have so much respect for old blues," Stewart said.

“I don’t see that much of it anymore. Not that that’s bad, but you can’t take away from what was real. Years ago, in the '50s and ’60s. it was real. Now, basically, we’re just copycats. We’re trying to copy the style, trying to copy Muddy Waters and Ike Turner. If we want to keep that tradition alive, it takes time, practice and dedication. You really have to be sincere with it.”

To countless thousands of visitors from around the world, the Delta, with its vast cotton fields, cypress swamps and rich, flat land, is the blues. This is the land that spawned King and Hooker. Muddy Waters and Willie Dixon. Son House and, of course, the man whose grave Hagenaars came to see.

It can be argued that without Mississippi’s bluesmen, seminal British rock bands like the Stones, the Yardbirds, Cream and Led Zeppelin never would have existed. Their albums carry songwriting credits by Mississippi-born bluesmen, many of whom left to form the core of the Chicago blues scene.

Ratliff had never heard of Johnson until 1991, when a New Jersey music preservationist approached his congregation with the idea of placing a monument in the cemetery where Johnson was once rumored to be buried. That’s after the Payne Chapel Missionary Baptist Church in Quito, a couple of miles north on Mississippi 3, which [IS NOT HIS BURIAL SITE], turned down the opportunity. Johnson, as history tells it, was poisoned by a jealous woman after performing in a Three Forks honkytonk. [PROBLEM WAS THAT THREE FORKS IS UP NEAR FORT PEMBERTON NOT QUITO] 

“Some of the older people don`t think the blues ought to have no connection with religion,” said Payne Chapel church deacon Richard Johnson, no relation. And certainly not with Robert Johnson, whom legend has it sold his soul to the devil at a Delta crossroads.

Mount Zion had no such qualms regarding Johnson, Ratliff said. “He died in 1938, and I didn’t even get on this earth until 1948,” he said. “I’ve always been open-minded. Blues don’t have nothing to do with salvation. If you believe in Jesus, that’s all you need to do. There’s no harm in this monument out here. Folks could use churching up.”

Ratliff believes Johnson’s body was probably buried by an old oak tree near the road in the Mount Zion cemetery. “if he was out here at all." The Payne Chapel contingent, who have since laid a small headstone with Johnson’s name on it in their cemetery, have the word of one of Johnson’s old girlfriends “before she got too old and started forgetting.” Richard Johnson said. The dispute is friendly enough. Both churches get their share of visitors. [NOT TOO MUCH ANYMORE]

International Language

Bert Robertson. a Greenwood firefighter and former Morgan City catfish farmer had never heard of Johnson either until the tourists began coming in. Though Robertson has met visitors from all over the world two bewildered Japanese tourists encountered in the Morgan City post office rank among the most memorable.

Robertson speaks no Japanese. Their English wasn’t much better. After failing to understand “Where grabe?" - repeated loudly a number of times apparently to overcome the language barrier. Robertson said one of the tourists tried another phrase. Only later, Robertson said, did he figure out it was air attempt at "blues singer." 

Frustrated. one finally began playing an air guitar. “I said, `Oh, Robert Johnson. Come with me. I`ll show you where he is.` " Robertson said, laughing at the memory. “They came all this way and couldn’t even speak English. They flew from Japan to Los Angeles and drove a car to Morgan City to see this. “It happens all the time."

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Music to the Ears: Willie T. Narmour’s Carroll County Blues

Music to the Ears:
Willie T. Narmour’s Carroll County Blues
Kicked off a Music Career that is the Stuff of Legends
Compiled for your benefit by the
The Mt. Zion Memorial Fund

Coleman Narmour of Carrollton recounts this story his father, fiddler Willie T. Narmour, told him about the origin of his enduring hit tune, "Carroll County Blues: "

"He said he was leaving Leflore one fall. He'd taken a wagonload of cotton to the gin that morning. You'd have to wait your turn in line, so between sundown and dark his cotton had been ginned, and he and his mules were heading on back home. A little black boy was sitting on a train depot with a jew’s harp, trying to mock a train. From that, he got the tune and got to fiddling the next day on the 'Carroll County Blues."

Willie Narmour and his partner, Shell Smith, recorded the song in 1929 and went on to make a slew of other records before the Depression nearly squeezed life out of the recording industry and then changing times altered the quality and tastes of it.

"Carroll County Blues" became a legend and was subsequently recorded by many other musicians. Regionally at least, it's in live repertoires, a rousing hillbilly, then redneck standard. Yet Narmour's daughter, Hazel Wiggins of near Holcomb, will say quickly and decisively, "Nobody else can play 'Carroll County Blues.' And there wasn't a 'Carroll County Blues' until they went to the studio and recorded it."

Smith and Narmour, buddies, dirt poor fanners, played guitar and fiddled for country dances. They were a county item long before they were discovered by scouts from Okeh Records at a fiddling contest at Winona in 1927. Such contests, Wiggins recalls, "Daddy always won, until they wouldn't let him enter anymore."

Neither wanted to go on tour. While stories of how they entertained their fellow passengers during train trips to recording sessions regaled their families and friends, the truth is, Narmour and Smith were home boys. 

Narmour's daughter shared memories of her father working out tunes, for which he and Smith had no names and which they couldn't commit to paper, because neither could read nor write music. Names of these nostalgic tunes were created simply because there had to be titles for the record labels.

Titles, such as "Captain George Has Your Money Come," "Where the Southern Crosses the Dog", "Sweet Milk & Peaches Breakdown," "Winona Echoes Waltz" and 'Who's Been Giving You Corn?' were products of discussions between the recording people and the artists "on the spot", Wiggins said.

Several tunes bear the root, “Charleston,” referring not to the type of tune, but to a town in neighboring Tallahatchie County, and "Carroll County Blues" came because Narmour and Smith thought it appropriate to name one of the tunes for where they lived.

To Carroll Countians, Narmour and Smith were true, and at home their fame never waned. It would be the connoisseurs and the record collectors in decades to come, however, who would rediscover the old Narmour and Smith recordings and assure their niche in American music history.

“Carroll County Blues" became a legend and was subsequently recorded by many other musicians. Regionally at least, it's in live repertoires, a rousing redneck standard.

Among those are Joe Bussard of Frederick, Md., whose 25,000-piece collection includes most of the N&S records as well as early records by the partners' neighbor, John Hurt, who became internationally known after a blues historian named Tom Hoskins found him in 1963.

Narmour and Smith were responsible for Hurt's first brush with the record industry They recommended their neighbor when talent scouts asked them if they knew any good black guitarists. (for more on N&S and Hurt, click here

In 1963, it was too late for Narmour's second chance. He had a minor stroke in the mid-1950s and a massive stroke killed him March 24, 1961. He was born March 22, 1889.

During his exploratory trip into Mississippi in the 1960s Hoskins spoke with Smith, who had been working as custodian at nearby Valley High School, a country school that closed in the late 1960s. It was also too late for Smith, whose "boom-chang" guitar underscores his and Narmour's now-precious recordings. Smith, born Nov. 26, 1895, died Aug. 28, 1968.

Greenwood Commonwealth
Mar 24, 1961.

Their graves are marked by modest headstones in cemeteries along the road from Valley. Narmour, whose day to day work included driving a school bus, farming, and in the 1930s, running a mechanic's garage at Avalon, is buried in the Pisgah Cemetery alongside his widow, Velma Carroll Narmour, who died in 1978. Smith is buried in Moore's Memorial Cemetery behind Pisgah Church. His widow, Lillian Kirby, died April 17, 1985, and is buried next to him. Narmour's last job was on the District 2 road crew. In Carroll County Miss., of course. Hurt, who died in 1966, is buried in a wooded glade along the edge of Valley Hill, overlooking Avalon. The cemetery was associated with St. James Church No.1, and people are still being buried there.

Born poor, Narmour (pronounced similarly to "armor") and Smith died poor and played out their lives true to the bone among the people for whom they played at socials and picnics and especially, the country dances which prevailed as primary entertainment. They had little formal education and couldn't read music.

The inability to read music meant they couldn't write the compositions down, preserving them in that manner for the ages.  Among their own, they long had validation. Purists keep the faith around the globe now.

Hoskins, a resident of North Carolina, declared in 1997, “Narmour was a darn good fiddler, with his own style, a distinctive style from the Appalachian, Georgia, or Arkansas fiddlers. Smith was a 'boom-chang guitar player, with a pick most likely, a flat sort of pick.”

A reviewer writing in the Spring 1996 edition of “Old Time Herald” about a recent release in England which included selections from N&S, described Smith's style as "steamroller" and promised listeners they would soon fall in love with this old time music. Descendants of the pair wish N&S recordings were more accessible to a new generation that has had the opportunity to hear works by black blues artists such as Hurt and Robert Johnson through, for example, high-powered record companies like Sony.

The same promotion, however, doesn't seem immediate for the white country pioneers, such as the Carroll County duo.

Steve LaVere, a music historian, points out that the more people e are exposed to N & S, the greater the demand for their records — no matter the quality. He disputed some latter-day critics, who describe Narmour and Smith as having a "bluesy sound."

LaVere said, "No, I’d call it old-fashioned country fiddling, along with Smith's guitar 'Carroll County Blues' especially had a tune that was quite infectious, and even the waltzes were lilting, attractive. They played totally and entirely by feel, not how it 'should' be played."

This philosophy plays true to the folk-lore, the "way it was" for these old-time fiddlers and their neighbors.

"If you had a strong enough house, you could have a good 'stomp' there," said Coleman Narmour, Willie's son, who lives in Itta Bena.

Country dances were routinely held in rural Mississippi prior to World War H, especially. "I tagged along a lot myself, whether or not Daddy was playing."

Narmour, 73 at the time of the interview in 1997, at age 18 left the county his father and Shell Smith fiddled and picked into legend 70 years earlier, but Carroll County stayed in his blood.

"You worked hard in those days," he said, "you plowed with a middle-buster. We didn't have no jet planes. We got T Models and A Models and didn't have no roads to put those on. Now you zoom through Carroll County 70 miles an hour. I used to ride a horse from Valley to Carrollton to the gristmill."

Arnie Watson, nearly 90 and uncle of U.S. Sen.Trent Lott, says 1930s Carroll County was a wild place, and in the Val-ley area, where Watson partly grew up, "there was a bootlegger in every hollow"

Harmon Mullins, in his 90s, recalls he "went around with 'ern (Narmour and Smith) some. I couldn't dance. rd get drunk They were supposed to get a lot of money and got messed out of it some way. I've heard people try to play 'Carroll County Blues', but nobody could do it like they could."

Keith Worrell of Greenwood grew up in the 1950s and 1960s at Valley, where his father was school principal. Worrell, a musician and radio engineer, well remem-bers Smith especially and endorses restoration or digitalization of the old recordings.

Smith, he said, was "a man of few words, but his wife was my best pal." Worrell also endorses establishing a memorial to these musicians, largely unsung, who lived and modestly practiced their craft within a few miles of each other at Valley.

Watson recalled, "You could stand out at the end of a field on the old Narmour place and look out across Avalon. Willie and Shell played at an all-night party on my 21st birthday, and John Hurt 'spelled' them. The cultures, black and white, did-n't mix, but John Hurt had his style, and they had theirs. Shell and Willie were just country boys; they went to New York and put those songs out, but continued to stay home, play for country dances, and make crops."

For making the records, Watson says, the story is they "got $350 – and that's all they ever got."

Collector Bussard, who offers tapes from records in his collection from his home at 6610 Cherry Hill Drive, Frederick, Maryland 21702, telephone 301-662-6666, says a Narmour and Smith recording "in mint condition is worth from $100-$200, maybe more."

Musicians of their time, he said, were paid about $50 per side per record, and few got royalties.

"You could stand out at the end of a field on the old Narmour place and look out across Avalon. Willie and Shell played at an all-night party on my 21st birthday, and John Hurt 'spelled' them. John Hurt had his style, and they had theirs. Shell and Willie were just country boys; they went to New York and put those songs out, but continued to stay home, play for country dances, and make crops."-  Arnie Mason

The Brownsville Herald,
Nov 28, 1934.
Laura Oakes of Greenwood, Narmour's granddaughter, has one of the N&S records, an Okeh. She recalls going to a blues festival in Clarksdale, where one of the performers, "Philadelphia" Jerry Ricks, embraced her appreciatively after learning her grandfather's identity.

Narmour left Mrs. Oakes' brother, Chip Narmour, also of Greenwood, one of his battered, long-played fiddles, and her young daughter, Anna Kathryn Oakes, dances kinetically to both the black blues recordings brought home by her father, Richard Oakes, and to bootleg tapes of her great-grandfather's music.

"What I would like," said Mrs. Oakes, "is for people to always have access to Grand-daddy's music. It's so hard to find copies of records that aren't badly scratched. This access I'd like especially for my relatives, and for people who grew up in Carroll County and don't have access anymore. Just like Anna Kathryn, they'll never meet him." (Born in 1955, she remembers her grandfather, but she never met Shell Smith.)

Wiggins said, "When Daddy did 'Carroll County Blues,' he did it all in his head, like with my math problems, but he couldn't write it down on paper.

"He got to whistling what he could hear in his head and call me, Sis, listen to me, what I am playing, and had me whistle while he worked it. I'd say, 'Why, that's pretty, what is it? He said, don't know, Sis, but we're going to find out. Set here and whistle and fill in.'"

Wiggins, 79 at the time of the interview, describes her father as a small man, about 5 feet, 5 inches tall, with deep blue eyes and curly black hair "He was a Frenchman, you know," she said. His personality, she says, was as engaging as his fiddle play. This claim is backed up by people who knew him, like Arnie Watson. "Have you swept around your door?" he'd say to people who'd criticize others, Wiggins said. He wasn't typically religious, but he'd attend church at nearby Pisgah occasionally. His father, John Narmour, was also a fiddler, who made Narmour learn on an instrument made out of a cigar box before getting his son a real one.

Frequent musical evenings also provided an excuse, or outlet, for music when Wiggins was growing up. "Uncle Henry (Narmour) could also play fiddle, or he'd beat straws, we called it. It wasn't really straws, but perhaps drumsticks in time, or play bass fiddle. Oh, Aunt Jimmie could sing! Uncle Henry'd get up and buck dance up a storm. Now, they call it 'clogging', but it's the same thing."

Others can't recreate "Carroll County Blues" as her father created it and played it with Shell Smith. "I've heard 'em try," she allowed. The late Grover Duke, whose grave is also in the old Pisgah Cemetery, could "play it as well as anyone else could," she said.

Duke's widow, Sue Duke, born in 1947, married her father's good friend after her first marriage failed. She has had her own band for decades, playing keyboard and piano. She first heard "Carroll County Blues" at age 3, on her great-grandfather Hamp Corder's front porch. Duke was playing it on the guitar.

She explains what she considers the basic difference between the original and more modern versions of the famous corn-position. "What people are doing is adding more bars to a measure on the turn-around, when another verse is to be done," she explained.

Duke follows latter traditions and routinely produces rousing versions when the song is requested, which is often. Even if she and others think their interpretations work better musically, truth is, she says, to do "Carroll County Blues" exactly as Narmour and Smith did, an artist has to be able to "hear" the subtle nuances. No can do, Duke admits.

It's a piece of history, that song, above all the other hits Narmour and Smith produced.

It's a standard, a rousing, redneck standard claimed on occasion by Carroll Countians from other states whose make-up includes a Carroll County – but isn't the right Carroll County. Just to set the record straight.

"He got to whistling what he could hear in his head and call me, `Sis, listen to me, what I am playing, and had me whistle while he worked it. I'd say, 'Why, that's pretty; what is it?' He said, 'I don't know, Sis, but we're going to find out. Set here and whistle and fill in.'" - Sue Duke

"On The Trail Of a Delta Bluesman"

"On The Trail Of a Delta Bluesman"
Eddie 'Son' House sang the blue's in Mississippi in the '20s. Then he vanished. 
He sang them again in Rochester in the '60s. Then he vanished again. 
By Rich Gardner

AT 8:33 P.M. ON JUNE 23, 1964, three young men walked up to an apartment house at 61 Greig St. in Rochester, having driven straight through from Memphis, Tenn. A neatly dressed black man and woman were standing on the steps. One of the young men asked, "Can you tell us which apartment Son-House lives in?" "This is him," replied the man. 

BY 1930 THE BLUES STYLE OF SON HOUSE already was drawing attention from outside his homeland in the Yazoo River Delta of Mississippi. His poignant lyrics, sung in a rich baritone marked with spontaneous falsettos, told of unrequited loves and the harsh reality of working long hours for the white man. The distinctive snapping of strings against his steel guitar was his trademark. He first recorded for Paramount records that year in Wisconsin. Son House worked the cotton fields by day, but his off time was spent with two other bluesmen, Charlie Patton and Willie Brown. Together they played the blues all around the Delta country in "barrelhouses." 

Charlie died in 1934, but Son and Willie kept on as a blues duo, Son singing and playing lead guitar. Son's records met with little commercial success, and shortly after recording for the Library of Congress in 1942, Son House disappeared. Twenty-five-cent-a-month cotton patchers did not hold farewell press conferences. Son House vanished without a trace. 
It wasn't until 22 years later, in 1964, that three East Coast folklorists heard a rumor that the legendary Son House recently had been seen in Memphis. The Newport (Rhode Is-land) Folk Festival was coming up —and wouldn't it be something if they could include on their billing Son House, one of the last living original Delta bluesmen! 

The three men set out from New York City in a Volkswagen, hoping against hope to make the find of the decade: the father of folk blues. In two weeks' time they drove through 16 states, coming to dead end after dead end. They stumbled through cottonfields under the scorching sun talking to the old pickers and they inquired at kerosene-lit shanties at night. Almost everywhere they met with casual indifference to Son's disappearance. 
They drove 4,000 miles before the search ended. It was June 23, 1964 — precisely 8:33 p.m., as one of them later recalled it. A series of long-distance telephone calls finally took them, not to Memphis or to Mississippi, but to Rochester, New York. That summer evening, the three young men, tired but hopeful, pulled up in front of 61 Greig St. The Son House the folklorists rediscovered there was 64 years old, sick and impoverished, and had not performed for years. Would he still play? they wondered. Could he?

To the delight of everyone, including Son, not only could he still do his thing, but in a voice even richer and more powerful than before his disappearance. The three men took tapes of Son back to New York City; when they played the tapes for the Newport festival committee, Son House was immediately booked at the Folk Festival. 

The mid-1960s were volatile years, with the Civil Rights movement refocusing the nation's attention on blacks and their contributions. America — and especially its youth — was ready for Son House. Son, as old as the century itself, came out of obscurity to be met by an unprecedented wave of enthusiasm for his very personal blues. He was the subject of an Upstate story in 1973. He was welcomed on college campuses and in nightspots in Rochester and across the country. He made them laugh and then he made them cry for a dozen more years. But after an appearance at the Genesee Co-op in 1976, Son House dropped once again from public view. The newspaper clippings trailed off, and his name disappeared from the Rochester phone book. 

I WAS A LATECOMER TO THE RANKS OF Son House fans — I first heard one of his records about a year ago. It touched me deeply, and made me want to find what had become of Son House since that last performance five years ago. 

Is he still in Rochester, I wondered, ready to play for a group of fans? Is he even alive? Who is this man, Son House, and where did he go? 

It took another search, this time in 1981, to uncover what turned out to be his second disappearance, and to turn up the answers. 

This is him. 
This is the story of Son House, a man who has been appearing on records for exactly 50 years; a man whose music was cheered in 12 European countries on three different tours after his rediscovery, a man whose name is little known in his home for 33 years; a man whose barely living body, numb from alcohol and frostbite, was fished from a curbside snowpile one winter dawn in 1966 by a Rochester snowplowing crew; a man who was admired half a century ago by then-teenagers Muddy Waters, Pop Staples and Robert Johnson; a man whose guitar style was emulated in the 1960s by Taj Mahal, Bonnie Raitt and Johnny Winter; a man whose confrontations with police, shouting matches with fellow performers, and sudden "illnesses" just prior to scheduled appearances are all a matter of public record; a man who, after his rediscovery in 1964, picked up yet a third generation of followers in Rochester — bluesmen Joe Beard, John Mooney, Fred "Rockin' Red" Palmer. 

This is him, a smiling Son House pictured on the cover of Feel Like Going Home, a book tucked away in the shelves of the public library. A man with that much history be-hind him shouldn't be hard to find, figured. 

I STARTED AT THE FIRST logical place, 61 Greig St., off Clarissa Street just west of the Ford Street bridge. Was it possible he could still be living there? Would someone there remember him? 

This was the first of many dead ends. The building had been razed; the street had been partially eliminated.

Shortly afterward, another fan of Son House saw me carrying a Son House album at work. Now a 32-year-old graduate student at Brock-port, Windsor Wade recalled working as a cook in a halfway house at 55 Greig St.

"It was the summer of 1973. I used to see Son House almost every day sitting on his stoop next door. No, not playing his guitar, just sunning himself — most of the time he was in no condition to be playing," said Wade, trying to laugh off that reference to Son House's drinking. Then he continued slowly, "I used to think, `What a shame, all that talent,' that's just one of the tragedies that can occur, being a man and being black."

"Son House: On the Trail" - Part 2
Democrat & Chronicle, Aug 30, 1981.

My first lead came hand-in-hand with a dis-heartening report. A record store clerk told me Son House had died "of cancer in 1979 in Florida." But she added as an afterthought, "If you want information about Son House, the person to see in Rochester is John Mooney."

Meanwhile, I got hooked up with Joe Beard, of the Joe Beard Blues Union, a four-piece blues band that has rocked the timbers of numerous Rochester nightspots. Beard, a 43-year-old Mississippian, knows his blues. 

"Let's see, it must have been '73 when Son and I did the U of R together," Joe told me. "I've still got the tape I made of it. We played at the Genesee Co-op and at the Wine Press (now the Inferno) . . . around '72, '73, I think it was." 

But they spent most of their time playing not in public but at parties in friends' homes or simply on their back steps — Joe and Son were next-door neighbors on Greig Street from 1962 to 1972. 

"Son never thought he'd be playing the blues in public again. His rediscovery in Rochester didn't change him a bit. We still played together or I'd bring him with me to clubs where I was playing just so he could watch, the Fair-port Inn was one place, maybe 1975. Sometimes we'd go to the circle park, there on Ply-mouth Avenue. Son was there quite often, there wasn't much of an audience but we played and had a good time." 

But Joe Beard didn't know what had become of Son, either; he last saw him in 1976. 

John Mooney's characteristic smile and high energy level are much the same in the small music room of his old farmhouse as they are on stage. Mooney — who makes his living playing the blues from Maine to Louisiana —began playing guitar at 13: "You know, rock 'n' roll, just like everyone else. One day I heard a blues tune on the radio. I said to myself, 'That's the kind of music I want to play!' " He bought that blues album and others and soon was a blues convert. 

Mooney set up with Fred "Rockin' Red" Palmer and Joe Beard and they started doing gigs together in the early '70s. 

"One day Joe said, 'Let's go over and hear Son play.' 

"They did, and so at only 17, Mooney fell under the tutelage of a man whom he had admired greatly only from a distance, only from his recordings. It was not your everyday teacher-pupil experience for the young Mooney. 
The then 71-year-old high priest of the Delta blues taught his young disciple the finest points of a nearly extinct bottleneck guitar style, including where to hock it when you were caught short. Son demonstrated for his young admirer how he projected his voice on those immortal early recordings. He demonstrated, too, how to drink whiskey straight, straight from the bottle, and where to pawn records and other household items when you ran out of whiskey, and when you ran out of house-hold items, when and where to panhandle.

Being painted for me was the picture of a powerful per-former who sometimes demonstrated total control over his audience but, at other times, had almost no control of his own life. Interview after interview showed a man who had singing engagements from just down the street to UCLA, but who, if left on his own, would show up on the wrong date, if at all. 

Mooney spoke matter-of-factly about Son's notorious drinking habits. "I remember,"' said Mooney, "this one time we had it set up so that when Son finished his first set (someone) would walk right up on stage and take Son by the hand and lead him off and not let go of him until it was time for the second set." 

You can tell from his live recordings that audiences were enraptured with his in-tense, almost cathartic performances. This kept Son going and kept an ever increasing number of fans wanting more. 

"Son House is the only performer I've ever seen who could walk into a club any-where and start playing acoustic blues and everyone — everyone — shut up and listened," Mooney recalled. "Son could make his voice fill a small space or a large hall, even outside it seemed to fill it to the sky. Son could make people cry." Mooney and the aging House did gigs together, at the Genesee Co-op and the Wine Press, among other places. Mooney played second guitar. 

Mooney's affectionate recollections of Son extend also to Son's wife, Evie. 

"Evie'd come with us when we played. She didn't cotton much to Son's playing but after all the years she had her own way of dealing with it. Sometimes she'd hide Son's brass slide on the night he was supposed to play, just as a joke. She'd tease us awhile, pretending to look for it and not be able to find
it and then, 'Oh, here it is.' Other times she'd give in and make beer runs for us." 
But what had happened to Son House? We told Mooney we'd heard he died in Florida in 1979. 

Mooney couldn't hide his amusement at our belief that Son House was dead. He left us listening to a reissue of Son's 1930 recordings and excused himself for a moment. 

When he returned he was smiling. "He's alive. I just talked to Evie in Detroit. Son says, 'Tell 'em I may be get-tin' old, but I got young ideas!' " Mooney laughed. "He always says that." 

It was Mooney who helped us set up an interview with Son House in Detroit, where he and Evie had gone to be closer to Evie's family. 

They don't allow no geetar playin' here," Evie told me when I telephoned Detroit to set up an interview. Nevertheless, we agreed I would come up for a visit on a Saturday afternoon.

"Son House: On the Trail" - Part 3
Democrat & Chronicle, Aug 30, 1981.

It was overcast when we left Rochester at dawn. When we finally pulled up in front of the address Mooney had given us, it was raining hard. We ran down the long walkway armed with two 35mm cam-eras and a vintage 1930s National resonator guitar, the kind Son used to play.

If anyone was against guitar playing in the building no one, including the two guards at the door, said a word about our luggage. We signed in, got cleared by Evie on the inter-com and were allowed on the elevator.

On the way up, I thought about how Son was "discovered" in 1930 by a music store clerk who hooked him up with Paramount Records. In 1942 Alan Lomax, folk curator for the Library of Congress "found" Son in Robinsonville, Miss., and recorded him for the library. In 1964, those three white folklorists "rediscovered" Son after a long search. As I knocked at Apartment 518, it occurred to me that Son might be getting tired of being rediscovered. 
But my fears were unfounded. Son obviously was tickled that we had come all this way to see him and he talked with little prodding. He apologized right away for having nothing around to offer us to drink.

Son House has a spontaneous grin that seems to flash vertically, from the tip of his chin to the top of his brow. It came and went as he patted the arms of his Lazy-Boy recliner nervously. "Ever since I was a little bitty boy, that's what they was callin' me, Eddie James Son' House, Jr.," he said. "I learned to play partly from my daddy. He was a deacon of the church. He liked to play hymns, not d' blues." He tried without success to think of another person — a musician — who had influenced him. "The other day I recalled his name to myself. I followed him around to hear him play. I'd walk four or five miles to hear him." 
This would have been in the 1920s, when Son first surfaced as a blues artist in Mississippi. Prior to that he lived in St. Louis where he worked in the steel mills and was a part-time Baptist preacher.  Preachin' Blues, a Son House original, is a humorous  autobiographical account of those years that took him from the pulpit in St. Louis, back to his childhood Mississippi and barrelhousin' —playing the blues and drinking corn whiskey: 
I'm gonna get me religion,
Gonna join the Baptist Church
I wanna be a Baptist preacher
So I don't hafta work 
One deacon jumped up
And he began to grin
He said 'one thing, elder,
I believe I'll go back to barrelhousin' again'  
I was in the pulpit
Jumpin' straight up 'n' down
My brothers 'n' my sisters on the corner,
They all hollerin"Alabama bound!'  
I grabbed up my suitcase,
And took out down the road
I said 'Farewell, farewell, church,
May the good Lord bless your soul!'  
You know, I'm gonna preach these blues,
Gonna choose my seat and sit down.

Playing around the Delta in the early '30s, Son met Evie, a cook in a Lake Carmel diner. They were married in 1934. Together again now after 47 years of ups and downs, Evie recalls that marriage didn't change anything for Son. "As soon as we got married -he disappeared. He took off to play in Arkansas. I said to him, `That geetar pickin' ain't gonna do you no good!' On the way there he got locked up for a week with Willie Brown." The man whom such leg-ends as Muddy Waters, Pop Staples and Howlin' Wolf all credit as an early influence grinned as he reminisced about those early Mississippi years. "Sometimes we'd go Saturday night to sun up. Some one'd yell 'Sunup!' and we'd all grab another drink; sometimes even until Sunday evenin'. We'd play until we fell out drinkin' that ol' whiskey.  Ole Willie'd be backin' me up . . ."
"You had to pick up 'n' go to beat Willie," adds Evie. "That was beautiful music." Evie has been tolerant of Son's lifestyle over the years even if it is at odds with her own beliefs and religious up-bringing. "Sure, I go to church. He don't," she said, waving her arm toward Son. "I've always gone to church." Their differences did cause a separation. "

After Charlie (Patton) died I was lonely," said Son. "I took a mind to come north with Willie. We had friends in Rochester." Son and Willie arrived in Rochester in 1943 without Evie. Eventually she would rejoin Son on Greig Street. "We played some together in Rochester, Willie and I, mostly in homes," said Son. Willie became very ill after the two men came to Rochester and he returned to Mississippi. Shortly after, Son received a letter from Willie's girl. He was dead, "of the effects of alcohol."

Willie's death, combined with a general post-war loss of interest in the acoustic, country-style blues in favor of the newer electric blues bands in the cities, caused Son to give up playing. From then until June, 1964, Son House lived in obscurity in Rochester. 

Dick Waterman was one of the folklorists who rediscovered Son in 1964. Son hadn't mentioned it, but when I spoke with Waterman by phone from his California office I 
learned the Tacoma record Rare Blues, which includes a cut of Son House singing Preachin' Blues, won the 1981 Grammy Award in the category of ethnic and traditional music. 
Waterman also rediscovered bluesmen Skip James and Mississippi John Hurt, managing both until their respective deaths in 1969 and 1966. He was promoter for Bob Dylan's Rolling Thunder Review and is manager of blues singer Bonnie Raitt. But he has said that he is most proud of "having brought the music of Son House back to a whole generation of people who otherwise never would have known he was alive." 

When Son was still per-forming, Waterman told a blues critic, "I've been every-where with him and at every performance I am still tremendously moved by this man as as an 
artist." Son's performances have been described by fans and critics alike as intense — for both Son and his audience. Of his music, Son told me simply, "My blues were about somebody, somethin' real. I always liked the meanings of my songs."

Listening to Son's song Death Letter on record, one can only imagine what it must have been like to sit through a live performance. 'Got a letter this mornin' How you reckon it read? It said 'Hurry, hurry! On account th' gal you love is dead.'
The repetition of "hurry" causes listeners to feel that false sense of hope — as if hurrying will bring his dead gal back. The words are a futile attempt to deny what has happened to his gal, or to deny something unpleasant in life. Everyone is drawn in; then, on the guitar, he runs down three devastating notes: pum, pum, ping! That ping! — made by striking the high string with his right hand while simultaneously hitting it just right with the brass slide on his left hand -- is one last mighty effort to deny for one fraction of a sec-ond his own living hell. 
"It's as if everything is in that one note," as John Moon-ey puts it. "If he doesn't make that one note, he can't make anything; if he makes it, then nothing else matters." Then Son breaks into that burst of snapping strings against the metal surface of his guitar in a seizure-like frenzy. In the end you are left limp.

"Son House: On the Trail" - Part 4
Democrat & Chronicle, Aug 30, 1981.

In the 12 years that followed Son's rediscovery in Rochester — from 1964 to 1976 — Son would play his blues for more people in more places for more money than in all the early Mississippi years. In 1930 Son received $40 for travelling to Wisconsin to record for Paramount. In 1942 Alan Lomax gave him a bottle of Coca Cola for taking off an afternoon from plowing a cotton patch to record for the Library of Congress.

Much later, in 1973, friends recognized that Son's performing days were numbered; they arranged a benefit concert for him at Red Creek which made a good-sized splash in the local media. But that was years ago.

In 1976, Son and Evie House moved to Detroit, again with no public announcement. Evie has a son and a daughter in Detroit. She also has 11 grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.
But Son House doesn't have a following there; he's unknown again. One of her grand-sons told a man with whom he worked about Son. He came to the House's apartment one night for proof — he wanted to borrow a book which contained information and a photograph of Son. But when the book was opened, the crucial page was missing. "I didn't like the picture," Son told the skeptical visitor.

"I miss Rochester so bad," said Evie. "I wish many times I had stayed on there. Here no one knows who Son is.”

With visible effort the last of the original Delta blues recorders pulled himself up from his seat by the window and made his way across the room to a cream-colored couch.

He lowered himself onto a cushion, his body leaning slightly forward, crumpling his bright necktie so that it zigged and zagged down the front of him and seemed to be the only force holding his ailing frame erect.

And now it was clear that as a bluesman's songs can have more than one meaning, so can a bluesman's wife's warnings about "no geetar playin' " being allowed. "They" were the years, 81 hard ones, not the building's owners, that wouldn't allow no geetar playin'.

Yet one thing that hasn't changed is Son House. As a black man in Mississippi during
the Depression, Son was driven to play the blues because of the way he was forced to live.

Those formative years left their mark. Son never changed his way of thinking; he never lost touch with the living blues. We learned an important thing in Detroit that day. What is significant is where Son has been, not where he happens to be now. Where he has been is playing the blues, everywhere, for everyone, and he's still in touch will all of that. And Son House didn't play the blues for the money, not in 1928 in Robinsonville, Mississippi, nor in 1970 in Montreux, Switzerland. Son would play the blues for anyone, free of charge, anytime, if he could.

Some bluesmen are bitter about their ca-reers as performers. Muddy Waters has said, "The Man made me a name and I made the Man a million dollars."

Of his career as a blues singer, Son House's reply is spontaneous: "Man, I liked it more than the people did. I enjoyed myself."

Rich Gardner is a Rochester freelance writer who hosts a blues program on WGMC-FM, and le plans to do a special show of Son House's music this Tuesday at 10 p.m.