Horace Barnwell Sr. 6369

Marty stopped by the farm to inform me that a Horace Barnwell Jr. did an interview today with a reporter in Fayetteville about my time playing with his father, Horace Sr.; a rotten no good bastard that I damn near killed on more than one occasion. “Horace told the reporter that you and his father didn’t get along and that there were several tense moments, but he wants his father’s music to be heard,” Marty said. “Does he have the tapes,” I asked. “I guess, he said that you guys had one session that was smoking. A man named Larry Hubbard recorded it and said it was something special. Unfortunately, Larry died several years back, but not before his daughter gave Horace Jr. the tape. I take it that Horace Sr. and Jr. didn’t get along,” Marty then asked me. “Nobody got along with Horace, he was a nasty old man with a hair-trigger temper. He did have a great voice and could blow harp, but he was an irredeemable shithead who screwed over everyone he met.” “His son said that he hated white people and women, along with most other people,” my manager then said. “Right, and he hurled racial slurs at me while I threw them back. It was a terrible time, Marty. I spent less than a week with that asshole, but it felt like years. Billy Wayman, the drummer, and Theo Hemphill, the bassist, hated him more than I did, and they were black. I remember Horace calling Theo a backward nigger who belonged in chains. I thought Theo would kill the old man. He used that word all the time, along with ‘cracker’ ‘whitey’ and ‘greaseball’ which he reserved for hispanics. I finally walked out of the studio and never looked back,” I said. “What prompted that,” Marty asked. “He hit me, and I hit him back, knocking damn near out. I realized that I just might kill that old bastard, so I left with Theo and Billy joining me.”

It was back in ’82 when I came across Horace Barnwell Sr. He was seventy-something at the time and just as mean as a snake. A retired painter, Horace did okay in business despite being a terrible person. He also did mechanic work on the side and also cut lawns. His work ethic was exemplary, but that was it. Horace Sr. was simply no good, which was a shame because he was a talented musician who could have gone somewhere had he not been such an asshole. “His son must be in his seventies, or at least close to it,” I said to Marty. “He is, Scragg, he’ll be up here tomorrow to hand us the recording. He said he wants to make it right. Did Jr. play on the session?” “Yes, rhythm guitar,” I replied. “Was he any good?” “He was solid.” “Do you want to talk to him?” “Yeah, I have nothing against Jr.” “Great, I’ll let him know that.”

“You fucking cracker, someone ought to whip you and then cut throat.” “White trash bastard probably dicks his sister” “Little white rat is a no good motherfucker.” “Fuck you, Scragg, you cracker motherfucker.” That’s the kind of shit I had to listen to when I was around Horace. I won’t go into what he said about women because it was awful, but you probably get the idea. I remember having reservations when Loretta arranged for me to play for the old bastard. She said it would be good for me to play with an authentic bluesman. I did play with an authentic bluesman, and Jebediah Weeks wouldn’t have liked Horace.

And Horace Sr. would have given a fuck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sharing A Brief But Invaluable History 6036

 We spent all morning doing promotional work, which meant a lot of time with the vultures. Fortunately, we all have dealt with the press and know that it’s part of the game, so we kept our humor and made sure not to let any past bullshit dampen the day. We worked straight until dinner when we disappeared and returned to the civic center where we played until supper. Both Rory and Johnny said they felt comfortable with the set and were ready for whatever I throw at them tomorrow night, which was good enough for me. 

I didn’t want anything fancy for supper, so our runner, a young man named Lamont, headed to Captain D’s and brought us back a feast of fish that was tickled us all. Even Barton said it looked delicious despite coming from a fast food joint. We tore into the meal and laughed about all the scuttle going around in the news about me down here. Some of the comments from the press are priceless such as: “Maybe the swamp will swallow him up.” “It’s a good place for him to get lost.” “You better watch out for the gators, Scragg.” Of course, Rory and Johnny haven’t gotten off without some pleasant comments. “A trio of criminals cavorting around Mississippi–does that sound like fun or what?” “Violent men playing tunes about violent men.” “Maybe a snake or gator will get that trashy bastard, Rory Keating.” “Johnny Deagan will become Count Dracula in that neck of Mississippi–but he can still only bite you on the shins.” Even Johnny laughed at that one. “Wow, that’s pretty good,” he admitted. “Hell, they’re openly wishing the critters get my ass now,” Rory cracked. “I know they’re calling the show a money grab and a con game by me, but I aim to prove them wrong. I’m going to do my thing tomorrow night and let the people be the judge,” I said. “We all know you’ll put on a great show,” Lamont said. “Thanks, that’s the kind of confidence I’m looking for.” “I’m sure you have it, Sir.” “I do, I can feel something special about to go down.” 

I didn’t come down here for a cash grab or to conjure up the spirit of Robert Johnson, Son House, or any of the blues legends. I came down here because I think Jebediah deserves recognition for his contribution to the blues, and this part of Mississippi is steeped in the tradition that is the basis for all American popular music. Before there was Elvis, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams Sr., The Beatles, The Rolling Stones there was Charley Patton, Lonnie Johnson, the aforementioned, Son House and Robert Johnson, Leadbelly, and Blind Lemon Jefferson, just to name some of the great artists, who created the sound that would become universal. 

I’m down here to make some money, but also to share some brief history I shared with a one-of-a-kind man whose faith in me proved invaluable. 

Going Solo In Greenwood 5938

I got a call from Clinton Williams this morning who sounded like he’d been run over by a truck.

And it turns out that he had.

While driving to work, Clinton was hit by a tractor who ran a stop sign. The force of the impact rolled his small pickup a couple of times. Fortunately, a broken arm and leg are all he suffered in what should have been a fatal accident. “I’m mighty lucky, Scragg, I shouldn’t be talking to you,” he said. “I hear you, buddy, and I’m glad you’re alive.” “I’ll be alright, but I ain’t going to Mississippi.” “Damn, I hate that for you, but they’ll be another day.” “I want to be angry and sad, Scragg, but I should be dead, and I’m not, so I’ll count my blessings. I wanted to tell you myself and thank you for having faith in me.” “No problem, and get better soon.” “I will.” I could hear the nurses telling Clinton that they needed to work on him, so I wished him well and clicked off.

Oh well, another man goes down.

I called Rory, who said that I need to go solo. “Fuck it, Scragg, Jebediah would want you to carry on the tunes, and besides, it sounds like Johnny and I will be fucked if we stick around.” I laughed and said I understood. I then called Johnny, who echoed Rory’s sentiments. A ring to Marty sealed the deal, and I now knew what I’m going to do in Greenwood.

I told Blake the deal, and she said I’ll do great by myself. I grabbed my Epi EL-00 and plugged it in. “You mind if I play you a couple songs off the album,” I asked her. “Get your daughters over here to listen, too,” she replied.

It turns out that everyone showed up, so I moved the proceedings to the studio where I played the entire album. I tried to remember that day back in ’74, but instead, found myself feeling the music and everything that has transpired since. When I played the last song, I looked up and saw all those faces giving me stunned looks. “You’re another person when you play the blues, Daddy,” Caroline said. “I thought you were going to levitate a couple of times,” Farley added. “You got this, Scragg, you got it and then some,” Rory assured me. “Will anyone listen to this,” I asked. “I don’t know anything about music, but that was riveting,” Bambi commented. “Okay, that’s good enough for me.” “Use the Epi, Scragg, it’s perfect,” Rory added. “Absolutely,” Maire added. “Okay, that was easy enough. All of you say a prayer for Clinton for a speedy recovery,” I then said. “What else are you going to play,” Rory then asked. “That’s a surprise.” “Really, Scragg.” “Yep, buy the PPV.” “I’m still going down there.” “Great, do I have to go,” Marty asked. I laughed, which gave my manager his answer. “What are you going to play,” Robin asked. “Buy the PPV.” “Daddy!” “Just tell us,” Maire whined. “Buy the PPV.” “Daddy!” “Elmer, stop teasing,” Blake said. “I’m just looking out for business.” “No, you’re being a jerk.” “Oh well, buy the PPV.” “Elmer!”

Looks like I’m going solo in Greenwood.

Early Morning Blues 5913

Hollie came over to the farm this morning to record some songs for his solo project that I felt he should do. “All in Vain” a composition Holly came up with that told the story of a tired old man suffering from despair. Hollie’s lyrics were grim and revealed a man still grieving from tragedy that never goes away. I rather suspect he’s singing from memory and has never written them down. I played along and provided the backup to Hollie’s vocals, and harp playing. Farley looked on in awe as Hollie sang with everything he had. I was even surprised at his intensity, which nearly hypnotized me.

Damn, we’re already breaking a sweat.

“Slow Night” another composition Hollie had in his head, was next up, and it delved into a lonely man’s fitful sleep as he tries to grapple with everything that has left him. I’m certain the death of his wife brought out the tunesmith in Hollie. I don’t recall him ever talking about being a songwriter, but then again, I never played with him all that much to know and when we did it was always straight ahead jamming.

“Switch” followed, and was a dandy of a song about getting your ass welted by a fresh branch. In this case, it was done by an angry father who took his frustrations out on his kids only to regret it shortly afterward. I didn’t know Hollie’s old man, but I assume the number was about him. The song ends with Hollie singing about walking out the door.

“Home Cookin'” a tribute to Gladys and her gentle nature whose departure from this world has left a huge hole in Hollie’s life, was the next number he sang. I can still see Hollie and Gladys standing over Robert Jr.’ grave trying to figure out what went wrong. They were hand-in-hand and giving each other strength. I can only imagine what it’s like for Hollie now, but I do know his undying love for his wife still burns inside him.

“Granite” a gut-wrenching tale about the realization that your loved ones have passed on followed. Again, Hollie was in a trance and singing with every ounce of emotion he could muster, but he never sounded overwrought, just truthful.

“Gimme Some Collards” a funny little ditty about the southern staple that Hollie and many other folks of a certain age ate a bunch of along with field peas and turnips. The song provided a break from the serious shit and allowed Hollie to cut loose with his harmonica.

We took a break and laughed about how the session moved right along. I asked Hollie if he wanted to play with a band and he was indifferent. Farley; however, was firmly against it. “You two sound perfect together, so let’s keep a good thing going,” he pleaded. “Okay, that’s that,” Hollie agreed. “I can’t think of any songs at the moment, Scragg,” he then told me. “Hum,” I replied. “I reckon can do that.” “In fact, do that song you did yesterday,” I added. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that one. We titled the tune, “Still Around”

I gave Hollie a composition called “Revival” which I first performed with Eastland Baptist Church in Fayetteville. He looked over the lyrics and found the groove. The theme of finding a reason to continue on despite sometimes not wanting to seemed to resonate with Hollie, who gave it all he had. When we finished recording it, Hollie was sweating, but wearing a smile.

Wow, this morning has zoomed on by.

“I have two more songs we can record if you can’t come up with the ones on your head. I know you’re old and somewhat senile, but I have you covered,” I told Hollie with my grin. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Scragg,” he replied. “You have to pretend you’re going deaf now?” “Man, someone seriously needs to kick your ass.” I laughed and asked Farley the time, and he said it was eleven. “Shit, we were motoring,” I declared. “You want to do one more,” Farley asked. “No, let’s take a break,” I replied.

The blues Hollie sand this morning were some of the purest I’ve ever heard. I especially loved his energy and phrasing. He’s had those songs in his head for a long time, and it was just a matter of getting them out in song form, which we were able to do this morning.

Let’s hope there’s more magic in the afternoon.

The Blues Brothers 5912

I went back to the farm and piddled around until it was time to pick up Amy from preschool. Blake wouldn’t be home until three, so my baby girl and I stopped at Subway to pick up dinner that we brought back to the house.

I told Maire and Robin about Eli Zook and his mother, which they found intriguing. “That’s wild, Daddy, and I bet they both have some stories to tell,” Maire said. “Unfortunately, I know it’s a brutal tale of abuse, which I wasn’t up to hearing today. Eli’s a fantastic musician; however, the three songs I heard were all about his negative experiences in the Amish community. I asked him if he wrote about anything else and he said not yet, so I feel it’s best that he play with a band and become more well-rounded. I know his story is compelling, but I don’t want him just singing about how awful the Amish are,” I replied. “I’m sure they’re not all like that,” Robin said. “Right, and he and his mother have been through a lot of trauma, so we need to develop him as an artist, not just an ex-communicated Amish guy who has a beef with his father and the community in general.” “Ken called me on the way back here and said that he has an extra guitar for Eli, but is concerned about the chemistry of the band. I assured him that Eli would fit in, but if he doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world,” Farley added. “I’ll give him one of the souped-up Epi’s to take on the road. The band needs another voice and guitar, which Eli will provide. Their songs, although excellent, are missing something and it’s that added bite on guitar,” I then remarked. “Can his mother keep up in a restaurant,” Maire asked. “Probably not at first, but she’ll catch on.” “How many other children does she have,” Robin then asked. “Three, or that’s what she told Amber,” Farley replied. “Where are they?” “Married and living the Amish life.” “Are they brothers, sisters, or both?” “Two sisters, which I think was a problem for the father who wanted a bunch of children, but Linda couldn’t have anymore,” Farley said. “How the hell you find all this Out,” I asked my son-in-law. “Amber got it out of her, and while you were talking with Jr., she filled me in.”

E. Jr. then called Farley.

My son-in-law gave me a curious look as he listened to Jr. “Okay, Jr., I’ll tell him,” Farley said before clicking off. “You know a Robert Hollingsworth,” he asked me. “Yes, what’s up?” “He’s down at the studio.” “Alright, he decided to do this after all,” I replied. “Is he the bluesman you talked to yesterday,” Maire asked. “Yes, so I’m going to finish the sub and then go back down there.”

I greeted Robert at the studio, and he gave me his patented grin. “I figured why the hell not,” he said. “Cool, you feeling alright?” “Yes, Sir.” “You bring your harp?” “Yes, Sir.” “Alright Hollie, let’s do this.” “I’m ready as I’ll ever be.” “Oh fuck, we’re doomed,” I replied, which made the bluesman grin.

I showed Robert the lyrics to the songs from the “Book of Jebediah” He looked them over and then said he was ready. He sang “Old Jim Crow” as if his life depended on it, which gave the tune a haunting feel. “Another Grave to Dig” was equally impressive as Hollie, Robert’s nickname, felt every word he sang. We then tore the album. Robert had memorized the lyrics from repeated listenings and had the feel and timing down pat. He grinned after we played the last song.

I then told him to jump in whenever he thought necessary.

I ripped into, “I Got Tribulation” and transported myself to a lousy place in time. Robert blew his harp like a man possessed, which added the right tone to the song. I then turned, “Pulling a Broken Wagon” into a blues tune, which it should have been all along. Robert joined me on some of the verses that filled out the composition. “Bring on the Night” and Liquor Breath” followed and Hollie and I lost track of time. “Gone” never sounded so haunting with Holly’s harp punctuating the lyrics with an eerie foreboding. I then asked Robert if he had anything on his mind. He began humming, and I jumped in on guitar. Listening to the bluesman go back in time when the pain was fresh was something to hear, especially now that I’m older, wiser, and filled with regret that I’m trying to unload. Hollie then began singing about loss and living with it without losing your mind. I knew he was improvising because the words came out naturally. His eyes were fixed on an imaginary spot on the wall as he tried to dump as much pain as he could while I did the same. When we finished, we both snapped out of it and laughed.

We then noticed we had an audience.

Robert waved to everyone, and I stood up and stretched out. Kevin, Rory, and Cullen walked into the studio wearing serious expressions “You have to be kidding me,” Rory said. “Why?” “You should have heard that, Scragg.” “Damn, that was unreal,” my partner added. “Daddy, that was devastating,” Robin said. “The Blues Brothers,” Amanda joked. “Hey, he’s a lot older than me, in fact, I think I’ll call him Pops,” I replied. “Why you,” Robert sneered before grinning.

I then sang, “Done Got Old” the classic Junior Kimbrough tune.

“Damn,” Rory blurted out. “Yep, that’s for you Hollie,” I said. “I’m just a punk, who needs his tail whipped, yeah, I’m just a punk, who ain’t worth a…,” Hollie fired back with a grin. I laughed and gave him the half-middle finger, which upset my daughters. Robert lost half the finger in a farming accident, and we would flash him that when he would bark at us about getting off his lawn. “Man, I wanted to take my belt off and go to town your rear,” he said. “But you were an old man and didn’t have the strength,” I sang back. “Daddy, that was awful,” Robin said. “You ought to hear about some of the other things we did,” I replied. “Daddy!” “It’s amazing, you have a beautiful wife and daughters,” Hollie remarked. “Because I’m beautiful,” I replied. “Man, that’s just outrageous, Scragg.” “Yeah, you’re beautiful,” Cullen told me. “Hey, look at you,” I countered. “Ain’t no one meaner, uglier, or more ornery than, Scragg,” Hollie declared. “Okay, I can take it.” “Good, the truth will set you free,” he then quipped.

Playing with old Robert was incredible.

Khaki Blues 5910

We got back to the farm and changed into casual clothes. I took a seat on the couch and relaxed for a spell. The breakfast still filled my gut and Blake said the same thing. Elizabeth and Amy joined me. I turned on the television to the equestrian channel where they were showing Arabians. The girls were fascinated and gave the show their full attention. I watched and then broke out in a smile as the program went into details about the horses and their outrageous price tags.

It wasn’t long ago that I was living day-to-day and praying I could get through each one without going hungry. It also wasn’t too far in the past when I was bereft of hope and prepared for the end. I didn’t have a cent to my name, was homeless, and a pathetic ex-con getting ready to check out. Now, I’m watching a show about horses that I can not only afford, but I could buy the farm, too. I have two baby girls who’ll never know what it’s like to live in desperation. I’ve got millions upon millions of dollars and live the good life. Fortunately, I know I have it good and take nothing for granted, but it is still surreal that I am where I am at the point in my life.

Amy then asked me to play the blues.

“Now why do you want to hear them,” I asked. “I just do.” “You have the blues?” “What?” I laughed and opened my arms wide. Both of my baby girls got in my lap and began asking me questions about the art form, originated by blacks in the Deep South in the late 19th century. I told my baby girls that it is the basis for jazz, country, and rock and roll. They weren’t interested in the history, but I always remind them because it is important to understand the roots of popular American music. “Why don’t you just play something, Daddy,” Amy said.

I picked up the cheap red guitar and began playing “If I Had Possession Over Judgment Day” the classic tune by Robert Johnson. Blake took a seat next to me and listened with interest. When I finished the playing the song, my wife asked me if I played the blues when I was a child. “Some, I had to learn them first.” “That didn’t take long,” Blake replied. “It took a little time.” “What’s a child doing playing the blues,” Blake continued. “You’d be surprised.” “Elmer.” “Would have sung the blues had you known any of the songs,” I countered, which jolted my wife. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Probably a good thing.” “What?” “That you didn’t sing them.” “Why?” “Why give everyone around you the blues,” I cracked. “Elmer!”

Maire and her family then stopped over.

Dressed in khaki shorts, a Polo shirt, and sandals, Cary was the epitome of the suburban dad. Maire also dinned khaki shorts, a white blouse, and sandals, that made her his counterpart. Cary Jr. wore denim shorts, a collared knit shirt, and tennis shoes. The triplets donned their matching baby outfits.

Maire and her family were about as far away from the grit and despair of the blues as possible–which is a beautiful thing.

“Are you serious,” I asked my son-in-law. “What, Dad?” “Look at yourself in the mirror.” “Elmer, he looks nice now leave him alone.” “Are you about to film a remake of The Brady Bunch?” “Daddy, he’s dressed nicely,” Maire protested. “What kind of tea do you two drink?” “Elmer!” “Have you gone vegan yet?” “Elmer, you stop your teasing. I have khaki shorts and blouses like that, and I’m wearing sandals,” my wife said. “True, but you buy yours from Walmart, not out of some catalog where everyone looks like The Stepford Wives–and husbands.” “Daddy!” “Elmer, stop it.” “Okay,” I replied before laughing at Cary’s dress again. “What were you playing on the guitar,” Maire then asked. “The blues, but with this sight, I reckon I’ve been transported to a coffeehouse in Greenwich,” I replied. “Daddy!” “Elmer, you behave.” “I got me the khaki blues,” I sang, which further irritated my wife and daughter. Cary just wanted to hide.

Damn, I hope someone would kick me in the nuts before they let me dress that way.

Robert Hollingsworth 5909

I took Blake and the girls to the Hawthorne House for a world-class breakfast, which brightened the day by getting us out of the area for a spell. The girls loved their chocolate pancakes and fruit while I enjoyed my eggs, pork chops, and hashbrowns. We relaxed afterward, which was also priceless. I looked, at my two baby girls who are growing up so fast that I can’t keep up. I now understand the painful inevitability every parent faces as they watch their children become adults knowing that no amount of hanging on will stop what is coming.

It’s also a reminder of my advancing age.

After breakfast, we took a ride through McSwain, which was spared most of Florence’s wrath. My sister and brother-in-law went to Virginia to escape the storm and will be back tonight. I called them and said that their house looks to be in good shape with only some branches strewn on their lawn. We then continued our drive to the outskirts of town.

As I meandered back into McSwain, I saw a familiar face walking down the sidewalk by the courthouse. I pulled over and got out of the car. “Robert,” I called out. The elderly black man gave me a closer look before breaking out into a grin. “I’ll be, the Scragg Man,” he said before hugging me. “You coming around here to look down at us folks,” he then asked. “Of course, I’m ashamed even to be seen with you,” I replied. Robert laughed and gave me his classic grin. “You sure have made it big, boy, but I knew you could if you quit that booze, which you must have done. I talked to John Henry a few days ago, and he said that you’re living it up, but are still the same cheap bastard you’ve always been.” I laughed and told him that is true. “You out with the wife and kids.” “Yes, Sir, by the way, how are Charles and Lisa,” I asked. “Good, Charles is working in Raleigh selling insurance. Lisa is a nurse in Chapel Hill. They both have families and bug me about moving up that way.” “I’m glad to hear they’re doing well.” “I saw your sister a couple of weeks ago, and she said that you guys keep in touch. Laura is a good girl, and we all worried about her when she married Richard, but it worked out,” Robert said. I laughed and said that we still worry about Richard.

Robert and I then walked to the van.

Blake rolled down her window, and I introduced her to Robert. “This is Robert Hollingsworth, an old mechanic, and blues player that I jammed with a time or two. Robert this is Blake.” “Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.” “You too, Sir.” “And these pretty little girls are Elizabeth and Amy.” “Hello there, Elizabeth and Amy,” Robert said to the girls, who smiled and said hello back. “They are gorgeous, Scragg,” Robert remarked. “Thank you, and I’m pretty myself,” I cracked. “I don’t know about all that, the girls are beautiful, but you’re a different story, Scragg.” “Oh well, I reckon some things never change.”

After exchanging a few more gentle barbs, a light rain began to fall. I asked Robert if he needed a ride to his house, and he told me that he lives in the senior citizen apartments on Lander Street, which was a few blocks away. “I get my morning walk in every day, but sometimes I get burned,” he said. “Hop in; we’ll take you home.” “You sure?” “Get in, no sense getting wet.”

We arrived at the Lander Street Apartments, which are single-story buildings that house the elderly. The apartments are small but comfortable, and most of the folks are single. Robert invited us in, and a thought popped into my head. “You got coffee,” I asked. “Sure, plus soda for the girls,” he replied. We walked into his apartment, which was more of an efficiency. The girls took a seat on a sofa while grabbed a chair from the kitchen table. Robert brewed the coffee and then took the other chair from the table. Blake looked at the pictures on the wall of Robert’s children. He pointed out Charles and Lisa before smiling at Robert Jr.’ portrait. “That was my oldest child, Jr.,” Robert said. “Was,” Blake asked. “Yes, Ma’am, he passed away over thirty years ago.” “I’m so sorry.” “It’s okay, Robert Jr. was troubled; drugs and alcohol, which killed him when he was twenty-four. I looked for someone or something to blame but realized he made his own decisions. Anyway, he’s at peace now.” “I sure hated that, Bobby and I had some fun jamming. I can still hear him singing “The Thrill is Gone,” I said. Robert smiled. “Yes, he was a fine player.” “Is that your wife,” Blake then asked, pointing to Gladys Hollingsworth, Robert’s wife for over fifty years. “Yes, she passed away five years ago,” he said. “She was a nice lady,” I remarked. “She was a keeper,” Robert added.

Robert then went to pour the coffee.

He offered the girls something, but they declined. We chatted about family before Blake asked him about Jebediah. Robert gave her a surprised look. “Jebediah Weeks, that’s a name I haven’t heard in ages. Why do you ask, Ma’am?” “Because Elmer made an album with him.” Robert’s eyes widened with more surprise. “When,” he asked. “When I was twelve.” What?” “Yes, Sir.”

Blake then walked out to the van to get the CD.

Robert pulled out a small boom box and put the CD in. He listened in shock as Jeb, and I played songs that we patched together. When the album ended, Robert gave me a dazed look. “What on earth,” he whispered. “Surprised me, too,” I said. I told him how the session came about and he smiled. “Wow, that’s unreal.” “Do you like it, Sir,” Amy asked the old bluesman. “Yes, sweetie, it’s amazing.” “How did Daddy play like that?” Robert gave my baby girl a sad look before catching himself. “Because he’s incredibly talented,” he then said. Blake studied him and caught his spontaneous expression. “That’s…that’s just wild, Scragg,” he said. “I’ll get you a copy.” “Please do.” “Can you play the blues,” Amy then asked Robert. “Yes, a little bit.” “Mr. Hollingsworth is very good,” I corrected. “Nah, just a doodler.” You have a guitar?” “I have Jr.” Robert walked to the closet and pulled out the case that held his son’s acoustic guitar. It was a cheap instrument but sounded terrific. He handed it to me, and I grabbed the pack of strings inside the case. “Let me change these,” I said

I changed the strings and then played a few chords. Jr.’ slide wasn’t in the case, but that didn’t matter, I made it do what I wanted. “Sing something Robert,” I asked. Robert cleared his throat and began humming, which sounded beautifully eerie. Robert’s rich baritone filled up the room. “We all go in the end,” Robert repeated between the humming. He then saw the wide eyes of my baby girls and stopped. “Oh Lord, I’m sorry,” he said. “What for,” I asked. “This isn’t children’s music.” “No, you’re right, so sing something sweet,” I suggested. Robert grinned. “Two pretty little girls whose smiles light up the room,” he sang followed by a gentle hum. Elizabeth and Amy smiled. “Maybe you could take that other old man’s place,” Amy said. “Amy, that wasn’t polite,” Blake replied. “It’s okay,” Robert assured Blake. “Sorry, Sir,” Amy then told Robert. “Don’t you worry about it sweetheart, I am an old man.” “Not that old.” Robert let out a hearty laugh. “Alright, I’m convinced,” he replied.

Robert and I stepped outside to talk about music. “You should come down and do a little recording,” I told him. “Aah, I’m old and in the way now, Scragg.” “Nonsense, you have something to tell.” “Scragg, I’m just an old man.” “How old?” “Eighty next year.” “Not that old, Jeb was probably older than that when we recorded that album.” “What can I do?” “Sing and play that harp.” “I don’t know.” “Think about it, Robert, why not do it?” The old bluesman looked into the horizon and then hung his head. “Okay, I’ll think about it,” he said.

On the way out of the apartment, Robert gave the girls some candy, which made their day. I hugged the old guy and gave him a number to call should he decide to come down. We then headed back to McSwain.

Blake was quiet for the first twenty minutes before asking me what my life was really like growing up. “It was tough, but I made it.” “I saw the look Robert gave you, Elmer.” “It’s all in the past,” I replied. “No, it’s still with you.” “I’m good.” “No, Elmer, it’s still with you.” “Mama tried, but she was in over her head.” “I guess we all say that,” my wife replied. “Wow, running across Robert proved to be more intense that I could have imagined,” I said. “I hope he comes down,” Blake replied.

What a day it turned out to be.

The Mettle Of A Good Man 5908

E. Sr. called and informed me that the “Book of Jebediah” recording would be released next Friday, which caught me by surprise, even though I did give the label permission to market the album. I reckon that things move so fast that I forgot, which is a tad disconcerting. “I’ll have Jr. run you over a copy of the album, it looks great, Scragg, and your liner notes add so much to it. The pictures are also priceless,” E. Sr. added. “I’ll be waiting here for Jr.,” I replied.

A half-hour later, E. Jr. arrived at the house with the CD in his hand. I opened up the jewel case and took out the booklet that contained my liner hits and the pics that Willie took of the sessions. Blake and my daughters surrounded me and laughed at the sight of me standing next to Jeb, who was playfully jostling my hair. Another pic showed Jeb and me laughing inside Alan Jopple’s makeshift studio. I smiled when I saw one of Jeb with his arm around my shoulder. The photo of me smoking a joint made me laugh but got me a smack from my wife. “Someone needed to take a belt to your hiney,” my wife growled. “That came later,” I cracked. “Elmer!” On the back of the jewel case was a pic of Jeb and me from behind taking a stroll around my shoulder and my arm around his back.

Blake then read the liner notes.

I recalled walking into Alan Jopple’s shitty trailer and recorded the session in one take. My recollection of the criminal was a tad murky because he didn’t say much and was stoned throughout the recording. I didn’t mention Alan’s criminal background because I didn’t feel the need to besmirch the memory of the departed. My recollection of Jeb was nothing but positive as I can still see his smiling face and drawl doling out wisdom to a twelve-year-old punk who couldn’t have been more lost. Listening to his riveting stories about the old south and how he persevered under harsh conditions did make me respect him as a man. His mettle was a strong as any man I knew then or since. His arthritic hands and legs left him in constant pain, yet, he never complained, he would just say that he was glad to be here. When Blake finished reading the notes, she smiled and said that it was a nice tribute to Jeb.

We then listened to the CD.

Caroline said the album sounds better with each listen, an opinion shared by her sisters who tried to imagine their father playing this kind of music at such a young age. “How did you get that feeling, Daddy,” Maire asked. “I reckon I just did,” I replied. “Was your life that bad?” “We just existed.” “I guess it was that bad.” “Thank God I had music; otherwise I would have ended up like…like my brother,” I then said. “I doubt that,” Blake replied. “I don’t know; there wasn’t a lot of hope.” “But you made it,” Robin said. “Yes, I did.” “And Jeb is smiling down upon you,” Caroline added. “I sure hope so.”

We then listened to the rest of the CD in silence.

I don’t know how well this CD will sell, but I am happy that Jeb will get some much-deserved recognition. He died in anonymity without much to his name, but he went with a smile knowing he gave as good as he got, which is something that not many people can say.

You did good, Jeb, and this one is for you.

 

The Blues Man And The Lil’ Bastard 5843

Blake and I spent the evening with Kara and Keely, who were flying home to Kansas tomorrow. Finding nothing on television, Blake got up and went to the bedroom where she retrieved a box, which she handed to me. I asked her what it was, and she told me to open it.

Inside were pictures and Jebediah’s notebook.

“Wow, I forgot that Willie took so many pictures,” I said. Elizabeth and Amy gathered around me, as did Blake and her two friends. I picked up a photo of Jeb and I sitting next to each other laughing. The next one I grabbed was on Jeb playfully threatening to knock me out. I laughed when I saw myself making a funny face at Jeb. The shot of the old bluesman and I with our arms around each other’s shoulders made me smile and feel a tad sad. Jeb and I mugged for the camera. Jeb was in his eighties, but he had the spunk of someone half his age. The pic of him gently pinching my cheek almost brought a tear to my eye. “That’s a great photograph,” Kara remarked. “Wow, Jeb was a character,” I replied. “So were you,” my wife said as she pointed out of shot of me smoking a joint. “Oh yeah, Alan was heavy into weed,” I said. “Yeah,” Blake replied.

My wife then put in the CD.

“Old Jim Crow” kicked off the set, which tells the story of the laws designed to keep blacks down after Reconstruction. Instead of telling a sad story, Jeb told it with humor tinged with rage. I put his words in song form, and he sang the lyrics with conviction. “Go eat crow, I’m having steak and whiskey tonight,” Jeb declares at the end of the number.

“Lit and Out of Luck” followed a hilarious ditty about the perils of drinking and gambling. Again, Jeb pokes fun at himself and everyone else who engages in such behavior. “Yep, flat-ass broke and feeling like a dog that’s been kicked and sent on the road,” the old bluesman sang with a wink.

“The Other Half of the Beast” a bawdy song about sex, which Elizabeth and Amy didn’t understand–or they better not. Kara and Keely blushed as Jeb belted out lyrics while grinning.

“Hot Day in Hell” a funny tune about the daily lives of sharecroppers in the south during the summer. The old bastard told a great tale about misery and made it funny to boot.

“Pray the Rope Don’t Break” yet another scathing composition about Jeb’s occasional run-ins with the Klan. “It’s a good thing that sheet’s over your heads ’cause you’re ugly as sin,” Jeb growled.

“Too Much Time, Not Enough Bootleg” a self-explanatory tune that was a hoot to play.

“Pickin’ Cotton” recalls Jeb’s time working in the fields. “Damn, even after the war I’m still pickin’ cotton.”

“Another Grave to Dig” told the story of the desperate time during the Depression, which people had to dig graves for loved ones and friends because they had no money for a proper funeral.

“Mean and Ugly” a lighthearted blast about Jeb’s fighting days.

“Nasty Lil’ Bastard” a song about yours truly. “This youngin’ is the Devil and needs a switch the size of a small tree to beat the evil outta him.”

The recording ends with Jeb and I talking smack. “Scragg, someone needs to put their foot up your ass.” “Do it, Jeb.” “Shit, my foot would come out your mouth. And wipe that grin off your face.” “Just smilin’, Jeb.” “Yeah, ya got evil on your mind.” “Never, just thoughts of sunshine and flowers.” “I ought to slap you outta that chair.” “And hurt this precious child?” “Goodness gracious, get me my boots, Willie.” “I only speak the truth.” “Yeah, when you admit to lyin’.” We laughed for a good spell. “Damn, boy, I’m choking on weed smoke. Do you ever give it a break,” Jeb asked Alan, who didn’t reply because he was passed out. “Shit, that fool is gone to the world.” “He’ll be in jail before too long,” I said. “That is true, look at all this stolen shit,” Jeb replied. “Well, that was fun.” “It sure was, Scragg.” “Maybe we can do it again sometime.” “Maybe.” “I’m glad we got this on tape,” I then said. “So am I.” 

There is a brief silence.

“Love ya, Scragg.” “I love you, too, Jeb.”

The recording ends.

 

 

Kicking It Up 5708

I took a different path for the opening of the third show in Melbourne. Instead of singing about the American Civil War, I performed a tune about Jebediah, aptly titled, “Ol’ Jeb” where I recall the wisdom and stories he told me. Born in the late 1800’s in abject poverty, Jeb learned all about hardship, which also gave him his wicked sense of humor. “I never had nothin’, so I didn’t worry about shit, except the Klan and that crazy bastard down the road always gettin’ lit,” Jeb said, providing perfect lyrics for a song. “I say goddamn, I love Lord, but goodness gracious I’m worn ass bored. These rock-hard pews and screaming souls have got me feelin’ like I’m lyin’ on a bed of coals. I’ve been cane-switched, I’ve been stood in the corner. I’ve been told I’m no good by those who give orders. I’ve been down, and I’ve never been out ’cause here I am an old man with an ornery smile with a voice that can still shout. Yeah, I’ve worked all my life in fields, in a plant, on the roads, in a garage, driving a truck hauling loads. I ain’t got no family except Slim Willie. I thought I’d have me a wife and kids, but that wasn’t meant to be. I remember gettin’ sick when I was a youngin’. I was laid up for a long spell. I got better, and things seemed right. I grew strong and got wild. I met me some women, and we talked and drank. We eventually made the beast with two backs, but I must have fired blanks ’cause no ‘lil Jeb, or Jebbie’s ever came, but that’s alright, I’m still here, one half of the beast ready to roll.” Jeb’s booming laugh rattled the shack. “I been through segregation and Jim Crow. I’ve turned away from restaurants just for the color of my skin. I been railroaded, beaten, and lied to, but I never let the bastards win. I’m still here while smilin’ and living in sin.” 

I miss you, Jeb.

I finished the lengthy song with a fond recollection of the old man who laid some hard truths. The stadium burst into thunderous applause that lasted well over a minute.

I then played some blues from when I went down to Mississippi to give Bobby Gools place the proper sendoff.

While I played, I imagined Jeb looking down at me and smiling. He’s probably saying something like: “Look at that ‘lil bastard thinking he’s all that. I remember him when he was just a little punk who needed his mouth washed out with soap.” I then smiled and thought that Jeb would be happy for me. “Boy, you can play, it’s in you, but ya gotta stay outta jail and have a ‘lil sense to make any money doin’ it,” I remember Jeb telling me. It was excellent advice that I didn’t heed for years.

But I do now, Jeb.

Perhaps the best advice Jeb gave me was not to get wrapped up in all the hardship and suffering in life, and to kick it up and live. “Kick it up, boy, enough of this sad shit,” Jeb would tell me when he wanted to up the tempo. “Kick it up, you ‘lil punk and smile,” he would growl when I was sullen.

And that’s what I try to do every day.

And it’s what we did for the rest of the concert.