Album Review

I don't know why you listen to country blues (or even if you do), but I listen to them because sometimes nothing else will help. Country blues is therapeutic music, last-ditch life savers and misery soothers; when I feel like I'm going over the edge, Robert Johnson or Skip James can pull me back. This is a transcendent criterion—aesthetics has very little to do with it; if I put on a record and it doesn't make me feel better I take if off and put on something else.

That's the functional overview—blues with a feeling—and the heart of this review. But the Columbia blues package is the most important blues release in years, so we'll go over it record by record.

In the material which accompanies the Bessie Smith albums. Columbia admits to having altered their earlier blues reissues (including the first Robert Johnson album, and the four original Bessie Smith albums) by adding electronic echo to the original masters to give them that "hi-fi" sound. This practice has been discontinued, and if you compare matching tracks on the old Bessie Smith albums and the new ones you'll notice that the new albums sound immeasurably liver, clearer and finer. The new Robert Johnson album, too, is a delight fidelity-wise.

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Otis Spann was a Mississippi bluesman, Muddy Waters' half-brother, and the finest blues pianist that ever lived. Spann's singing was sometimes a little too stylized, but his rolling, driving piano was always gloriously right. This was his first album; out of print for many years, it's been blessedly reissued on Barnaby (a Columbia subsidiary). Spann was somewhat over-recorded (like Lightnin' Hopkins), and as a result there is a large body of albums with material that probably felt good at the time, but doesn't hold up too well. This one is beautiful—not an unnecessary note nor a dull track from the beginning of side one to the last tinkle on side two. Spann was a Chicago musician, but the Mississippi roots were always strong in his music; the stuff works.

Robert Lockwood Jr. (a worthy blues musician in his own right) backs Spann on guitar, and sings on a couple of tracks where Spann backs him. Actually, I like Lockwood's singing better than Spann's, but the piano-guitar duets on "Take A Little Walk With Me" and "Rambling On My Mind" are so fine that the vocals are almost beside the point—Spann and Lockwood are just as together as Leroy Carr and Scrapper Blackwell, but where Scrapper went in for jazzy up-the-neck pyrotechnics, Lockwood digs down for the slow, dirty blues; and where Carr played regulation boogie-woogie, Spann rips off rolling Chicago left-hand basement back-up—sometimes sounding like Robert Johnson, and never letting you forget that the blues grow out of deep pain.

When Spann steps out front, his piano sings—high, sliding runs, so fluid they suggest bottleneck guitar; Spann knew how to play in between the cracks. Other times he keeps the piano simple—still driving like a maniac but letting his voice carry the weight of the song. His mastery of his instrument was so complete that he could effortlessly tailor his accompaniment to the mood he wanted—it's always Spann, but it's always different.

Muddy Waters' band was never the same without Spann; now that Spann is gone the world of the blues will never be the same either. This album is only a small part of his legacy, but it's as fine an album as he ever recorded. Recommended without reservation.

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Leadbelly has been dreadfully over-recorded; almost every song he ever sang has been recorded three, four or five times, and appears on as many records. This album offers nothing new in the way of material (except, possibly, for "Bull Cow," which I don't recall hearing before), and unfortunately the performances here are mostly inferior to those available elsewhere. The sound quality is poor—the worst of the blues package, in fact—and so thin that it's hard to tell if Leadbelly is playing 12-string or six-string on a lot of tracks.

Folkways still has the best Leadbelly around, with the exception of a great record on Capitol (DT-1821), featuring "Western Plains." As for the Columbia release, Leadbelly freaks may want it for historical value (there are versions of songs on it that have never been released before), but I found it disappointing.

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Sometimes Bessie Smith seems so fine that the greatness of her music is beyond question. Other times, she seems a little too Tin-Pan-Alley-commercial a product to be sold with a kernel of beauty somewhere inside. To a certain extent, both positions have some validity: Bessie was certainly a great singer (although I wonder if the term "blues singer" really applies; maybe "city blues singer" covers it), but she was certainly packaged and sold for most of her career. The parallel with Janis Joplin (who clearly saw herself as a latter-day reincarnation of Bessie) works both ways—the sexy oversell and the deep ringing truth mixed up together in a Pirandello-like now you see it/now you don't paradox.

The early recordings were almost pure blues; the last recordings were almost pure show business. Both the first and last sessions, however, evidence a power that transcends the material and the hard sell; Bessie Smith was one of the greatest singers that ever lived, and given half a chance her magnificent voice cuts through everything else to touch us with the rock-bottom "thatness" of her soul. Frequently, though, her records were just "product." In the middle period (the transition from blues to show-biz) the magic was diluted—although there are exceptions, the recordings from that period are less wonderful than the first and last ones.

Columbia has arranged their new Bessie Smith series to start at both ends of the spectrum and work toward the middle: thus the first double album (The World's Greatest Blues Singer) presents the first 16 and last 16 sides. The second double album (Any Woman's Blues) continues the two-pronged drive toward the center. Eventually, there will be three more double albums, programmed in the same way, and virtually the entire Bessie Smith canon (160 songs; she recorded 180, but 20 are lost) will be available again.

I much prefer the first album to the second one; and curiously enough, my favorite songs on the first album are among her most commercial efforts from some of the last sessions (in 1930). "On Revival Day" (originally subtitled "A Rhythmic Spiritual") is the stereotyped image of black people a-moanin' and a-praying' in church—but it's a delight anyway. Bessie tears it apart; her phrasing and melodic improvisations are nothing short of incredible. Likewise, "Black Mountain Blues" (which we can finally hear properly), "In the House Blues," "Do Your Duty," "Down In The Dumps," and the immortal "Gimme A Pigfoot" (with one of my all-time favorite lines: "Gimme a reefer and a gang of gin/Blame me 'cause I'm in my sin") are all late recordings, but they've got what it takes.

The second album is less remarkable. The songs sound so much alike that I find it hard to separate them; I've tried to listen to this set a number of times, but my attention keeps wandering. I guess it's of inestimable historical value, or something, but on a purely subjective level I can live without it.

In a sense, I think the Bessie Smith sides suffer from their present juxtaposition with the Mississippi blues of Johnson, White and Spann. Bessie was different, and shouldn't be judged on the same basis; nonetheless, there's a certain gutlevel solidity that the Mississippi singers have that Bessie misses. Like I said, it isn't fair to fault her for it, but there it is.

I think a woman should review these albums, anyway. My lady tells me that a lot of times Bessie can do it for her when male blues singers can't. That should be looked into.

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"'Trouble Blues,'" says Lightnin', "which Lightnin' Hopkins is havin at the present, which I hope it don't last al-ways." A few guitar notes, one of his standard figures, and the dark Texas blues start rolling down.

Lightnin' is one of the most powerful bluesmen going, and this is probably his finest album. It was originally released in the early Sixties, and promptly went out of print. Of all Lightnin' Hopkins' albums it's the one I play the most.

Lightnin's records have always tended to be a little too homogeneous—he has a slow blues and a fast blues, and although they are intense they sound very much alike. This record, too, suffers from a certain similarity in tone from one track to the next, but it fares better than most for several reasons. For one thing, there are a couple of piano tracks which set off the guitar tracks beautifully; also, Lightnin' seems to be pulling his vocals up from some depth of smoldering emotion that makes even standard blues (like "I've Had My Fun") unusually moving. Finally, there are two extraordinary tracks: "Mister Charlie," and "Mighty Crazy."

"Mister Charlie" starts with a spoken introduction, kind of a short story about a kid who stutters when he gets excited. He runs to tell Mr. Charlie that his rolling mill is burning down, but he stutters so badly that he can't get the information across. Mr. Charlie is annoyed at first, but finally tells the kid to sing if he can't talk. Lightnin' hits a single note on the guitar, and begins singing with a rush of released tension that sustains at the same incredible pitch for the duration of the song.

"Mighty Crazy" is possibly the most surrealistic dirty song ever recorded. It's also one of the funniest, and must be heard to be believed. The chorus (which only gives a vague idea of how weird the song is) goes: "Mighty crazy, mighty crazy, it's mighty crazy/To keep on rubbin' at that same old thing."

"Black Cat" is an added bonus, a song which wasn't on the original release; it deals with drinking something called "Margen Davis" wine. Mogen David? Man, those blues singers will drink anything.

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Bukka White is a bottleneck guitarist and blues singer from the Mississippi Delta, and that ought to tell you something. It ought to have told me something. For a long time, I couldn't understand why Bukka had such a heavy reputation; it used to blow my mind when people compared him to Robert Johnson, because although I liked Bukka, he always seemed like high second-rank. Then I heard "Parchman Farm," and it all fell into place—because these are the recordings that made his reputation—his first sessions, cut in 1937 and 1940.

Only two songs were cut in the first session, "Pinebluff Arkansas" and "Shake Em Down," and they are right up there with the best Delta bottleneck blues ever recorded, Bukka is a great slide guitarist—the notes flow together like a river tumbling down a rocky channel, strong, relentless, and relaxed at the same time. His voice matches the guitar, making subtle slides from semi-tones to the notes he wants, and always ending up right. Bukka has one of the most distinctive blues voices—if you've never heard him sing, think of Geoff Muldaur, who does a near-perfect imitation.

The rest of the songs on the album are from 1940, and although they're not quite at the same incredible pitch as the '37 songs, I'd hate to have to live on the difference. And what songs! "Where Can I Change My Clothes"; "Sleepy Man Blues"; "Parchman Farm"; "Good Gin Blues"; "Fixin' To Die"; "Aberdeen Mississippi"; and the famous "Special Streamline." The hits just keep rolling on! Bukka is clearly up there in the Mississippi pantheon with Johnson, House and James, and it's a stone gas that Columbia has made these recordings available again.

The sound quality is fantastic—they had learned how to make good recordings (electrical recording!) by the late Thirties, and the re-mastering is flawless—no echo, no fake stereo, no brutal high-end filtering, nothing but the good sound of the originals. Parchman Farm is an absolutely essential record. If you're not into Bukka White already, there's no excuse for your ignorance anymore; Parchman Farm is the real thing.

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The Story Of The Blues is a two-record set which supposedly presents a selection of the greatest songs from the spectrum of recorded blues. It's not bad, but it's not nearly good enough, either. There are gaping holes where various blues giants should have been represented, and many of the tracks that are included are non-essential. Of the 32 tracks in the set, eight are losers, 13 are OK, and only 11 are great.

Side one (The Origin of the Blues) is the best side, with fine tracks by Mississippi John Hurt, Blind Willie McTell, Charlie Patton and Blind Lemon Jefferson. However, all four are available elsewhere, and there's nothing at all by Son House or Skip James. There are two losing tracks, one by Leadbelly and the other an interesting (but non-essential) African chant—I would have preferred a field holler.

Side two (Blues and Entertainment) includes the fantastic "Georgia Crawl," by Henry Williams and Eddie Anthony, as well as "In The House Blues," by Bessie Smith, and "What It Takes to Bring You Back," by Butterbeans and Susie. But four of the tracks are just OK, and there's a real loser by Barbeque Bob and Laughing Charlie, which mainly consists of a lot of laughing.

Side three (The 30's—Urban and Rural Blues) has great tracks by Robert Johnson, Bukka White and Memphis Minnie, but the Johnson and White tracks are available on their records which (if you're at all interested in blues) you probably have already. The Memphis Minnie track is "Me and My Chauffer Blues," a true mind-blower which has been recorded by such diverse groups as Chuck Berry, the Kweskin Jug Band and the Jefferson Airplane; none of them do it as well as Minnie. Two losers (a poor track by the great Jimmy Yancey, and one by Bo Carter) and three OK tracks round out the side.

Side four (World War II and After) is the greatest disappointment of all. The only really great song is by Elmore James ("Sunnyland"), and then there are four OK tracks by such as Otis Spann and Johnny Shines, and three losers by Brownie McGhee, Sonny Terry and Bill Broonzy. Not a note from one of the following: Howling Wolf, Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson (Rice Miller, that is), J.B. Hutto, Magic Sam or J.B. Lenoir.

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Like it says on the album, Robert Johnson is the king of the Mississippi Delta blues. House and James are giants, but Johnson is simply in a class by himself. Some years ago, Columbia brought out their first volume of Robert Johnson recordings, and blues freaks have been scrambling around ever since trying to find copies of the 16 songs not included on that album. But now that's unnecessary, because Columbia has finally come through—all the missing tracks are on Volume Two, in beautifully re-mastered versions; the complete legacy of Robert Johnson is ours at last.

This record is so heavy that it is a major event. Johnson is just incredible—a great guitarist, a brilliant song writer, a tremendous singer. He represents the fullest flowering of the Delta bottleneck blues in their blackest, most terrible power.

Son House knew Johnson when Robert was a kid and couldn't play guitar at all. According to House, Johnson left town for some months, and when he came back he was the best blues guitarist anyone had ever heard. In an interview with Pete Welding, House was asked how Johnson had learned to play so well. "He sold his soul to the Devil," said House.

In many ways, it's the only answer that makes any sense—Johnson's songs reveal a man without hope, a man certain of his own imminent destruction. "I got mean things all on my mind," he sang, and "There's a hellhound on my trail," and "I got up this morning/The blues walkin' like a man," and "If I could only change my way of living/It would mean so much to me," and "I've been drunk and I've been driven/Ever since I left my mother's home," and "Sin was the cause of it all," and "Stop breakin' down, please stop breakin' down/The stuff I got will blow your brains out, it'll make you lose your mind."

Johnson paid the price for his music (as he always knew he would)—he was dead at 21, stabbed by one of the easy women he couldn't resist. But from the depths of his torture, he tore music with power great enough to cross the years—living music, concrete music that exists almost outside of time. In the depths of your own particular despair, Robert Johnson's music resonates as if it was there all along:

God, what a great record this is: the original "Dust My Broom"; "Sweet Home Chicago" (which may be the first cause of Chicago R&B); "From Four Till Late"; "Little Queen of Spades"; "Drunken Hearted Man"—legends all, and now we can hear why. The unspeakably beautiful "Love In Vain" is also included (the source for the Stones' version), and an up-tempo bop called "They're Red Hot," which sounds so much like Blind Willie McTell that it must have been some kind of put-on. Sixteen new Robert Johnson songs, each one more astounding than the one before.

This record absolutely defies description—it's the highest art, the greatest beauty imaginable. (RS 72)

MICHAEL GOODWIN

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