Queen Califia Comes Home

The Birth of the Blues

The humans slept in as the sun rose high in the Memphis sky, awoke groggily, badly hungover, the father of rivers to our back, tired and still euphoric from the Stones’ savage attack on all that was good and pure in America. Five weary, yet happy sojourners, plotted our next destination - the Mississippi Delta calling with an almost primordial power. 

South we drove, following the legendary blues trail, Highway 61, deep into the heart of Mississippi. On the way to Vicksburg, we passed through Tunica, Anguilla, Clarksdale, Cleveland, and towns too small and insignificant to appear even among the blue lines on the AAA maps spread out on the back seat of the van.

This was where American music had its roots. Blues and jazz, race records that propelled first Elvis, and then so many white imitators, rose from the black loam of delta earth, deeply watered in the tears of the generations of men and women that poured out their life blood on the cotton fields and plantations that lined the great muddy river and its tributaries. Without the hardship and sorrow there would be no blues. And without the blues, rock would have been stillborn. 

The names are legends: B.B. and Albert King, Big Walter Horton, Bo Diddley, Sam Cooke, James Cotton, Guitar Slim, Howlin’ Wolf, Ike and Tina, Son House, Jimmy Rogers, John Lee Hooker, Magic Sam, Memphis Minnie, Mississippi John Hurt, Muddy Waters, Pinetop Perkins, The Staple Singers, Willie Dixon, and of course, the one and only Robert Leroy Johnson, who was born and died not far from the crossroads near Greenwood, where, according to legend, he traded his soul for the key to the universe on an old six string. 

For the record, as in many myths, there is some truth to the story and a whole lot of “fake news,” courtesy of the communications shop in paradise central. You see, I witnessed the whole transaction. RJ, as we knew him, was having a hell of a time learning his instrument. He was a middling itinerant performer playing street corners, juke joints, and “negro” dances throughout the Mississippi Delta in the 1920s, basically the local bar band in numerous roadhouses on the Chitlin’ Circuit, moving regularly among one-horse towns in The Magnolia State, Texas, and Arkansas. 

His future looked none too bright. Having long publicly abandoned the God-fearing ways of his kin and forsaken Jesus, Robert was a young man in a hurry without any particularly special talent, working for tips, spending evenings sipping hard liquor, pursuing women of questionable morals, and praying for anyone who would listen to shine an everlasting light on a future path. 

Among the few gods and immortals who still had hope for these humans, we had a soft spot for the tiny number who were open to the possibility that they truly had no clue how the universe worked. So Robert was praying for inspiration and we were listening. 

You need a little background on the workings of our “godly institution” to fully understand this story. I have previously made passing references to our heavenly bureaucracy. Some explanation is due. The venues would change yearly. Sometimes we met at Olympus, sometimes Machu Picchu. When Buddha made the reservations, Mount Fuji. Easter Island was preferred in winter, with my personal favorite being Toledo, Ohio.

The heavens operate in a mostly democratic fashion, with a three-member executive branch and a bureaucracy to carry out its rulings - (what, you were expecting a dictatorship? This is paradise after all) - which also served as judges in particularly difficult cases. The executive was changed each century to give every god and goddess a chance at the top jobs. 

Of course, the humans whose prayers were to be litigated could not themselves be present, so advocates were appointed to argue on their behalf. In this particular instance, Jesus asked to make RJ’s case, believing that if his prayers were answered his soul could be saved, and coincidentally, Jesus would have one more acolyte. Arguing in the negative was old Lucifer, still hanging around, hoping for dad’s approval, making the case that Mr. Robert Leroy Johnson had heretofore done nothing to warrant receiving a special gift from the masters of the universe.

Sitting in judgment in Toledo that fine morning on the western shore of Lake Eerie, serving as chief executives for the twentieth century in the Freemasons Hall we had rented for the trial, were Yahweh, Pachamama, and Buddha. Even among the immortal gods, diversity was valued! 

Consensus was the ideal, but barring consensus, the majority would carry the day. I was in the audience, looking forward to hearing the two renowned litigators make their case. The Olympus Daily News reporting indicated that the case was a close call for the judges.

Satan, as he is formally known, always liked to make a grand entrance. Possessing movie star good looks, he could really attract a crowd. What with his protruding horns and fangs, the ever-present smoke and the acid dripping like sweat from his diamond-hard skin, tattooed in a cobra motif, he was a sight to behold. Lucky gathered himself, sprayed a little French cologne to cover the sulfur smell, and pulled some papers from his richly textured briefcase of baby sealskin. 

Dressed in a sharkskin suit in the shiny black leather of a near-extinct black rhino (he did so want to make an impression), the prince of darkness slid slowly towards the lectern leaving a smoking trail of brimstone in his wake. While noisily spreading his notes in preparation, he pulled a minted cockroach from his pocket and popped it into his mouth.

Jesus came prepared, but as usual, poorly attired. After two millennia you’d think the old sackcloth and sandals mendicant schtick would get a little old. But Jesus would hear none of it. The outfit was his brand. New threads, while appealing, were risky, and he was sticking to what worked. Needless to say he was not impressed with the gospel of prosperity regularly preached these days by nattily clad preachers collecting vast wealth in his name. The faint halo glowing above his long dreadlocks did impart a somewhat saintly countenance, but face it, this was a tough crowd. 

Halos with a heavenly backlight were de rigueur among the gods and goddesses, and his performance, while readily soaked up by spiritually confused humans, easily taken in by the somewhat lyrical panache of his delivery, so readily emulated by both street corner preachers and televangelists, was a tougher sell among the cynical denizens of heaven central, who had witnessed this type crusading stagecraft on numerous planets.

The self-proclaimed “King of Kings,” Jesus opened, making a strong case for answering Robert’s prayers. Robert had come to his attention several years before, praying that the husband of his then girlfriend, who he had met and bedded in Rosedale, Mississippi, would not find him in the chicken coop in which he was hiding. 

“Lucky,” the nickname we had hung on oh so formal Lucifer Satan Mephistopheles, as vile and debased a god as ever existed, objected vociferously, “While I do not oppose adultery, per se, it is hardly evidence of this nitwit’s belief in the gods or sufficient to justify an intervention on his behalf,” argued Lucky. “He was simply hoping to save his cheating ass for more nooky, hardly a holy conversion or evidence of a divinely inspired epiphany!” 

The judges sustained the objection. Jesus, managing to be both mawkish and sententious, (a difficult duality) as was his way, now put forward his strongest case. “Mr. Johnson practices incessantly. And at midnight, in graveyards, no less. If that is not dedication, I do not know what is! While an average musician on both the harp and guitar, his playing gives joy to the hardworking souls spending their meager wages for what little entertainment they can afford. If not for him, we should answer his prayers for the tenant farmers and mill workers whose lives could use a little happiness!” 

With that, he gathered his ankle-length robes, nodded with abject servility in the judges direction, imperceptibly motioned for one of his apostles - Peter, Paul, Mary (okay, a little sacrilegious humor), and Thomas, who knew to spread some myrrh and a silk pillow on the floor, and daintily sat cross-legged behind his podium, anticipating Lucifer’s approach.

Lucky began his rebuttal slowly before working himself into his usual froth, the audience buzzing with macabre excitement in witness of this earthbound morality play. “How can you grant his prayers? Not only is he a no-account talent, but by your own admission he is an adulterer, a whore monger, a liar, a cheat, an absent father, a drunk and a con man.”

“Maybe he should run for president instead? He has all the qualities they look for in a successful politician. I’d even donate to his campaign! Start a pac. Move to D.C. if he won. Scratch that. But he is most certainly not worthy of your support, nor a role model for these weak humans you have so much - I might add, delusional - hope for!”

“And do not buy the argument of my worthy opposing counsel on behalf of Christian redemption and salvation. His Christianity is nothing more than a two millennia old patriarchy designed from its first days in Rome to crucify not just Jesus of Nazareth but turn revered priestesses to sterile supplicants, lusty queens to servile concubines, and revered ancient goddesses to bit players in adolescent male fantasies.” 

“Reject the prayer. Let him make his own way, and if liquor does not lead him to a sordid end, one of those cuckolded rural bumpkins will do him in. Either way, his immortal soul will be mine, not that sartorially impaired daddy’s boy pleading his case.” 

Jesus, smiling beatifically up from his royal cushion, clearing his throat while Peter or Paul fanned away the cloud of smoke wafting skyward from the fire and brimstone, gently requested the court, “Please admonish my good friend, the honorable gentleman, Counselor Mephistopheles, to refrain from disparaging opposing counsel, as unintentional as the slur might be.” 

The audience tittered. Was he really that much of a clueless chump, or was he just playing to the court’s sensibilities and known preference for comity? 

Despite Lucky’s theatrics and insults, Jesus remained calm. Job came to mind. In closing, he again reiterated that this was not so much about Mr. Johnson, whose sins were acknowledged, nor even about the tired old trope of redemption. Furthermore, he was truly offended by the insinuation that he was doing this pro bono because his captured soul numbers were down and polling indicated that this could be a long term issue - no, the real beneficiaries of the answered prayer would be the listeners. The hard-working, God-fearing men and women who would greatly benefit from having their burdens lifted by this new musical form. 

“No matter how awful the job or the boss, how cruel life’s turns might be, and how bad things continue to happen to good people - partly as a result of our bad planning - if we answer this prayer, we can bring joy and relief to millions of deserving souls now and for years to come! Who knows what great musical traditions might evolve from Mr. Johnson’s blues guitar.”

“And look, I understand. In my brief time among the humans I stirred up trouble. I chased the money lenders from the temple; I disrespected the rabbinical council that guided my community; I challenged the power of the Roman Empire, the most fearsome force ever assembled to date.” In all humility, I might add, I changed the course of human history.” Raising his voice for the first time, he continued, “I was the greatest revolutionary humankind had ever known! But those frail creatures need music, and as the great Russian/Jewish American radical Emma Goldman once proclaimed, ‘if I can’t dance I’m not coming to your revolution!’ Let them dance! Save Robert Johnson’s soul.”

When he had finished his closing statement there was not a dry eye in the house. Lucky, knowing he had lost, jerked around like a beaten dog, mumbled something about Mary Magdalene’s questionable morals, and sat down as we awaited the verdict. The judges retreated to the recreation room out back to confer and returned an hour later with their unanimous decision. 

Yahweh, in his flowing white robe, golden crown neatly in place, slowly stroking his long beard, spoke for the panel. “We, the executive judiciary, constituted this day in the temporarily holy city of Toledo, Ohio, in the year 4,000,000,027, do hereby find unanimously for the affirmative.” 

At this point, Lucky noisily got to his feat and stomped angrily from the hall, leaving a trail of noxious black smoke in his wake. We all chuckled, having seen this act before. Not a good loser, that one.

Buddha and Pachamama then spoke for the panel, alternating sentences so as to diminish the appearance of a decision reinforcing a CIS heteropatriarchy, and gave instructions as to how the verdict was to be implemented. 

This is the part of the story that humans never quite get right. Jesus was instructed to personally answer the prayer. The problem, as it has turned out, is that Jesus - despite all those depictions of him as an Aryan-looking, tall pallid princeling with blonde hair and blue eyes that his European followers perpetuated in grand paintings and works of art - was a Yid from the Galilee. He looked no more Aryan than Nelson Mandela or Gandhi! He was Semitic! He is no taller than one of those lanterns holding lawn ornaments that are so popular on suburban lawns. His skin is coffee-colored, and his hair has quite a nice kink, in addition to being decidedly not blonde! 

So when Jesus of Nazareth found Mr. Robert Johnson sitting at the crossroads, drunk on moonshine and the loss of another pretty woman to her lawful husband, across from the Dockery Plantation in Sunflower County near Cleveland, Mississippi in the year 1927 of the Gregorian calendar and spent the evening teaching that young man the intricacies of what would come to be known as the Mississippi Delta blues guitar, Mr. Johnson mistook Jesus, who looked more like him with his dark skin and hair, for Lucifer. And that is how the legend of Robert Johnson going down to the crossroads and selling his soul to the devil to learn to play the guitar began.

Sadly, the loss of this one soul did nothing to diminish Lucky’s ardor for wreaking havoc on the poor inhabitants of Mississippi. While the current blues trail was renowned for the legions of musicians who rose from these beautiful - if troubled - lands, Mississippi would be better known for Lucifer’s deeds. 

Lucky found his way into the twisted murderous souls of many who called Mississippi home over the years. None more so than Byron De La Beckwith, the Grand Cyclops who murdered civil rights leader Medgar Evers in his driveway in Jackson. In the hearts and minds of Roy Bryant and JW Milam, who tortured then murdered Emmett Till before dumping the body of the 14-year-old black child visiting from Chicago in the Tallahatchie River, after falsely accusing him of offending a white woman in a grocery store in Money.  

In the hate filled members of the County Sheriffs and Philadelphia police, who during the Freedom Summer of 1964 abducted and shot to death at close range voting rights activists Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner in Neshoba County and buried them in an earthen dam. 

And last but not least, even now in the 21st century, in the divisive race baiting politicians continuing to “represent “the Magnolia State in Washington, Lucky’s fingerprints remain visible across the cotton fields and deep brown earth of Mississippi spreading with metronomic regularity, refusing to bury the remaining vestiges of America’s original sin along with the multitudes of mangled black bodies whose spirits and remains haunt the thick loam. 

It will forever be impossible to prove that losing RL’s soul spurred Lucky’s followers to redouble their efforts, as violence was as deeply embedded in the state’s past as the history of its Choctaw inhabitants, but for pure white nationalist irredentist passion, Mississippi would be hard to beat. And to say that Lucifer was proud of his work would be an understatement of mythic proportions. 

Next stop, New Orleans.