NIGHT-SONGS
I remember when I
realised that I had heard the blues. It
wasn’t the pop 45s of the time, or the skiffled attempts at Leadbelly that were
a brief fashion statement. Not even the
first British takes on Chuck Berry, although the standardised, slightly
sanitised, readings of Robert Johnson made some impact (even at second hand –
some others had heard one of the rare pressings, or more likely, knew someone
else who really had). I was allowed up
late to see a programme on BBC: it was a folk-music
show, so that was acceptable – Pete Seeger was a household icon. The introducer, Long John Baldry I think,
announced Sonny Boy Williamson, and
this impossibly aged (looking) and no doubt very wise, very black man walked
through the tables of the studio-simulated folk-club. He took off his bowler hat and laid down his umbrella (both
bought for this European tour so that he wouldn’t stand out from the British
crowd). Then he reached into his
businessman’s briefcase, produced a battered old mouth-organ, and then he said,
confidentially: “The
Sky’..s…. is Cryin’!”
So that was the blues.
This piece isn’t a Blues, but it couldn’t have happened to
me without them. Some things are
blues-like – the melody and the harmony circle around each other, each in its own
sphere, but some things are not – gatherings of grace-notes, more bagpiper than
mouth-harpist, harmonies more Left Bank than Mississippi Delta, and some
rhythmic passages which arose from the same roots, but took a different
trade-route. In any case, the Blues isn’t a form, it’s a place you go
to so that you can leave again a little refreshed; not always stronger, but at
least unweakened.
Bill Sweeney
March, 2006
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