My teenage years were weird for so many reasons, but certainly my music taste was one of the chief elements contributing to my oddness. Because of a weird belief that somehow pop music and all modern music was an essential reason why people bullied so much caused by a spurious link between my worst bully and his adoration of Morrissey, I avoided everything remotely modern until I was about 17. My music taste was essentially classical music (a lot of Grieg and Bizet, with a fondness for Saint Saens), novelty songs (Flanders and Swann, Spike Jones, Stan Freberg), Doctor Who music and a lot of jazz. I’m not sure why I became such a fan of jazz or when it started, but I was pretty much obsessed by Louis Armstrong as a fourteen year old and had begun to explore a lot of his contemporaries, as well as a few wild cards like my love of Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli. But I knew one thing: and that was that I hated the blues
Whenever the blues came on Radio 2 (the only radio station I listened to), I would complain bitterly and only my dislike of country music (soppy, anodyne and irritating) and Queen would eclipse it. I would say that it was because I found it inherently depressing, and I particularly disliked anything electric because it went on too much (and oddly I already had a sort of inherent suspicion of white men playing it because it all felt a bit… rude somehow, to co-opt this music as a middle class bloke from Kent or wherever). But really it was because it scared me
There was something intense and disturbing to it that unsettled me. Someone when I was sixteen from my religious world suggested I try Rev Gary Davis and even though the lyrics were more sacred than profane, I still was a bit alarmed by it. And I think it was because this was essentially music that was lived in and based on a world that was completely alien to me. It was full of adult themes and elements and I was still very, very immature (I’d say my mental maturity always lagged about four years behind my actual age) and actively wanted to shy away from this music. Jazz was escapist and exotic and beautiful and odd and fun. Blues was dark, and brutal and seeped in pain and anguish and, quite frankly, a horniness I wasn’t even slightly comfortable with
So I ended up coming to blues very, very late in life. And as such I probably appreciated it more than I enjoyed it for many years. But something about Johnson always kind of startled me. Maybe because of some vague links to Nick Drake I’d read about, and how Hellhound and Black Eyed Dog are kindred songs (they kind of are), but also I think because Johnson seems more a rumour and a myth than a real person, in the same way Drake always feels intangible and phantom like. There’s something essentially unknowable about this strange and beautiful music
So Guralnick’s book was always going to be a tough one because it’s hard to write about someone we know so little about, but it turns out that he manages to find a way to write a book that somehow feels like a wraith about a very wraithlike person. It’s full of intelligent, thoughtful writing about this music whilst admitting that he’s very limited in what he can add to a life that’s still closer to legend than real life. There’s an added element to this that he constantly cites and imminent biography that might finally write the truths of this unknowable man, but that book has in itself taken over thirty years to be published (next year, by the looks of it). As such the book is freed from any need to be authoritative and feels as impressionistic as Johnson’s best music. On a frosty winter’s day, listening to this still unnervingly beautiful and fragile book and reading these thoughts on this somewhat intangible music, the whole effect somehow feels magical. Or at least that’s how I felt reading this beautiful book. Highly recommended