The blues have become an anemic art form. Truth be told, referring to oneself as a blues musician means nothing more than knowing how to fondle the minor scale for vast amounts of time, and being able to lazily sing about the same kind of heartaches and tribulations that plague pop singers. Granted, Buddy Guy and B.B King are still out there doing things the way they should be done, but the brunt of modern times, not born "in the day," bluesman are less about boogie and soul, and more about pure technicality. You musically represent your downtrodden state not so much by verbalizing your pain to a steady groove, but by copiously playing a guitar for great lengths of time.
So for those of you who have grown numb to every blues song you've heard containing the words "baby," and "got da blues,"I would like to remind you of a time when blues had a little hair on it's chest with the following:
Admit it, that feels good doesn't it? An off time, off tune soundtrack that has more testosterone in it than any long haired metal guy decked in spikes and makeup. This is pure bravado mixed with problem resolution, all done in blunt graphic detail. And unlike the modern day bluesman whining at great length about losing their woman, you actually kind of believe Ol' John Lee here will back up what he says. I mean, considering how specific he happens to be, I'm fairly sure he's been thinking about this for awhile.
And there are others, many others, from this time who sang up some wonderful, very horrible shit. Dark, decrepit music talking about funerals, physical violence, grime and crime.....you know, the good stuff. What good is losing one's baby when you got tuberculosis and a lynch mob after you? Priorities people.
Clearly, that's not the case today. Blame the loss of superstition or the advent of higher technology. Hell, feel free to blame a recording industry that only markets the crap blues, but in the end, it all comes down to one thing: Bluesmen have lost their way. They've forgotten that the pioneers of this genre were not marketing their craft for convention centers and weddings, but for people who would sit, drink, and listen to music involving liars and deviants getting brutally beaten, and think to themselves, "Yeah, been there buddy." This once was music for the tough, scary, and miserable.
So, for those of you artists, who are thinking that all you need for the blues is a frilly hat, a Stratocaster, and a bit of musical theory, take note. The men and women who's graves your stepping on were dressed in rags, playing instruments that could barely stay in tune, and had much better back stories than you ever will.
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