On my way up to Baltimore yesterday I was
listening to the radio, which I seldom do. WPFW is Washington DC’s
Pacifica Network station. There’s a blues show on Saturday
afternoons. I’m not a big fan.
There was a song about the guy who has “thirteen inches that needs some attention.”
The guy who loves big women. “Three hundred pounds. Three
hundred fifty. Five hundred. But only sometimes.”
The guy who said, “Mister, you’re wife’s been cheating on us.”
A woman who spent last night with a guy who did her right, apparently.
And of course the esteemed gentleman who sang “Slap that booty” with a
voice that sounded like he chain smokes asbestos cigarettes and gargles
hot tar every morning. And the women answer, “Slap it, baby.”
I guess this show isn’t the about the wailing guitar kind of blues.
Not the Blind Whoever blues. Or the kind of blues where you don’t know
whether to dance or cry. Not the white guy with the long hair rockin’
out blues. This is the poor black blues about eating fried food,
driving cadillacs, drinking, and sleeping around. The straight razor
and water melon are implied, I guess.
(Oop. Did I just say
that out loud? That was supposed to be in a private thought bubble.
Oh well.) This isn’t the kind of blues where young professionals will
go out to watch as it’s filmed on Austin City Limits and wins Grammys.
It’s urban blight blues. Dream deferred blues.
To each his own. There’s a song for everyone.
people creating more all the time. You know, I’m lucky that I know a
whooole lot of amazing, talented people. It’s incredible. Even if I
lose my mojo all I have to do is listen to a friend or a myspace
friend’s music or read their poetry.
I raise my glass of fermenting home made root beer to you all.
By Laura Veirs
Release date: By 24 August, 2004