Yesterday would have been Robert Johnson’s 100th birthday, a landmark which has not gone unnoticed — even my mom called me over the weekend to tell me about this “great NPR story” she heard on the legend of ol’ RJ. And it’s only right that we commemorate him here as well. Robert Johnson’s fame would be enough to celebrate as an arbiter of musical change, the roots of blues and rock music, America’s only indigenous sound. But what truly makes him special is the least true part about him: the myth. We’ve all heard the story: a young Robert Johnson approached the crossroads in the Mississippi Delta at midnight, met up with the Devil himself, and sold his soul for the ability to play sizzling blues guitar. He later became member of the even more mysterious 27 club. And this legend launched a century of rock ‘n’ roll lore.
I got a chance this semester to visit Johnson’s crossroads myself, and to meet with some folks that knew him. Yes, literally knew him. It seems like forever ago to us, for whom rock music has been as naturalized as The Simpsons and public libraries, that he could have been walking around, strumming those blues — but that’s part of the legend. Read More »
Whenever people talk about the blues, a line from August Wilson’s play Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom comes to my mind. When Ma Rainey, one of the first blues performers to be recorded, explains her melancholy about record producers not understanding the blues, she says, “The blues helps you get out of bed in the morning. You get up knowing you ain’t alone.” I certainly got the impression that ZZ Ward, who performed on campus in Bulldog Alley on November 10th, had a number of mornings where the only thing keeping her strong was the blues.
