Stomp & Holler to the Devil's Tune

The blues is the roots, everything else is the fruits.

- Willie Dixon

“You’re gonna have to choose between the Devil and God because the two just don’t get along”

- Son House

Cold beer, a bottle of booze, and reefer have been friends of mine for quite some time now. They may be crutches in the long run, but for now, they are here to stay. Are they a sedative meant to numb the nothingness? Or have they been able to quiet the world enough so I can focus on these guitar strings, stomp, and holler? When you’re down and out and wake up to your house smelling like a brewery, the coffee table saturated in residual lifeless smoke, and an empty wallet spent on sins has all the fixin’s to give you the blues. In many ways, the best prescription for this is to pick up the guitar and play how you feel. Playing the blues isn’t about being the fastest and most technical player but to play with feeling. It is mornings like these where you could play the bluest note of mankind. I suppose that’s why it has become commonplace to start the blues with “I woke up this morning” - feeling regret, lonesome, and just out of time. Hell, I’ve even written a song that starts with the same words.

I’ve been told to put my heart and soul into the guitar when I play. As an Indigenous person with a cultural background that basically worships cedar, there is something to be said about what emotions we put into our instruments. The wood of the guitar holds onto the energy when you press your fingers down on the fretboard and they dance to beat of your tune. These guitars have been to many parties and have heard many stories from people who are no longer around. They have seen the good, the sad, and the overall character of the beholder. However, even when someone puts their heart and soul into an instrument there are still structures to follow. You can’t start making random notes and expect to make beautiful sounds that arise from the depths of hell, which grant Satan’s blessing to spread his message from the fiery depths of the forsaken.

To play the blues there are specific chord progressions, rhythm, and notes that make the blues sound. They have been practiced and mastered over hundreds of years. Each style of blues has gained popularity through different eras and regions that all have their contribution to the genre. Just like structures of music there are structures of society that can give someone the blues. Racial segregation, Jim Crow laws, residential schools, internment camps and so on, have oppressed people to live in fear of being who they are. They can hang over a person like a raincloud and send them down a road stricken with grief and poverty. There is a saying that goes some of the poorest countries are the happiest because they are grateful for what they have. I say, don’t believe in everything you hear, and keep your guitar strings clean. There must have been a reason Robert Johnson walked to the crossroads and sold his soul to the devil. The mythological story says he did this so he could play guitar and be famous, but was it also so he could get rich and leave Mississippi? He wanted to leave his homeland and walk underneath the big city lights of Chicago. Throughout Johnson’s very short career he did a bit of travelling, but it was mostly spent as a drifter avoiding Jim Crow laws, and making just enough money to survive (Ugwu, 2019). The sad part is that Johnson, died at 27, wasn’t alive long enough to see the wealth or fame he was hoping for. He died all but 130 miles from where he was born.

Let’s turn back the dial to the early 20th century in the United States. Blues music was said to be rooted in chain gangs, and “uneducated labourers” (Gogol, 2013, 198). While slavery was illegal at this point, people were working in nearly the same conditions and were faced with a constant threat of violence (198). There were tent cities along the railroads where workers who grew up singing work songs and in church choirs, sung songs about their hardship. Working on the railroad was dangerous and strenuous where people risked their lives for a dime. If they weren’t working the railroad, it was common for a lot of early blues musicians to work the land on plantations. Names like Charley Patton, Son House, Skip James, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf and B.B. King (Gioia, 2008, 20). King estimated that he had walked roughly 60,000 miles behind a plough before music freed him from working the land (20). He said “It was beautiful to live through the seasons, to break the ground in the chill of the winter, plant seeds against the winds of spring, and pick the blossoms in the heat of summer. There’s poetry to it, a feeling that I belonged and mattered” (20).

Not all Delta blues musicians had the same relationship working the land as King did but notice how he only made it out with his music. Son House, arguably the one of the most integral people of the Delta blues, had collaborated with Charley Patton, mentored Robert Johnson, inspired Muddy Waters, guided Alan Lomax in his research, was still a part time musician (Gioia. 2008, 80). House would put down his guitar for months at a time because he worked as a tractor operator, railroad porter, barbeque chef, cotton picker, cattle rancher, and a steel worker while he wasn’t performing (80). It was a long time before people changed their view on how they saw race. There were only a few that blues musicians from the Delta that saw fame or could manoeuvre through the colour lines. Most famous rock bands borrowed and sometimes stole from black blues musicians and made millions while they either continued to work the land or were “discovered” by white men years after they had passed on.

Muddy Waters had been playing music for years as a working musician and wasn’t famous until the Rolling Stones travelled to America to meet their idol. The Rolling Stones got their names from one of Muddy’s songs and wanted to meet him in person. He made it big after he did their opening act. The blue players that helped shape the future of rock music were mostly labourers and farmers. They might have made a few dollars playing at a juke joint and some free drinks, but rarely ever saw large sums of money from their musical craft. If the legend of Robert Johnson and the devil were true, he must not have been as concise with his wishes. He might have said something along the lines that he wanted to be a famous guitar player and that the whole world to know who he is, but in devilish trickery, he got his wishes years after he passed on. The life of Robert Johnson was not well documented and there lies a shroud of mystery of what’s true and what is myth. There are ominous lyrics in his music about the devil coming to collect his soul but even in his death there are uncertainties. There was a rumour he died because he was sleeping around with someone’s wife and the husband poisoned his drink at the bar. However, blues writer Gayle Dean Wardlow found a death certificate that said he died from complications of syphilis (Ugwu, 2019). The deal with the devil might have been a marketing scheme, but as it is, seems appropriate enough.

To some artists, such as Eric Clapton, that found inspiration from traditional blues singers feel like there is a responsibility to honour their art and spirit. The pinstripe suits, fedoras, Ray Ban wayfarers, and Gibson and Fender guitars are the look while the I, IV, and V chord progression is the way. Although the blues is more than that because the music came from a place of hardship and poverty that was built from a community of people who lived the same experience together. That is not so different from the Indigenous peoples living on the reserves and in a system that undermines their cultural significance and place in society. There have been a lot of external pressures from a systemically racist power structure and government that tried to erase their existence. When their cultural songs and potlatch ceremonies were banned, they were forced to place that part of their life in the shadows and move on. This led to Indigenous cultures embracing the music from other races. Not surprisingly, Indigenous people found the blues music to be relatable and was comforted by the idea that they weren’t the only ones suffering from a paternalistic hierarchical power depicting what a person can do and where they can do it. The blues does not have to be based on the pain, but when there is pain, you can hear it in the meaning and voice. The beat of the music is constant and repetitive like the heartbeat. Whether the songs originated from Africa, or were kept alive on the slave ships, there is no question that it was the music that kept the spirit alive. When there’s an outside force making you feel down there is always music to turn to.

As an Indigenous person it feels special to play the blues because the roots are in a steady beat that connect us to spirit. Instead of a traditional deer drum it’s a guitar that gives rhythm to the soul. For me, because I was surrounded by the blues my whole life it was easy to look right past it. It could be staring right at me and hiding in plain sight. The blues was protected by the normality of its positioning in my life and nestled in. Sometimes I would even pick up guitars and move them because they’d take up space on the couch. One day, when I was about 11 or 12, my friend came over to visit after school. He asked, “what’s that?” We both looked at the guitar in the corner of the room. It was a solid body electric guitar, classic sunburst, double cut-out, with all six strings, and sported two humbuckers. It was dusty but I could tell that it had been used a lot. It was a workhorse copy brand that didn’t have a case. I had seen the guitar every day for a long time, but this was the first time I thought it was cool. We started plucking away at it making notes on the low E string. The weight felt good and seeing the strings dance accentuated the linear design of the neck and fretboard. With a bit of a wipe the humbuckers sparkled in the light. The cut outs of the guitar looked even more inviting and so began the journey of love and passion for music.

Each decade brought on new favourite genres, but the one that always stuck with me, which countless guitar heroes thank for their careers, is the blues. I first discovered the blues through hard rock of the 1960s through to the 90s that my dad had shown me. All the guitar gods sent me to the beginning of blues with Robert Johnson at the crossroads. The stomp and holler, piedmont fingerpicking style, resonators, and juke joints all held a spot in my heart. Also, there is something heavy metal about selling your soul to the devil to play guitar well. It was a slippery slope that turned quickly into an obsession. I started playing more often and expanded my interest across many genres of music with guitar. Music provided me with an opportunity to explore feelings and moods. Soon enough it led to going to shows, starting bands, singing, and writing love songs. There was a feeling wrapped up in the music that helped me learn about what I was going through. The notes and rhythms of songs were a paintbrush drawing maps and stories of human existence through feelings.

They played in juke joints because they didn’t want them in their clubs. This was racist segregation at work, and they created a space of their own where they felt welcome and at home. The rainy streets shone bright from the city lights and twangy notes danced in late Chicago nights. When blues musicians wanted to make it big, they left Mississippi and searched for fame and fortune in the Windy City. I’m here for a few dollars and a couple free beers and for now that is my worth. After I played, I drank and gave people cheers. The pen is mightier than the sword and I play some blues chords. I write because there are more words to say on the page than I could sing in a song. I may not be a farmer, but I have taken the time for my roots to grow deep in the soil. Give me an acoustic sound, humbuckers or a single coil and I’ll feel free from these chains. I look past the segregation, racism, residential school, and cross generational pain. The bottleneck slide sound glides through the nightscape and sings its song. The rakes brought down on the strings and down to the ground can be gentle and can be strong. Through the good times and the hard times there was always music. It might not be the blues, but it always felt right to me. To be a writer is to figure out why the world has been so tough on me. The words on the page are like notes on the guitar and both come together to express the words I cannot speak aloud. Please listen to me while I stomp and holler to the devil’s tune.