He sold his soul to the devil for the Blues. Robert Johnson was born in Mississippi, in the Summer of 1911. After a tumultuous couple of years he ended up in Memphis where he learned maths, reading, and most importantly, music. A decade after this his family relocated to a plantation. He was a pretty well-educated guy compared to his peers. There’s no way his life was particularly pleasant though, and this culminated in the death of his wife during childbirth. Apparently this was God punishing Johnson for singing secular music. I guess he’s a pretty fickle God if that’s true.
He decided that Blues was the way to go, and he joined some other musicians to pursue it. There are reports that he was a dreadful guitar player, and he did end up learning from a man called Ike Zimmerman, himself having learnt guitar by hanging around cemeteries at night. A few things happened, and he decided to settle as a travelling musician. He travelled around America, living different lives in each new place. He only really recorded about 30 songs, but man are they good. He died at 27, whatever that mysterious number means for musicians, surrounded in as much mystery as he lived in.
The thing that draws me to Robert Johnson is the myth about his guitar playing. I choose to believe in it completely, and I don’t believe in much. I was going to start with ‘Supposedly’ but instead I’m just going to start it as though I’m retelling a factually correct event that I was part of: I went down to the crossroad, fell down on my knees, asked the lord above ‘Have mercy now, save poor Bob if you please’ He was 19 years old, playing at a juke joint. I say playing, it’s more that he happened to be present and pick up a guitar whenever he could. The crowd weren’t having it, and the club owners drove him out of the scene. He was lost, and looking for answers. Who he went to isn’t totally clear, but one of the musicians told him to head out to the crossroads by the plantation and beg, so he did just that.
A man was sitting on his porch near town, and he saw Johnson walking in his best suit with a hat on his head and guitar round his back. The man called out and asked why he was all dressed up. Johnson stared back and said that he was going to meet the devil. He walked on, the sun set, the man waited. Johnson walked back in the darkest part of night, passed the man looking dishevelled and shaken with guitar in hand. He was now able to create the music that would inspire countless legends. Dylan felt free enough to write his lyrics, Clapton called him the most important Blues musician who ever lived, the Stones said he raised the ante for everyone, and Zeppelin, well Zeppelin did their thing. Without Johnson, the flow of time that resulted in Rock would not be the same. It’s pretty fucking likely that without him, there’s nothing. He plays as though it’s two or more people. His guitar sounds like different instruments, his lyrics are haunting.
I like to imagine that he walked up to the crossroad and dropped his guitar on the floor, falling to his knees. He’s tired and thirsty in the heat. It’s night, the empty desert is lit only by the moon and stars. As he looks down at the floor, it rumbles. A great crack opens up to a fiery hellscape and out comes the devil in whatever form we see him in; I see this character as a man. He picks up Johnson’s guitar and tunes it, passing it back to Johnson and disappearing. It’s as simple as that. Of course, there’s a limit on his power. He knew of this, hence the lyrics of his songs. He’s being chased, not long for this world. It’s a fascinating story about an incredible musician and I just love it.