“I can study rain
oh, ohm drive, oh, oh, drive my blues
I been studyin’ the rain and
I’m ‘on drive my blues away”

Robert Johnson

Robert Johnson, King of the Delta Blues. His story is so shadowy and full of myth, so full of beautiful, odd details that make him the legend that he is. He sold his soul to the devil; he learned to play guitar on dark nights in graveyards, aided by ghosts; he played facing the wall, away from the other musicians; he died young, in mysterious circumstances; he used a different name everywhere he traveled.

It’s the real, human details of his life that kill me, somehow – if they’re true, and that we’ll never know. His mother was born into slavery. He was sent from home to home, as a child, and was given — or took — a different name each time. He was probably more educated than most of his peers. His sixteen-year-old wife died in childbirth. And he traveled – he went from town to town, staying with a different, frequently older, woman everywhere he went. They must have cared for him, and taken care of him, in so many different ways, though it’s likely they didn’t know much about each other or the rest of Johnson’s life. I’m fascinated by the idea of a rambler – of a person who can’t stay in one place for too long, who needs to be rootless and wandering. A “walking” musician, making up his life as he went along, and singing about it.

He only recorded twice, in 1937 and 1938, but somehow his small collection of recorded songs became a huge influence on other musicians down the decades. He died in 1938 at the age of 27. Again, his death is shrouded in mystery. Was he poisoned by a jealous husband? Did he die of syphilis?

And Robert Johnson’s voice touches a nerve. It’s so plaintive, and somehow both human and haunting all at once. He uses it so beautifully – it’s wild but controlled. But it’s his lyrics which really throw me for a loop. Dark, mysterious, elemental, sexual, violent, cryptic, and oddly touching, all at once. I always feel like I know what they’re all about, but I have no idea what he’s saying. And, as with all great poetry, it’s that feeling of the words slipping in my brain that makes me want to hear more. As the Robert Johnson Blues Foundation beautifully states it, “Never had the hardships of the world been transformed into such a poetic height; never had the blues plumbed such an emotional depth.”

One of my favorites is Phonograph Blues, which starts,

Beatrice, she got a phonograph, and it won’t say a lonesome word
Beatrice, she got a phonograph, but it won’t say a lonesome word
What evil have I done, what evil has the poor girl heard

And then, of course, there’s Malted Milk.

Malted milk, malted milk, keep rushin’ to my head
Malted milk, malted milk, keep rushin’ to my head
And I have a funny, funny feelin’, and I’m talkin’ all out my head

Baby, fix me one more drink, and hug your daddy one more time
Baby, fix me one more drink, and hug your daddy one more time
Keep on stirrin’ my malted milk mama, until I change my mind

My door knob keeps on turnin’, it must be spooks around my bed
My door knob keeps on turnin’, must be spooks around my bed
I have a warm, old feelin’, and the hair risin’ on my head

And the empathy — or is it lust — of Come in My Kitchen.

You better come on in my kitchen
Well, it’s goin’ to be rainin’ outdoors

When a woman gets in trouble, everybody throws her down

Lookin’ for her good friend, none can be found
You better come on in my kitchen

Babe, it’s goin’ to be rainin’ outdoors
Wintertime’s comin’, it’s gon’ be slow
You can’t make the winter, babe, that’s dry, long, so
You better come on in my kitchen, ’cause it’s goin’ to be rainin’ outdoors

It’s possible that the myth about selling his soul at the crossroads was previously associated with another, unrelated blues singer named Johnson. Tommy Johnson was born in Mississippi in 1896. He only recorded three times, in 1928 and 1929. He was led to believe that he sold away his rights to record anymore, but it’s likely that this wasn’t true.

He cultivated a dark persona to make his music more popular, and this included the claim that he sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads in exchange for magical guitar skills. Like Robert Johnson, he also worked as an itinerant, walking musician. His voice is eery and otherwordly, and frequently veers into a heart-bothering falsetto. And he, too influenced a number of musicians, despite the scantiness of his output, and the fact that his songs are quite scratchy and poorly recorded.

The songs of both these artists just hit you differently, deeply. They haunt you.

Here’s a small selection of their raw, skillful, plaintive, wild, human, soulful songs.