I used to
write about the blues
often. I
used to hang out in a
blues bar so
it was only
natural to
describe the
burned out
nature of most
Chicago
blues musicians.
There was a
hollow soulfulness
to their
singing.
It sounded
like
their soul had
been scooped
out at one
time, punched in the
face
repeatedly, kicked in the stomach,
spat upon
and then shoved back
into their
bodies.
They wore
the blues on
their faces
like a worn
out metaphor
to describe
the blues on
a blues singer’s
face.
I used to
spend pre-9/11 nights
listening to
the crusty blues
in the old
Pink & Blue, so named
for the
contrasting neon lights all over,
an owner
that never aged slinging
me Guinness
after Guinness until
I developed
gout.
The sound
was raw, open and
exposed. A
nerve ending twitching
on a gritty
nighttime street next
to a rat
infested alley, while the
sandpaper
crooning of Jumpin’
Willie Cobb
on the stage
rattled the pillars of heaven.
The stories
were sad then, no sadder
than now,
but different, an optimism
tinged with expected disappointment.
Adulthood
hadn’t started in earnest,
I hadn’t met
one of the loves of my
life, I didn’t
know myself very well.
I was formed
in the blue fires
of rough
handed blues singers
as they
worked their day jobs
and sang the
blues at night while
I sat at the
end of a curved bar
sucking down
stouts wondering
where I’d be
when I got to be
their age; before
I really knew the blues.
Now I’m
their age,
and I
understand
the blues
better than I ever
did then. The lighting is just
different
than I expected.
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