I came across a memory on Facebook that I posted last year about the blues.
I will not pretend that I am some hardcore blues fan who can tell you every step in the lineage from Robert Johnson to Gary Clark, Jr.
What I am is a fan of guitar playing storytellers that can make you cry as easily with a single note as with their words.
I say that because, in January I am embarking on a blues journey. I don't know if that means I am going to stick strictly to the Blues Highway, or venture off on a road of my own making. I do know that there will be a lot of blues, a lot of sweat, a lot of pictures, a lot of wanting to slow down time to soak it all in.
I am going to the places where music, black music, was born. Where people put to music all the things they were not allowed to express, the natural evolution of the slave hymns.
When we moved to The South it was the one thing I wanted to do here. Every bit of music you listen to is rooted in the black music that was born on the Delta, whether you listen to 311, Katie Perry, or Tupac.
When I was a kid I had this little blue turntable. It got AM radio and came with a one ear earpiece. I would wait til everyone else was asleep and tune into The Mighty 690 and fall asleep listening to music. Sometimes I would steal a record from my dad. Usually comedy but, sometimes Little Anthony and the Imperials or some Motown. That was before I was old enough to have anything other than my Gene Autrey Christmas album.
|The opposite of black music. Bland music.|
January feels like that.