Rediscovering Willie "The Fruitbat" Johnson
Rediscovering Willie “The Fruitbat” Johnson
When it comes to the blues, I’m old-school. I like my bluesmen homicidal. A stint in prison, maybe. For shootin’ some guy in a juke-joint. But, eventually, the bluesman plays his way off death row and out of prison, solely by virtue of his deep soulfulness, his profound, earthy truth.
He then becomes a tool for the commies, who view him as the archetypal, noble savage, his folk-songs become their songs. “Songs of the revolution!” Because these commies think that making coffee for a little more than minimum wage, is slavery, wage slavery.
This compels them to learn to play the banjo and the dulcimer, in solidarity with the down-and-outers, the lowlifes, the scum. Just like Jesus.
"My God, they are deluded!"
But its the delusion of the revolution, so that makes it OK. You see, they want to remake society in their own image, which would be the stuff of god. This instantly leads to a fight about using the masculine term “God,” not the more feminine word “Goddess.” (with a capital G, of course.) Not surprisingly...that leads to a counter-revolution, which was already a counter-revolution to a counter-revolution...etc., etc.
Anyway. Back to the bluesman; he should then fall into obscurity, working as a Pullman Porter or some other such menial job for the next 30 years.
Eventually, after scouring some old 45s in a junk shop, I discover these scratchy old records, from the long-forgotten bluesman Willie “The Fruitbat” Johnson. And, after checking the Internet, I find that “The Fruitbat,” (that’s what his friends call him) is still alive and living in Chicago or Texas, or some other Southern state, preferably. (Cause them’s the rules when it comes to authentic bluesmen.)
Next thing you know, we’re headed off to The Newport Folk Festival, together, just me and Willie, where hokum-singing, slack-jawed, White boys sing dem blues, bout dem slavery-days, and juke-joint mammas, moonshine liquor, country picnics, and so on and so forth.
Sure enough, Willie plays a short set and it goes over like Leadbelly reborn, revitalizing his career.
Me? I’m feeling pretty good, cause I’m keeping the blues alive. My life has value now...not like before...when I was working 9 to 5 at the Jitney Jungle.
Now, if I can just find one more homicidal bluesman...the skies the limit.
Hmm?
Busta' a Crab
When it comes to the blues, I’m old-school. I like my bluesmen homicidal. A stint in prison, maybe. For shootin’ some guy in a juke-joint. But, eventually, the bluesman plays his way off death row and out of prison, solely by virtue of his deep soulfulness, his profound, earthy truth.
He then becomes a tool for the commies, who view him as the archetypal, noble savage, his folk-songs become their songs. “Songs of the revolution!” Because these commies think that making coffee for a little more than minimum wage, is slavery, wage slavery.
This compels them to learn to play the banjo and the dulcimer, in solidarity with the down-and-outers, the lowlifes, the scum. Just like Jesus.
"My God, they are deluded!"
But its the delusion of the revolution, so that makes it OK. You see, they want to remake society in their own image, which would be the stuff of god. This instantly leads to a fight about using the masculine term “God,” not the more feminine word “Goddess.” (with a capital G, of course.) Not surprisingly...that leads to a counter-revolution, which was already a counter-revolution to a counter-revolution...etc., etc.
Anyway. Back to the bluesman; he should then fall into obscurity, working as a Pullman Porter or some other such menial job for the next 30 years.
Eventually, after scouring some old 45s in a junk shop, I discover these scratchy old records, from the long-forgotten bluesman Willie “The Fruitbat” Johnson. And, after checking the Internet, I find that “The Fruitbat,” (that’s what his friends call him) is still alive and living in Chicago or Texas, or some other Southern state, preferably. (Cause them’s the rules when it comes to authentic bluesmen.)
Next thing you know, we’re headed off to The Newport Folk Festival, together, just me and Willie, where hokum-singing, slack-jawed, White boys sing dem blues, bout dem slavery-days, and juke-joint mammas, moonshine liquor, country picnics, and so on and so forth.
Sure enough, Willie plays a short set and it goes over like Leadbelly reborn, revitalizing his career.
Me? I’m feeling pretty good, cause I’m keeping the blues alive. My life has value now...not like before...when I was working 9 to 5 at the Jitney Jungle.
Now, if I can just find one more homicidal bluesman...the skies the limit.
Hmm?
Busta' a Crab