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Thankful for the Blues
Liberated by a white English guy and a wall of Marshalls down at the crossroads of 2nd avenue and 6th...
Escaping a perfectly groomed Bethesda, Maryland high school, catching
the bus on Saul road meeting Laura downtown stepping into high hallowed
halls of the Library Congress climbing way up into the low ceiling darkened
carrels listening to field hollers and rural blues from the Mississippi
delta and the feudal world of south eastern America. Forever grateful to
John Lomax and son Alan who slogged it out on red clay back country roads
in a battered van filled with reel to reel, brilliantly conserving, cataloging
and protecting the roots, rhythm and rhyme of the next best thing to being
there. Listening to the American music of enslavement and hope. Broken
hearts, scorned lovers, unforgiving deadly passion and baby please come
home. Mournful endless questions and answers, repeating choruses of pain
and salvation just a few decades and a few hundred miles south from my
close cropped hedges and three car garage.
Early Sunday mornings wandering around the little shore towns of rural
southern Maryland and Northern Virginia sitting outside the scruffy wooden
doors and listening to sweet Jesus and the mighty Jordan glorified. Joining
the chorus of millions singing the same spirituals on the picket lines
and marches in the last noble flawed and failed struggle to free us all
from the chains of racism. Singing the blues for the big picture.
Underage sneaking around the east coast's small clubs listening to Paul
Butterfield, John Hammond, (sixteen smoking Luckies and hanging around
the stoop across the street from his basement apartment praying he’d show
his magnificent face, he’d see me as his muse and take me away from my
suburban death) Elvin Bishop, Dave Van Ronk, Tom Paxton, John Fahey, Mississippi
John Hurt, Muddy Waters, B.B. King, Miles Davis, ahh Coltrane, scrambling
for a personal connection. Janis and Doctor John. Liberated by a white
English guy and a wall of Marshalls down at the crossroads of 2nd avenue
and 6th.
Singing in a band wishing I could have heard Bessie or Billie live.
Baby please call home. Wondering if I could ever be considered. If for
one moment the white, stuffed daughter of privilege could cut past the
stereotypes and even for just a few bars have someone believe that I understood
the blues. Been there, not through doing that. To sing for the moment.
I feel it. In a huge broken hearted chain of longing and lust. I believe
it and it ain’t nobodies business if I do.
Tel Aviv, Israel

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