by Rafael Otto © 2009
Robert strolls along the edge of the dirt road, farmland stretching away from him flat across the delta. Scornful brush licks at his suit, the Arkansas breeze catching the dust clouds lifting off the soles of his shoes. His guitar hangs from his shoulder while he hums Love In Vain for Willie Mae. Walks toward the setting sun as it drops behind a line of rugged trees, their black silhouettes exploding against a sky seared with fire and blood. Past the edge of town he stops at the gate of the cemetery to light a cigarette. Sitting on a tombstone, he smokes and tunes his guitar. The moon rises in its timeless cycle and the leaves of the trees become laced with silver light. A chorus of crickets to accompany him. A lone car passing down the country road, east toward the Old Man keeping the delta plains fertile. His wife is gone and his child, too, and he knows now that his hands will make music instead of sowing the fields. He waits for midnight and plays for the darkness. Then takes his turn at the crossroad, stands in the open plain under starlight and heaven, gives the guitar over to the sinister night and shuts his eyes.
His name changes to Moore, James and Sacks as he travels. Barstow, Dusty, and Spencer. Always Robert, though. From one town to the next. Rambling. Cuts heads on the street corner in Helena and attracts the biggest crowd, plays whatever they want to hear. Rushes along with rolling storms, the change of seasons, the promise of a gig paying two dollars and bottomless whiskey. He plays the six-string with fingers that stretch like the legs of a spider, reaching for chords that no man has ever heard, protecting his technique by turning from the watchful crowd. Packs the juke joints as he rolls, capturing crowds until three AM. Then on to Chicago, Canada, New York, but the delta is always home. Serious about making records, he puts his songs to vinyl in ’36 and ’37 – emotional, eerie blues. The fluctuating pitch in his voice cries out to the spirit world, calls up the devil and the hellhound on his trail, howls about the lonely life of a traveling musician, the evil thoughts in his head. With his hat tilted down over his crooked eye, he plays for that one woman in the crowd. After a night of whisky and hours on stage, he takes her home, stoking jealousy. Carnegie Hall puts the call out to Robert only to find that he’s dead and buried, the echo of his voice singing, “…baby, I don’t care where you bury my body when I’m dead and gone…” Somewhere in the fertile soils of the delta the 26 year-old king of the blues lies in eternity. His songs ramble through the countryside, from southern towns into the city. Like the great Old Man himself giving life to the flat southern plains, Robert’s music soaks into the American landscape, shapes the electric blues, rock and roll. And he keeps singing…
Mmmmm, standin’ at the crossroad
I tried to flag a ride
Standin’ at the crossroad
I tried to flag a ride
Didn’t nobody seem to know me
everybody pass me by