It’s entirely possibly that this man’s music influenced me more than anything else I’ve ever heard in my life. I think if you listen to just about any Preacher Boy song, you can hear traces of Blind Willie Johnson’s influence.
Some other day, we can talk about how he died, and what a f*&%ked up world this is that a man of this much talent, with this much soul and spirit, should have passed away in that fashion.
And some other day, we’ll talk about what a piece of S&*t that so-called “tribute” album is that Alligator had the nerve to put out last year.
But right now, we’re just going to revere this man’s music. That’s it, that’s all, over and out.
Question: Who are your Top 5 Most Influential Vocalists?
Depending on whether you’re at all familiar with my musical career, this may or may not be a surprising list.
But it’s definitely the list. I will never, never, never forget the first moments when I heard each of these singers. Thank you Yazoo Records. Thank you Takoma Records. Thank you Chess Records. Thank you Folkways Records. Thank you to my parents for having a record player in the house. Thank you to Samuel Charters for writing The Country Blues.
And while I’m at it, thank you to my first grade teacher for making fun of my voice when I tried to sing “I Saw Her Standing There.” You set me on a whole different vocal path, lady. And I thank you.
The thing is, if you’ve ever read a review of a Preacher Boy album, you’re probably thinking, why isn’t Tom Waits on this list? After all, virtually every Preacher Boy review in the last 25+ years has managed to mention Tom Waits.
Well, he’s not on my Top 5 list, because he doesn’t belong there.
The thing is, I was intimately and obsessively familiar with the music of the five artists in the title of this post long before I had any idea who Tom Waits was. The reason someone hipped me to Tom Waits in the first place was because they knew the other stuff I was into. It was a former roommate of mine; a college radio DJ. He gave me a Memorex. One side was Mose Allison. On the other, Swordfishtrombones.
Now, was Waits an influence? Absolutely. But not because of his voice per se. He was an influence because THAT voice was writing THOSE songs. That was what made the difference for me.
See, I knew what my voice sounded like. It wasn’t pretty. But that was ok. I didn’t like pretty voices. Charley Patton’s voice made sense to me. Bukka White’s voice made sense to me. Blind Willie Johnson’s voice made sense to me. They were the right voices for their music. That made sense to me.
I knew what my voice sounded like. It wasn’t pretty. But that was ok. I didn’t like pretty voices.
And I knew how I was going to play guitar. I’d heard Mance Lipscomb. I’d heard Fred McDowell. I’d heard Robert Pete Williams. I’d heard Son House. I got it, man. I got it. Ever since I heard Mississippi John Hurt playing Sliding Delta, I knew what I was going to do as a guitarist.
And I knew I was going to be a songwriter.
But that was the problem. How to connect it all? I wasn’t going to write songs like Charley Patton. That wouldn’t have been honest. I knew who I was, and even at a young age, I expected authenticity of myself. So what to do? I didn’t know. I didn’t think I was going to do anything.
Then, I heard “16 Shells From A Thirty-Ought Six.” Vocally, I got it. The man had clearly listened to a lot of the same things I had. And the groove, the rawness, the hypnotic stomping drone-ness of it; I got that. Those were country blues ingredients. But the lyrics. The lyrics. Here was something different. A new sort of language, a new sort of poetry. A sort of rustic, sordid, gritty, earthen, American poetry that was both mystical and soiled. It was at once visionary and hallucinogenic, but also totally raw and present and real and folky and outlandish. A kind of literate and bent hobo prosody. It was Nelson Algren and Gary Snyder and James Wright and Tony Joe White and Jack Kerouac and Carson McCullers and Flannery O’ Connor and Raymond Chandler and Erksine Caldwell and Bob Dylan and Tim Buckley and Townes Van Zandt and Toni Morrison, all rolled into one. I got it. I dug it.
So that’s the Waits influence in a nutshell for me. His music—as represented by that blessed trio of Swordfishtrombones, Frank’s Wild Years, and Rain Dogs— made clear to me it was possible to weld voice and music and lyrics together in ways I hadn’t previously believed entirely possible.
But here’s the thing … and I’m probably gonna get some flack for sayin’ this … but the thing is, Tom Waits can’t play country blues. I can.
So back to my list. Charley Patton. The rawest of them all. Listen to Charley Patton’s vocals on High Water Everywhere. He sounds insane, and like he’s about to die. That’s what I strive for. Bukka White. You can’t get heavier than that. When he sings the line “When can I change my clothes?” you hear the whole history of masculinity and pain in his voice. That’s what I strive for. Blind Willie Johnson. Jesus, listen to my first record. It’s almost embarrassing to me now, how obviously derivative some of my songs are. The Cross Must Move? Please … Still, I’m really proud of that song! It’s still with me today. Derivative or not, it IS authentic to me. I’m still singin’ it and playin’ it today, 21 years after it was released. Howlin’ Wolf. Synonymous with nuanced ferocity. When I first heard the song “Who’s Been Talkin'” I thought, right. That. How do I do that? Dave Van Ronk. This should be obvious. Virtually the only white guy from the whole folk-blues thing in the sixties who could actually sing and play country blues. So yeah, when I heard him, I had hope, man. His approach still informs so much of what I do. But mainly, I just loved that he sung with total and complete full-throated abandon. No mic needed. That’s my barometer of true vocal authenticity. If you NEED a mic? Ain’t interested …
Listen to Charley Patton’s vocals on High Water Everywhere. He sounds insane, and like he’s about to die. That’s what I strive for.
Here’s my recommendations, if you’re not familiar with these voices. Start with these songs:
Charley Patton: High Water Everywhere, Parts 1 & 2
Bukka White: When Can I Change My Clothes
Blind Willie Johnson: God Moves On The Water
Howlin’ Wolf: I Asked For Water (She Gave Me Gasoline)
(Preacher Boy, live at Mission St. BBQ. Photo by Jake J. Thomas.)
Kind of an intriguing set tonight, if I do say so myself. I certainly bookended with a pair of the usual suspects, and there were a few other familiar chirps throughout as well, but all in all, quite a lot of strange birds making sonic appearances tonight. Lots of country blues in here. Here’s the full list of what I ran down:
If I Had Possession Over My Judgement Day (Robert Johnson, arr. PB)
Preachin’ Blues (Son House, arr. PB)
Levee Camp Blues (Mississippi Fred McDowell, arr. PB)
Old Jim Granger (from the Preacher Boy album “The Tenderloin EP”)
Diving Duck Blues (Sleepy John Estes, arr. PB)
Evil Blues (Mance Lipscomb, arr. PB)
A Little More Evil (from the Preacher Boy album “The National Blues”)
Revenue Man Blues (Charley Patton, arr. PB)
Milk Cow Blues (Mississippi Fred McDowell, arr. PB)
Catfish Blues (Willie Doss, arr. PB)
The Dogs (from the Preacher Boy album “The Devil’s Buttermilk”)
Spoonful Blues (Charley Patton, arr. PB)
Down And Out In This Town (from the Preacher Boy album “Gutters & Pews”)
Sliding Delta (Mississippi John Hurt, arr. PB)
Stagolee (Mississippi John Hurt, arr. PB)
A Person’s Mind (from the Preacher Boy album “The National Blues”)
Down South Blues (Sleepy John Estes, arr. PB)
Coal Black Dirt Sky (from the Preacher Boy album “Crow”)
Black Crow (from the Preacher Boy album “Crow”)
Railroad (from the Preacher Boy album “Gutters & Pews”)
Motherless Children (Blind Willie Johnson,/Mance Lipscomb/Dave Van Ronk, arr. PB)
Shake ‘Em On Down (Bukka White)
And for your listening pleasure, two straight-from-the-stage-to-yer-ear-buds guerrilla-live tracks:
Preacher Boy – Sliding Delta [LIVE]
(arrangement based on the Mississippi John Hurt version)
Preacher Boy – Levee Camp Blues [LIVE]
(arrangement based on a recorded performance by Mississippi Fred McDowell)
For the guitar heads amongst ye, this version of Sliding Delta is performed on a ’36 National (Grandpa’s National), which is set up for standard tuning. This chords are based on Key of E forms, but the guitar is capo’d at the 4th fret. Levee Camp Blues is performed on a different ’36 National (THE National), and the guitar is tuned to an Open G tuning, then capo’d at the 2nd fret.
For the footwear fanatics amongst ye, the stomps come courtesy of my cowboy boots, which are a Size 13.
From the moment I heard Will Scott play, I have esteemed him greatly. I have for him a love that is brotherly, and a competitor’s admiration. I have been both his student and his teacher, and I remain the former forever more. I am proud to call him friend, and put simply, as a musicianer, he is a motherf&*#er.
We got to do an album together. It’s called Gnawbone, and it’s an incredible bloody record. If you don’t own it, own it.
Here’s the thing about Will and I. When I heard him sing, I knew I was f&#*ed. He came from a RL Burnside, Johnny Shines kind of thing, whereas I was more Bukka White and Blind Willie Johnson. We met in the middle at Son House. He could sing like Son House, and that was hard for me, cuz I couldn’t. But, I could PLAY like Son House, and that helped.
We started doin’ shows together, and it was one night in some weird place in Williamsburg (of 15 years ago, mind you), and here he comes out with the slide lick from “Preachin’ Blues” and I about fell about the place. Cuz now he was singin’ like Son, and playin’ like Son, and everytime I hear that lick I think of Will. Everytime I hear “Preachin’ Blues” I think of Will Scott.
So this song, really, is several notes of appreciation for Will Scott, because when I play it, I think of him. He’s a couple thousand miles away from me right now, but I’m thinkin’ on him. This is a brand-new song called “Obituary Writer Blues.” And if you know your Son House, you might think I copped a lick from him to build this song on top of, but honestly, I stole it from Will Scott.
Obituary Writer Blues
I’m gon’ quite writin’, gon’ lay down this pen I use Oh, now I’m gon’ quit writin’ gon’ lay down this pen I use And you know by that I got the obituary blues
I been at the typer, lord, honey, ’til my fingers sore Honey, I been at the typer, lord, ’til my fingers sore I ain’t gon’ write no obituary anymore
Black was the color, one after another They lay down on sheets of white Time may erase me, but I ain’t so crazy That I don’t know my wrong from right
Oh, sweet mama don’t ‘low me to stay out all night long I may act like I’m crazy, but I do know right from wrong
It was rock, paper, scissors ’til the sword get the better of the pen Oh, it was rock, paper, scissors, ’til the sword got the best of the pen I seen it printed in the paper, somebody shot up some poor kids again
Black was the color, one after another They lay down on sheets of white Time may erase me, but I ain’t so crazy That I don’t know my wrong from right
Oh, sweet mama don’t ‘low me to stay out all night long I may act like I’m crazy, but I do know right from wrong
~
On the subject of thievery, I owe nods to Sleepy John Estes and Nina Simone as well. Dig.
I had the great pleasure of bein’ joined on stage last night at Aptos St. BBQ w/ blues harmonica legend Virgil Thrasher (you may recall him from decades of mojo-laden music w/ country blues icon Robert Lowery). We did about 2 hours straight, and amongst other things, hit on some lovely ol’ country blues songs that have been real close to my heart for a real long time … Here’s some raw, guerrilla audio of two of those tracks (recorded last night); hope you dig:
The first is a tune by Delta man Tommy Johnson, and it’s worth noting that it opens with what I think is one of the great haiku-spirit blues couplets of all time:
Who’s that yonder, comin’ down the road? Lord, it look like Maggie, but she walkin’ slow
That’s a whole lot of pathos right there … so simple, but I get chills even typin’ it out … so much meaning writ into those few words …
The next song is a staple of a kind, and this arrangement is a bit of a modge podge worth of versions, drawin’ mainly on a cocktail of Blind Willie Johnson, Mance Lipscomb, and Dave Van Ronk …
Anyhow, hope you dig, and thanks as always fer listenin’…
Oakland. My former home. The Oakland of a long-gone Navy. The Oakland of Ken Stabler. The Oakland of Eli’s.
To misquote that English bluesman (for that is, in so many ways, what I think he really is) Billy Bragg, “I don’t want to change the world, I’m just looking for a new Oakland…”
I and you and we will find a new Oakland Thursday night. A blues Oakland. A solo Oakland. A duo Oakland.
(To find out more details about this event, please click here. You’ll be taken to a Facebook Events Page)
We will be the Oakland of Your Place Too and Flint’s. And we will be the Oakland of The Terrace Room.
What follows are 9 Reasons you should be in this Oakland/that Oakland Thursday night. These 9 reasons are an aggregation of what was once 7 reasons, then appended with an 8th, and now modified to include a 9th.
*Historical Note: The James Brown chord is a 9th.
Read on, and dig.
(and if you’re already familiar with reasons 1-8, then get on to the end of this post and dig Number 9. Number 9. Number 9. Number 9…)
REASON ONE:
Because, what is blues? Blues is not some chump in a designer suit in front of a wall of amps playing “tributes” to a huge crowd of $100 ticket holders in a theater. Blues is a person, and people. Blues is raw. Blues is an instrument with a sound, in hands with a feel, below a voice with a power. It is not whispered. It is music for all generations, played where there is food and drink and diapers and bottles and laughing and talking and dancing and silence and nothingness and just being present. It is not the cry of an oppressed people any more than it is formulaic entertainment. It is American Haiku with a thumb pick. It is slightly dangerous and very funny and a bit about fucking but also the strange intelligence of old people and the smell of swamps and the in-the-momentness of monks. This is REASON ONE to attend this event. Because you will hear boots stomp to the raw sound of American Mojo Haiku Swamp Songs.
REASON TWO: Coyote Slim. Because of all the above. Because he’s the real deal. Because he plays farmers’ markets, and is grateful about it. Because he cares about his clothes because he respects his opportunities. Because his bio says he’s an arborist. Because he understands how to sing, and why it’s important. Because you should listen to Coyote Slim. Because he has R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Because when he plays and sings, the sound is alive. This is REASON TWO why you should attend this event.
REASON THREE: John Maxwell. Because his latest album has him playing “Let The Mermaids Flirt With Me.” Which is one of the greatest not-as-well-known performances Mississippi John Hurt ever recorded. Because he plays a slide guitar version of “St. James Infirmary.” Because CD Baby says he’s recommended if you like Leon Redbone. This is REASON THREE why you should attend this event.
REASON FOUR: Chicken & Dumpling. Because they’re called Chicken & Dumpling. This is REASON FOUR why you should attend this event.
REASON FIVE:
Country Pete McGill. Because Holy Crap, check him out:
And THAT … is REASON FIVE to attend this event.
REASON SIX: Preacher Boy. Yours truly. I’m writing this, so I can’t say anything about myself, but I’m a reason to come all the same. So I am REASON SIX to attend this event.
REASON SEVEN:
A reviewer once wrote of one of my albums that I sung every word as if I were about to expire. I was very proud of that review. I still try to sing that way, and some day, I’ll be right. Your life is a choice, too. Every moment of it. Is your past impacting your present right now? It is. So the past is here right now. And of course the present is here right now. And is what you’re doing right now going to impact the future? Of course it is. So the future is here too. Which means now really is the only moment. So I sing that way. And on the evening of September 10th, it will be your only moment, and you can do with that what you will, but I hope you choose to attend this event, because that will illustrate and exemplify what you care about. That you care about realness. That you care about hearing skin on brass. Boot on floor. That you care about the actual sound of a throat framing the word “down.” That you know all soulful people wear groovy shoes. It will show that you’re a Blues Monk Haiku Zen Blues Master with big mojo. And you want to be that don’t you? Because you want to be close enough to reach out and touch the musician, but you won’t, because you won’t need to.
Due largely to when and where I was born, I haven’t had too many flesh-and-blood musical teachers. My Grandpa certainly, from whom I received my Nationals. But that’s very nearly it. Certainly I’ve had friends, peers, fellow musicians that I’ve learned uncountable amounts from, but I like to think/hope those are give-and-take relationships.
By and large, my teachers have been recordings and books. Vinyl releases from Vanguard, Takoma, Arhoolie. Books by Samuel Charters, David Evans, Stefan Grossman. And of course, the music. This has been my true teacher. The music of Bukka White, Sleepy John Estes, Charley Patton, Son House, Blind Willie Johnson, Robert Pete Williams, and so, so, so many more.
There is one exception to the above, however. There is one teacher, one flesh-and-blood teacher, at whose knee I have genuinely studied. His name is Big Bones.
I’ve told the tale too many times to merit repeating here, but suffice it to say Big Bones looms large in my life. I played with him for the first time on a street corner in Berkeley, some 25 years ago. We’ve gone years in silence since, intermingled with long, strange, beautiful and hard hours, days, weeks, months on the road together. We’ve driven to Arkansas, flown to Amsterdam, sailed to Ireland.
Through the strange machinations of fate, I am not scheduled to play WITH Big Bones that night. Rather, I am scheduled to compete AGAINST him. This is of course ridiculous. I could sooner eat dinosaur marrow w/ mole sauce than compete with Bones.
The event is of course not a competition of any kind, really. It is a celebration of a raw, urgent, vital music. A music that lives fully within the boundaries of Big Bones.
Due largely to when and where I was born, I haven’t had too many flesh-and-blood musical teachers. My Grandpa certainly, from whom I received my Nationals. But that’s very nearly it. Certainly I’ve had friends, peers, fellow musicians that I’ve learned uncountable amounts from, but I like to think/hope those are give-and-take relationships.
By and large, my teachers have been recordings and books. Vinyl releases from Vanguard, Takoma, Arhoolie. Books by Samuel Charters, David Evans, Stefan Grossman. And of course, the music. This has been my true teacher. The music of Bukka White, Sleepy John Estes, Charley Patton, Son House, Blind Willie Johnson, Robert Pete Williams, and so, so, so many more.
There is one exception to the above, however. There is one teacher, one flesh-and-blood teacher, at whose knee I have genuinely studied. His name is Big Bones.
I’ve told the tale too many times to merit repeating here, but suffice it to say Big Bones looms large in my life. I played with him for the first time on a street corner in Berkeley, some 25 years ago. We’ve gone years in silence since, intermingled with long, strange, beautiful and hard hours, days, weeks, months on the road together. We’ve driven to Arkansas, flown to Amsterdam, sailed to Ireland.
Through the strange machinations of fate, I am not scheduled to play WITH Big Bones that night. Rather, I am scheduled to compete AGAINST him. This is of course ridiculous. I could sooner eat dinosaur marrow w/ mole sauce than compete with Bones.
The event is of course not a competition of any kind, really. It is a celebration of a raw, urgent, vital music. A music that lives fully within the boundaries of Big Bones.
I invite you to join me for this extraordinary event. It will be memorable.
In trio formation, Preacher Boy and The National Blues (#PBATNB) return to The Pocket in Santa Cruz tonight to paint the walls with some proprietary #SwampNStomp fer thy ear pockets …
Dr. V on the chromo-harps and tremulators, The Hi-Jack Zack Attack on the trash cans, and His Lowness Your Truly, in Hatty w/ the Natty, bringin’ three hours worth of the Crisco fer yer disco …
Somethin’ from the original Preacher Boy and The Natural Blues? A bit o’ Dead, Boy, or Ugly, or Like Me, perhaps? Here’s a journey back in time for ya … my first promo pic, from my first record deal …
How’s about a bump er two from the Gutters & Pews news? Catfish? Down and Out in This Town?
Or maybe just some groovy ol’ delta thumps: Son House, Charley Patton, Blind Willie Johnson, Bukka White, et al etc.
See that article headline? That’s how that’s supposed to read. But when I first “wrote” the line, I actually spoke it. Into my iPhone. And here is what my iPhone actually created:
And eight minutes are all Spallone into the deep caverns of blind Willie Johnson’s delta gospel swamp donkey
And so with that, I give you some delta gospel swamp donkey:
What this actually is, is footage from a performance at the Hermitage Brewing Company, as part of their 6th annual MEET THE BREWERS CRAFT BEER FESTIVAL (you can read a brief review of the event here).
I adore playing this song; the melody line is just canonical, the groove is so insidious, the lyrics are just haiku-zen-blues perfect, and it’s transporting to perform it. I’ve been playing this song for 20+ years, and it moves me as much now as it ever did. God may or may not move on the water, but Blind Willie moves on me.
Preacher Boy | The National Blues 