Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Soul of a Man
Yet more forays on Youtube.
I saw this one a few years back, but it remained etched clearly in my mind, a surprisingly well-recorded black-and-white footage of one of the most intense bluesmen I’d ever heard, Eddie James House Jr, otherwise known as “Son” House.
He was a colourful character, to say the least. Disgraced preacher, convicted of shooting a man, unrepentant alcoholic with a penchant for corn whiskey, he could have as well been the blueprint for the stereotypical (if not overly-cliched) bluesman lifestyle. On this video he played one of his best known songs, “Death Letter Blues”.
He didn’t play the guitar, he beat up on it. If not for the fact that it was made of metal, it would surely have been demolished. His monstrous right hand flailed unsteadily at the strings while on his left, a steel slide went up and down the neck, wringing out a hypnotic drone that was pushed on by the incessant pounding of his feet on a wooden platform. From deep down in his chest came forth a tortured baritone possessing the power of opera but none of the refinement, sounding like an aria gone horribly wrong, with the dark tale of death and unrequited love completing the picture. The whole performance had an awkward tension to it, teetering dangerously on the edge as though he would have keeled over any moment like a man possessed.
I watched the whole song with my jaws agape, not quite knowing what to make of it. I knew I had seen something powerful, the raw intensity of a human soul that knew no desire at that point other than self-expression. Its source, however, eluded me. Till then I had been studious in my approach to the blues, dutifully listening to the guitar work of the greats and learning what I could, approximating what I couldn’t. My nascent attempts at singing the blues were conscious efforts at straining to hit the right notes, more an exercise in hand-eye-mouth coordination than musical expression.
Son House changed that. The primal yet brutally effective nature of his music struck me as something to aspire to, a musical awakening of sorts. It was then that I realized music had to come from a deeper source, not from crooked tadpoles or numbers and lines printed on paper. When he played, it felt more like a confessional than a performance. There was no way anyone could have believed at that point of time that he didn’t live the words of his song. Maybe he did.
Looked like there was 10,000 people standin' round the buryin' ground
I didn't know I loved her 'til they laid her down
Looked like 10,000 were standin' round the buryin' ground
You know I didn't know I loved her 'til they damn laid her down
Now ain't that the blues.
I saw this one a few years back, but it remained etched clearly in my mind, a surprisingly well-recorded black-and-white footage of one of the most intense bluesmen I’d ever heard, Eddie James House Jr, otherwise known as “Son” House.
He was a colourful character, to say the least. Disgraced preacher, convicted of shooting a man, unrepentant alcoholic with a penchant for corn whiskey, he could have as well been the blueprint for the stereotypical (if not overly-cliched) bluesman lifestyle. On this video he played one of his best known songs, “Death Letter Blues”.
He didn’t play the guitar, he beat up on it. If not for the fact that it was made of metal, it would surely have been demolished. His monstrous right hand flailed unsteadily at the strings while on his left, a steel slide went up and down the neck, wringing out a hypnotic drone that was pushed on by the incessant pounding of his feet on a wooden platform. From deep down in his chest came forth a tortured baritone possessing the power of opera but none of the refinement, sounding like an aria gone horribly wrong, with the dark tale of death and unrequited love completing the picture. The whole performance had an awkward tension to it, teetering dangerously on the edge as though he would have keeled over any moment like a man possessed.
I watched the whole song with my jaws agape, not quite knowing what to make of it. I knew I had seen something powerful, the raw intensity of a human soul that knew no desire at that point other than self-expression. Its source, however, eluded me. Till then I had been studious in my approach to the blues, dutifully listening to the guitar work of the greats and learning what I could, approximating what I couldn’t. My nascent attempts at singing the blues were conscious efforts at straining to hit the right notes, more an exercise in hand-eye-mouth coordination than musical expression.
Son House changed that. The primal yet brutally effective nature of his music struck me as something to aspire to, a musical awakening of sorts. It was then that I realized music had to come from a deeper source, not from crooked tadpoles or numbers and lines printed on paper. When he played, it felt more like a confessional than a performance. There was no way anyone could have believed at that point of time that he didn’t live the words of his song. Maybe he did.
Looked like there was 10,000 people standin' round the buryin' ground
I didn't know I loved her 'til they laid her down
Looked like 10,000 were standin' round the buryin' ground
You know I didn't know I loved her 'til they damn laid her down
Now ain't that the blues.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 8:19 pm 
