Sins in Blue

by Brian Kaufman

  “What were you expecting?”

  “A bluesman,” Alan said.

  “You don’t record white men, is that it?” It was a straightforward question. Willie had been turned away because of his skin color before and took no offense beyond the wasted time.

  “I record plenty of white musicians,” Lomax said. “Recorded people all across Texas, among other places.” He squinted. “But you’re drunk.”

  “Won’t matter,” Willie said. “Set up. I’ll play like you never heard before.”

  With Guidry’s permission, Lomax backed his car right up to the front steps of the shop and staged his equipment. Willie grabbed a chair from the side of the porch and sat down to tune. The hot afternoon sun and the whiskey built up a powerful thirst, so he asked Guidry for a glass of cold water. Guidry brought him the aforementioned lemonade instead, and the sugar seemed to revive him.

  After Lomax set the volume levels, Willie launched into Rising, High-Water Blues—a Blind Lemon song, but his throat still wasn’t right, and his playing was unusually stiff. When the song was finished, it seemed like Lomax had finished, too. The recording was nothing special, especially the way Willie had played. Lomax reached for the microphone. Willie shooed him away. “You came to hear my guitar. That was a warmup. Now, I’m gonna let it rip.” And he would, too, because he was hot and drunk and angry, and this man didn’t seem to think he was any good.

  “These aluminum discs are expensive,” Lomax said. “I didn’t know I was recording a warmup. You said you were ready to play.” His lips were pursed up again, but he stepped back to his machine to ready himself for the second song. “What’s this one called?”

  “Bitch Train,” Willie said.

  Lomax frowned in apparent disgust, but he checked the dials and pointed at Willie.

  And Willie played.

  When the song was over, Lomax switched off his machine and stared at Willie, his hand propping his chin. After a while, he said, “Well, I’ll give you this much. A man said yesterday that you played like the devil was lending a hand, and I guess he was right.”

  “So, am I gonna be on the radio?”

  “What made you think that?”

  “That’s what they told me,” Willie said, trying to hide his disappointment.

  “No, sorry. I’m recording for archival purposes. Authentic folk music. And frankly, you don’t fit in much with what I’m looking for.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’re playing someone else’s music.”

  “But I took the blues and made it my own,” Willie said.

  Lomax shook his head. “Wasn’t yours to take.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: WILLIE’S PLACE

  “Some of the greatest blues music is some of the darkest music you’ve ever heard.”

  ~Bruce Springsteen

  1969

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  “He’s not coming,” Willie said.

  Kennedy stared at the clock. Three in the afternoon. “He said he’d be here, Willie. I swear, he—”

  “I believe you.” Willie sat with his hands on his knees, back erect. “It’s all right. I didn’t expect anything out of this business.”

  Kennedy winced. “He promised—”

  “I know that, Kennedy. But people promise things all the time.” Willie gave his head a slow shake. “And good things are mostly reserved for good people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Willie wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I mean I’ve done too many bad things to get a break this late in the game.” He sat back and coughed. The sound was wet with phlegm.

  Kennedy stood up. “I’m gonna go to a pay phone and call George Wein.”

  “Sit down,” Willie said. “We got everything we need here. I have a bottle in the kitchen cupboard and a leftover burrito in the refrigerator. Drinks and appetizers. No bouncers. No lines at the bathroom. This might be the best bar in Fort Collins. Willie’s Place.”

  Kennedy bit his lip at first, but when Willie stood and headed for the kitchen, he blurted, “Don’t do it.”

  Willie stopped and turned, surprised.

  “It would be like history repeating itself.”

  Willie stared at him for a moment and returned to the couch. “So, we wait?”

  “We wait.”

  Willie returned to the couch, slumped forward, his arms dangling between his legs. Kennedy paced the room, pausing to look out the window with every circuit, as if by looking, he could make the man materialize on the lawn.

  Willie sighed. “It was fun to think about,” he said. “Playing again? For a crowd of people who like the blues? Fine dream.”

  “It may still happen.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re just trying to talk yourself down, so you won’t be disappointed. And you shouldn’t. You need to stay ready. He may still show up. Like Lomax.”

  “And look how well that turned out,” Willie said, practically spitting the words. He wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “Like I said, I didn’t really expect anything out of this.”

  “What have we been doing for the last few days, then?”

  “Drinking and talking over old times. And pretending.” He paused. “It’s like playing the numbers. Everybody’s got the winning ticket, right up until the winner is announced. Everybody has plans for the money they’ll never get to spend. They know what car they’re gonna buy. They pay off their momma’s debts. They’ll even put something aside—”

  “He’s here.”

  “What?”

  Kennedy walked to the door and pulled it open, calling, “You looking for Willie Johnson? He’s in here.”

  The man stood halfway between the sidewalk and the front door. “I’m late,” he said.

  Kennedy smiled. “Glad to see you.”

  The man was not wearing a suit, as Kennedy had expected. Instead, he wore shorts, sandals, and a tie-dye tee shirt with the slogan Paix au Vietnam in block letters across the front. His silver Chrysler sat at the curb behind him.

  “Come on in,” Kennedy said, stepping aside to allow him entry. Willie sat on the couch, seemingly frozen.

  “Howard Warden,” the man said, extending a hand to Kennedy.

  “Kennedy Barnes. And this is Willie.”

  Warden turned.

  Willie stood, hobbled over to his guitar and picked it up. Kennedy had put a stool in the corner for him. He sat down and began strumming.

  “Have a seat,” Kennedy said.

  Warden stood still.

  Willie played the opening chords of Bitch Train. His voice sounded scratchier than usual. Kennedy wished he’d stop singing and start playing, and as if reading his mind, Willie began picking, and the flurry of single notes filled the room. How could the old man’s fingers move so fast? He raced over minor chord arpeggios, sliding up the guitar neck, finger-dancing to the thump of the base string.

  And then he stopped and looked up.

  “Well,” Warden said. “Well, well.”

  “And he’s been doing that for thirty-five years,” Kennedy gushed. “Long before anyone thought of playing like that. Willie Johnson . . .invented rock and roll.”

  Willie grimaced. “I’ve explained to the boy that there were plenty of others playing that sort of—”

  “Ike Turner, for one,” Warden said.

  “Willie recorded for Alan Lomax twenty years before Rocket 88.”

  “Seventeen years,” Willie said.

  “Well,” Warden repeate
d. His forehead wrinkled, and his upper lip twitched. Was Warden just tired, or didn’t he like the music?

  “Play another song,” Kennedy said. Warden hadn’t sat down yet. If Willie didn’t play something right now, the man might leave.

  “Here’s one of mine,” Willie said. He pulled his knife from his pocket and began to play, using the knife as a slide. The notes buzzed and whined. This time, Willie’s voice seemed stronger as he crooned the lyrics.

  When you’re talkin’ women, you’re talkin’ money, too.

  You just can’t avoid it, can’t separate the two.

  Don’t matter what your heart says, you’re broke down to the bone.

  Them pretty womens leave you there standin’ all alone.

  Just give me wine and wicked women.

  That is all I crave.

  Wine and wicked women,

  ‘till I’m in my grave.

  Kennedy hadn’t heard Willie’s slide work before. He stood, openmouthed. The knife made a scratchy, metallic sound as it slid up and down the strings. When the song was over, Kennedy chanced another look at Warden. His expression had softened a little.

  “Nice,” Warden said.

  “What’s the verdict?” Willie asked.

  The furrows returned to Warden’s forehead. “You play very well.”

  “He’ll be a hit at your festival,” Kennedy said.

  Warden shook his head. “I came out here—and I have to say, I drove quite a bit out of my way—to listen to an old bluesman.”

  “I play the blues,” Willie said. He had an odd look on his face—part amusement and part anger. His fingers had closed around the knife, gripping it tight.

  “There’s a difference between a white man who plays the blues and a bluesman,” Warden said. His voice had a finality to it. “The Newport Folk Festival is dedicated to introducing authentic American music. Music that’s been lost, and now found. I’ll be candid with you gentlemen. I came here expecting to hear a black musician—”

  “I never said he was black!” Kennedy said.

  “A lie by omission.” Warden’s expression had become grimmer still. “I am trying not to take my frustration out on you, Mr. Johnson. You clearly have skills. But I’ve been sent on a goose chase, and it’s difficult not to feel somewhat used in this situation. As I said, we feature authentic music at the festival.”

  “I played jukes and clubs all over the south. I played for tips or drinks and a hot meal. I slept in boxcars and rode the rails from town to town. I drank bootleg liquor and got my ass kicked by black and white men alike. I loved and lost, and the whole time, I played the blues. I lived the blues.”

  “And in your travels, did you encounter black musicians who played the blues from the heart, yet never had a chance, simply because of the color of their skin? Shouldn’t they get a chance, too? Aren’t those the artists I should be seeking out?”

  Willie set his guitar aside.

  “As I said, you play well. But we showcase genuine artists who never had a chance to play, to an audience that’s never heard the true voice of a downtrodden people. That’s a sacred trust—one that I will not abandon.”

  Willie nodded. “Well, the blues can rest easy, knowing you’re watchdogging.”

  Warden stepped back. “You gentlemen wasted my time, not the other way around.” He opened the door and turned for a last word. “In the end, it’s a matter of respect. Respect for someone else’s music.”

  “Actions, not words,” Willie said. “You respect something—love something—you make it a part of your life. You don’t stick it in a museum, under glass, so’s it won’t get away. You think you’re protecting something? All you’re doing is charging admission.”

  “I’m done here,” Warden said.

  When the door slammed, Kennedy slumped back against the wall, near tears. “I can’t believe—”

  “I can,” Willie said. “This ain’t the first time I’ve had this conversation. Seems like there’s always someone ready to decide who can do what, and who can’t.” He stood and stretched, shaking his arms. “Damn. I’m half-glad that’s over.”

  Kennedy stared.

  “I told you. I didn’t expect much. I know how the world works. Everybody’s all worried about prejudice these days, talking about ought to do this, and ought to do that. It’s all a bunch of words. The same fools are in charge, telling people what to do and what not to do.” He walked into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Nothing holding us back, now. Willie’s Place is open for business. Best prices in town. Free.” He poured two shots and started to hand one to Kennedy, pulling back at the last moment. “You got an I.D.?”

  “Willie . . .”

  He shoved the drink in Kennedy’s hand and took a sip of his own. “No sweat, kid. You did your best. And I don’t deserve any better.”

  “Why do you say that? You’re a great guitarist and a great man. You treat me better than my own family—”

  “Speaking of that . . . have you called your mother yet?”

  Kennedy blushed and turned away.

  Willie finished his drink and poured another. “Don’t you think she deserves better than that? And your father? You may have your problems with him, but don’t you think he worries?”

  “He broke my records.”

  “Now you sound like a little kid.”

  Kennedy swallowed the drink, nearly choking. “Give me the bottle,” he croaked.

  “Go easy. This is my only bottle, and it’s got to last the night.”

  Kennedy poured a shot into the glass and took it to the couch. “What now?”

  Willie downed his drink. “Same as last week. I work.”

  “Why don’t you retire?”

  “I’m old enough,” Willie said. “But I don’t have two dollars to rub together.”

  “They pay Social Security, don’t they?”

  “I worked off the books most of my life,” Willie answered. “I’m a musician, remember? I could get something, all right, but it wouldn’t cover rent. I’m going to have to keep working.”

  “What happens when you can’t work anymore?”

  Willie didn’t answer.

  “Jesus,” Kennedy said. “What a mess. Why couldn’t they just give us a chance?”

  “Don’t deserve one,” Willie said.

  “Why do you keep saying that? What did you ever do that was so awful?” He’d asked the question again, and he hadn’t meant to—not really. Not now, anyway. He sat staring at the drink in his hand. The room was hot, and the taste of the liquor made him sick to his stomach. Flies buzzed in the window behind him.

  Willie crossed over and sat back down on the stool next to his guitar. He poured himself another glass—a full one this time—and coughed. He took a sip, and coughed again, hacking up something from the back of his throat. “I saw Luella one more time,” he said. Then he was silent. The minutes stretched past, but Kennedy didn’t prod him. The old man would either tell his story or he wouldn’t. Either way, it was his story to tell.

  • • • • •

  1936

  Cruger, Mississippi

  The town had changed since Willie’d been on the road. He’d walked from the train station over the bridge, his guitar slung over his back like a rifle, past the graveyard with its odd brick plots and headstones, like tiny coffin-shaped kilns. The doors to Mr. Green’s drug store were still open, though maybe not for long. The town was shrinking, drying up and blowing away. The church where Willie and Jackwash had gone as children stood upright, but the parched wood looked one mat
ch shy of a bonfire.

  Aunt Beatrice was much the same as the town—older and more withered. She’d either lost some of her faith or her desire to club him over the head with it. She even let him play guitar in his room and didn’t badger him to find work until the third day.

  News of Jackwash’s death came from a cousin who’d heard what happened from another cousin. “They shot him three times,” he told Willie. “Two in the head, and one in his pecker. Somebody was makin’ a statement.”

  Who had he crossed? Willie would never know. He asked around about the body, but nobody knew anything. If there’d been a way to get him home, Willie’d have seen to Jackwash’s burial himself. “They probably ran him through the grinder,” the cousin said. “Might come across him if’n you buy some o’ that Chicago-made sausage.” Since moving north, Jackwash had never looked back, and the folks back home weren’t inclined to remember him kindly.

  Home, flat broke, and run out of most of the jukes and clubs he once played, Willie had time to grieve. Passing a field where they’d played catch with a ball Jackwash made out of packing tape, or stopping in the Bakery & Meat Market, where Jackwash stole a string of hot dogs while Willie made a distraction out of selecting a loaf of bread he had no money for, Willie greeted each marker from the past as a fresh regret.

  He didn’t ask about Luella, so she’d been home for a month before he learned she was back. He waited another week before going to see her.

  Luella’s mother lived a quarter mile from the church. The wood shack was raised up a foot and a half on log posts in case of flood, or perhaps to give the dog a cool place to wait out the hot summer sun. Over the years, the floor had sagged, bowing down almost to the ground in some places. The roof had stayed tall around the stovepipe, but the rest was sinking in like the floor. When Willie came to pay a call, Luella and her mother sat sweating on the porch. Luella said something, and her mother scurried inside, shutting the door behind her.

  Willie stopped some distance from the porch, not saying anything.

  “Is that you, Willie Johnson?”