Chapter VII: All Men are Liars
(Fat Possum)
by Jon Sarre
“The truth of the matter is that the authentic blues of the John Lee Hooker type was spawned and nurtured in the misery, ignorance and destitution of the Negro in a particular American society. As the plight of the American Negro improved and he became better educated, he developed other methods of expression and sang of his troubles less and less. He became a voter in most states and instead of singing dejectedly about his problems, he went to school and to the polls and learned to do something about them.”-Liner notes to Everest Records’ Archive of Folk and Jazz Music’s John Lee Hooker, early 1960s
Jeez! To live in a society where ya can shake yer blues by voting! The above lines, penned, doubtlessly, by a well-intentioned soul don’t seem to take into consideration that some things just can’t be legislated away, no matter how many Cadillacs ya buy (never mind the over-optimistic Great-Society Speak the folks at Everest bought into).
If you want empirical proof that the Blues are still around us, livin’ and breathin’ and bleedin’, look no further than the Fat Possum record label of Oxford, MS. Out that way they’ve got personages who are more than scratchy voices of ghosts who passed out of this world long ago; real human beings who are still waiting patiently for what’s due them after all these years. I think Satan must be a radio executive.
The label’s star is the semi-known R.L. Burnside since, to quote the company’s press hand-out, “He sells thousands instead of hundreds of records.” He gets to close this Fat Possum sampler with a cut from his latest “remix” record, Come On In. The song’s called “It’s Bad You Know,” and it sounds like producer Tim Rothrock stuck Burnside’s otherworldy mumble (here like he’s Eric Burdon and he just forgot the words to “Low Rider”) in between a thundering drumbeat and some soulful harping.
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion guitarist (and occasional Burnside sideman) Judah Bauer’s Twenty Miles walks a boozy-bouncing shamble down the road a piece with one called “East St. Louis.” Seventy-seven year old prodigy T. Model Ford machetes his strings ’til they bleed through his busted amp and cadence calls “To The Left To The Right” over his drummer’s martial beats. The late Junior Kimbrough‘s mournful, sparse, yet twangy and soulful “You’ll Find Your Mistake” shows up here as well. Hasil Adkins, rounding out the artists you may have heard of, does his Hunch-heavy patented brand of psycho-(really, like nuts)billy with the aid of his probably unpatented guitar-bass drum and various percussion contraption like he’s been doin’ since he first heard Jimmie Rodgers.
Ever hear of Johnny Farmer? Ain’t that a shame, cuz his “Ocean Blues” is a slow, fat, and deliberate update on Robert Johnson. Cedell Davis, cursed doubly, they say, by polio and a bar brawl, turns in some grimy slide guitar-talking blues. Need more distortion than Davis? Check out Elmo Williams‘ “Hoopin’ & Hollerin’,” a nasty, slowed up rewrite of Chuck Berry’s catalogue. On the backbeaten path, there’s Paul Jones and Robert Cage (his “Get Out Of Here” is part ass-kickin’, part guitar carvin’ initials in yer skull).
The only room you may wanna book Bob Log III in may be the rubber room, but his “All the Rockets Go Bang,” with its lower than low-fi “engineering,” mumbled lyrics, and disembodied female voices rising up for the “Bang” part of the chorus makes me wanna hear more. Last, but not least, seemingly the only Fat Possum artist (with the exception of Twenty Miles) not yet eligible for Social Security is The Neckbones. They don’t fit here: they’re hopelessly loud and even sloppier than T. Model Ford and Bob Log put together. They’re punks on a bluesman’s label. On “You Can’t Touch Her” from their overlooked but brilliant Souls On Fire LP, they quote the Who and kick out noisy power chords the same way the Fat Possum blues guys approach their music: down’n’dirty and vibrant and raw. Hey history buffs, the music was never supposed to be seen as some slobbering pseudo-religious shrine-building “art” crap with no sense of fun or humor. Fuck no! These people know that, and now so do you.
(PO Box 1923 Oxford, MS 38655)
