Meeting with the Devil at the Crossroads
Robert Johnson been playing down in Yazoo City and over at Beulah
trying to get back up to Helena, ride left him out on a road next to the
levee, walking up the highway, guitar in his hand propped up on his
shoulder. October cool night, full moon filling up the dark sky, Robert
Johnson thinking about Son House preaching to him, "Put that guitar
down, boy, you drivin' people nuts." Robert Johnson needing as always
a woman and some whiskey. Big trees all around, dark and lonesome
road, a crazed, poisoned dog howling and moaning in a ditch alongside
the road sending electrified chills up and down Robert Johnson's spine,
coming up on a crossroads just south of Rosedale. Robert Johnson,
feeling bad and lonesome, knows people up the highway in Gunnison.
Can get a drink of whiskey and more up there. Man sitting off to the side
of the road on a log at the crossroads says, "You're late, Robert
Johnson." Robert Johnson drops to his knees and says, "Maybe not."
The man stands up, tall, barrel-chested, and black as the forever-closed
eyes of Robert Johnson's stillborn baby, and walks out to the middle of
the crossroads where Robert Johnson kneels. He says, "Stand up,
Robert Johnson. You want to throw that guitar over there in that ditch
with that hairless dog and go on back up to Robinsonville and play the
harp with Willie Brown and Son, because you just another guitar player
like all the rest, or you want to play that guitar like nobody ever played
it before? Make a sound nobody ever heard before? You want to be the
King of the Delta Blues and have all the whiskey and women you want?"
"That's a lot of whiskey and women, Devil-Man."
"I know you, Robert Johnson," says the man.
Robert Johnson, feels the moonlight bearing down on his head and the
back of his neck as the moon seems to be growing bigger and bigger
and brighter and brighter. He feels it like the heat of the noonday sun
bearing down, and the howling and moaning of the dog in the ditch
penetrates his soul, coming up through his feet and the tips of his
fingers through his legs and arms, settling in that big empty place
beneath his breastbone causing him to shake and shudder like a man
with the palsy. Robert Johnson says, "That dog gone mad."
The man laughs. "That hound belong to me. He ain't mad, he's got the
Blues. I got his soul in my hand."
The dog lets out a low, long soulful moan, a howling like never heard
before, rhythmic, syncopated grunts, yelps, and barks, seizing Robert
Johnson like a Grand Mal, and causing the strings on his guitar to
vibrate, hum, and sing with a sound dark and blue, beautiful, soulful
chords and notes possessing Robert Johnson, taking him over, spinning
him around, losing him inside of his own self, wasting him, lifting him up
into the sky. Robert Johnson looks over in the ditch and sees the eyes of
the dog reflecting the bright moonlight or, more likely so it seems to
Robert Johnson, glowing on their own, a deep violet penetrating glow,
and Robert Johnson knows and feels that he is staring into the eyes of a
Hellhound as his body shudders from head to toe.
The man says, "The dog ain't for sale, Robert Johnson, but the sound
can be yours. That's the sound of the Delta Blues."
"I got to have that sound, Devil-Man. That sound is mine. Where do I
sign?"
The man says, "You ain't got a pencil, Robert Johnson. Your word is
good enough. All you got to do is keep walking north. But you better be
prepared. There are consequences."
"Prepared for what, Devil-man?"
"You know where you are, Robert Johnson? You are standing in the
middle of the crossroads. At midnight, that full moon is right over your
head. You take one more step, you'll be in Rosedale. You take this road
to the east, you'll get back over to Highway 61 in Cleveland, or you can
turn around and go back down to Beulah or just go to the west and sit
up on the levee and look at the River. But if you take one more step in
the direction you're headed, you going to be in Rosedale at midnight
under this full October moon, and you are going to have the Blues like
never known to this world. My left hand will be forever wrapped around
your soul, and your music will possess all who hear it. That's what's
going to happen. That's what you better be prepared for. Your soul will
belong to me. This is not just any crossroads. I put this "X" here for a
reason, and I been waiting on you."
Robert Johnson rolls his head around, his eyes upwards in their sockets
to stare at the blinding light of the moon which has now completely filled
tie pitch-black Delta night, piercing his right eye like a bolt of lightning
as the midnight hour hits. He looks the big man squarely in the eyes and
says, "Step back, Devil-Man, I'm going to Rosedale. I am the Blues."
The man moves to one side and says, "Go on, Robert Johnson. You the
King of the Delta Blues. Go on home to Rosedale. And when you get on
up in town, you get you a plate of hot tamales because you going to be
needing something on your stomach where you're headed."
trying to get back up to Helena, ride left him out on a road next to the
levee, walking up the highway, guitar in his hand propped up on his
shoulder. October cool night, full moon filling up the dark sky, Robert
Johnson thinking about Son House preaching to him, "Put that guitar
down, boy, you drivin' people nuts." Robert Johnson needing as always
a woman and some whiskey. Big trees all around, dark and lonesome
road, a crazed, poisoned dog howling and moaning in a ditch alongside
the road sending electrified chills up and down Robert Johnson's spine,
coming up on a crossroads just south of Rosedale. Robert Johnson,
feeling bad and lonesome, knows people up the highway in Gunnison.
Can get a drink of whiskey and more up there. Man sitting off to the side
of the road on a log at the crossroads says, "You're late, Robert
Johnson." Robert Johnson drops to his knees and says, "Maybe not."
The man stands up, tall, barrel-chested, and black as the forever-closed
eyes of Robert Johnson's stillborn baby, and walks out to the middle of
the crossroads where Robert Johnson kneels. He says, "Stand up,
Robert Johnson. You want to throw that guitar over there in that ditch
with that hairless dog and go on back up to Robinsonville and play the
harp with Willie Brown and Son, because you just another guitar player
like all the rest, or you want to play that guitar like nobody ever played
it before? Make a sound nobody ever heard before? You want to be the
King of the Delta Blues and have all the whiskey and women you want?"
"That's a lot of whiskey and women, Devil-Man."
"I know you, Robert Johnson," says the man.
Robert Johnson, feels the moonlight bearing down on his head and the
back of his neck as the moon seems to be growing bigger and bigger
and brighter and brighter. He feels it like the heat of the noonday sun
bearing down, and the howling and moaning of the dog in the ditch
penetrates his soul, coming up through his feet and the tips of his
fingers through his legs and arms, settling in that big empty place
beneath his breastbone causing him to shake and shudder like a man
with the palsy. Robert Johnson says, "That dog gone mad."
The man laughs. "That hound belong to me. He ain't mad, he's got the
Blues. I got his soul in my hand."
The dog lets out a low, long soulful moan, a howling like never heard
before, rhythmic, syncopated grunts, yelps, and barks, seizing Robert
Johnson like a Grand Mal, and causing the strings on his guitar to
vibrate, hum, and sing with a sound dark and blue, beautiful, soulful
chords and notes possessing Robert Johnson, taking him over, spinning
him around, losing him inside of his own self, wasting him, lifting him up
into the sky. Robert Johnson looks over in the ditch and sees the eyes of
the dog reflecting the bright moonlight or, more likely so it seems to
Robert Johnson, glowing on their own, a deep violet penetrating glow,
and Robert Johnson knows and feels that he is staring into the eyes of a
Hellhound as his body shudders from head to toe.
The man says, "The dog ain't for sale, Robert Johnson, but the sound
can be yours. That's the sound of the Delta Blues."
"I got to have that sound, Devil-Man. That sound is mine. Where do I
sign?"
The man says, "You ain't got a pencil, Robert Johnson. Your word is
good enough. All you got to do is keep walking north. But you better be
prepared. There are consequences."
"Prepared for what, Devil-man?"
"You know where you are, Robert Johnson? You are standing in the
middle of the crossroads. At midnight, that full moon is right over your
head. You take one more step, you'll be in Rosedale. You take this road
to the east, you'll get back over to Highway 61 in Cleveland, or you can
turn around and go back down to Beulah or just go to the west and sit
up on the levee and look at the River. But if you take one more step in
the direction you're headed, you going to be in Rosedale at midnight
under this full October moon, and you are going to have the Blues like
never known to this world. My left hand will be forever wrapped around
your soul, and your music will possess all who hear it. That's what's
going to happen. That's what you better be prepared for. Your soul will
belong to me. This is not just any crossroads. I put this "X" here for a
reason, and I been waiting on you."
Robert Johnson rolls his head around, his eyes upwards in their sockets
to stare at the blinding light of the moon which has now completely filled
tie pitch-black Delta night, piercing his right eye like a bolt of lightning
as the midnight hour hits. He looks the big man squarely in the eyes and
says, "Step back, Devil-Man, I'm going to Rosedale. I am the Blues."
The man moves to one side and says, "Go on, Robert Johnson. You the
King of the Delta Blues. Go on home to Rosedale. And when you get on
up in town, you get you a plate of hot tamales because you going to be
needing something on your stomach where you're headed."
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Beth Bruno
Poppa E
Kate Evans
Pascale Frossard
Amber Ojeda
Sharon Musgrave
Nhojj
Christophe Nitard
Michael Pickett
Lonnie Plaxico
Vernon Reid
Petra van Delft
Poppa E
Kate Evans
Pascale Frossard
Amber Ojeda
Sharon Musgrave
Nhojj
Christophe Nitard
Michael Pickett
Lonnie Plaxico
Vernon Reid
Petra van Delft
Story Contributed by Mississippi Blue, Ingolstadt, Bayern, Germany