by Thomas Geiger
I was sitting at the bar – it was probably about half past five when he walked in. He was dressed all in black. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and was carrying a guitar case. He walked up to the bartender and asked if the club had live music. The bartender said sure – but, can you play? The bluesman just smiled. He took out his guitar and caressed it lovingly, pulled the strap around his lean body and sat at a table nearby.
"I got some good blues for you, man," he said then lit a cigarette, sucked it down hard and began to play – gently at first – just getting used to playing – not missing a note – deliberately and then stronger – at first sounding like everything you have ever heard and then melding into something different and new. I recognized Spanish melodies – banjo rolls – and delta slide. While he played he lectured us.
"You probably think you know all about the blues, man. But, the blues is victory boys."
I recognized the Elmore James tune Dust My Broom but in the middle it morphed into something else. The bluesman became transfixed. He was moaning and lost in his art. By the end, he was playing When the Levee Breaks Zep style. When he was done, I looked at the bartender and our jaws dropped. The bartender told him – damn right he could play – but he couldn’t pay him – so he would have to pass the hat. He did offer to buy him dinner and run him a tab – best that he could do. The man introduced himself as John and said – sounds great.
He asked us if there were any big poker games going on and the bartender told him of a late night game at a place a few towns over and John just smiled. Over dinner John told us about his life. He was playing for his life he said. I didn’t know much about the blues or blues history but this phantom man in black seemed to know it all. The tales were outrageous and I had actually heard a few of them like the one where Robert Johnson sells his soul at the Crossroads. John said it was not Robert but Tommy. Said Robert sold his soul for gamblers luck and good fortune with the ladies. Always could play. Nothing the devil could have taught him. Got him killed just the same I said and John just smiled.
I told John I didn’t have much use for the old black legends – scratchy recordings and all. John just smiled. "Gotta listen to them again, man. Then keep listening," he said softly. "There’s a truth in there to be heard. But, it’s not easy. You gotta want it."
I aksed him about his face. Up close you could see a lifetime's impact. He told me about the crash. It was a drag race. He lost control. It happens. Might’ve put a better man down six feet in the ground. But, he survived all the same. Said he had one goof eye and one good lung and pulled out a cigarette and burned it up just for emphasis. "I ain’t got no excuses man", he said. "But, I ain’t making any either."
About then a few friends of mine came in and I left John and the bartender to go meet them. We had hoped to hook up – but, it was looking like it was going to be a night for music and beer – not for women. And deep inside, I didn’t mind. There was just something about the guitar playing bluesman. Something I wanted. And even though my friends were rattling away, I watched everything the blues man did.
When the bar was mostly full, the bartender went over and asked him if was ready to play. John just smiled. He took a few long drags out of his cigarette and then picked up his guitar. Thinking back now I remember that the room got quiet. Eerily quiet. But, I don’t think that’s entirely true. Afterall, how could the crowd have had any inkling of what they were about to experience? And while I may be just remembering and inventing it now – it seemed as if the room got dark except for a single light that shined on him. And then it started with a single note as all musical performances do and everybody who heard it was changed whether they realized it or not.
That first set probably lasted about 30 minutes. But, I don’t really remember the songs so much as I remember the way that John played. He was in total command of his instrument and the stage. This was not just some guy off the street. This guy was a pro. First he played the old blues. Then followed with some Texas blues, or at least what he called Texas blues. At one point, a guy with a harmonica jumped on stage and asked to play along. John just smiled. He even let the guy have an extended solo of sorts. It wasn’t bad, either. But, I got the feeling he was feeding off of John’s aura or power somehow. Just being on the same stage he seemed to be transfigured by him. After a song or two even the harmonica player realized he had no business on the same stage and sat down to a mock cheer of sorts. I remember how gentle John was about it. He just smiled and even thanked him for sitting it. When I asked him about it later he told me, “It’s alright man. It’s just the blues, you know. It’s a sharing thing.”
A few songs later John took a break and made a beeline for the back dock with a pack of smokes in one hand and a beer in the other. I noticed that nobody followed along so I decided to join him.
"Man, that was awesome," I told him and then immediately regretted it. The word seemed so common and small. To be honest, it was all that I could think to utter. When you are presented with something that seems beyond comprehension, can mere words describe it?
"Thanks, man," he said and then shook my hand and smiled. “I appreciate you,” he continued.
I told him that I had heard the blues before – but never like that. "You really make it come alive," I exclaimed. But, his reaction surprised me. He seemed sad and wistful and then squeezed out a smile.
"The real blues is dying, man," he sighed. "Ain’t too many real blues men left you know? There are so many misconceptions. The music’s being preserved but the power has been lost."
We talked a little bit about the blues, but everything he said sounded as if it came from a deeper place. I told him that most blues songs sounded the same to me and he disagreed. "You’re not really listening," he told me. "Every song is different. A guitar is different in the hands of everyone who plays it. It reflects their life experience. Everyone has a different way of walking and talking and everyone has a different way of expressing themselves."
I could tell there was a heartfelt connection to the music. When he talked I sensed the same passion I noticed in his playing. ''When you write a song, it should be something immediate," he said. "Something that you're feeling. To me, the blues is an ever-growing thing. It's something that addresses life issues - what people are experiencing, good and bad."
"You have to be prepared to go to the point of death. I mean literally," he stated. "When I started playing blues, I was literally at a point of death, and it was physically very hard for me, and there was a price to be paid physically. When I reached for a note, or when I was trying to play the music and do a thing, and you’re living that life, physically it hurts. But, you gotta push through that, you gotta go."
"Man!,” I exclaimed, "You make it sound like life and death."
His eyes seem to take the measure of me as if he was in deep thought. He shook his head and there was a silent calm that came over him. Then he said and chuckled to himself, "I have no choice about it really, you know."
He smiled again and then nodded toward a group of guys playing craps. There was a light in his eyes. "Pardon me, man," he said. "But, I gotta feeling, a real good feeling. I got to check this out."
I must have looked as disappointed as I felt, because he stopped and became serious again. "How bout if I catch you after the show?" he asked.
I told him that would be cool and started back inside. As I walked back to my table, I was thrilled. I am not by nature bashful and had talked to performers before. I have always been surprised how accessible and approachable they can be if you wait for the right moment. If you treat them with respect and give them both time and space. But, this was different. It was as if I had met the Dalai Lama or a great spiritual leader. I drank a beer, closed my eyes and listened to the juke box. Never before or since have I felt that much at peace.
I lost track of time then. But, it couldn't have been more than 20 minutes. And then suddenly he was back on stage. The crowd was a little thicker than it had been, but then again it was later, too. I noticed that he looked a little worn out and tired. I hadn’t noticed it before. But, it was there. It was there around his eyes and also in his skin. He seemed so thin. And when the light hit him it seemed to get lost in him as if he was some kind of new non-reflective surface. However, it didn't take long. This man in black, this man of mystery, this guitar Mafioso started tearing into some Hooker. Most of the crowd got it -- but even still, I think some were still ignoring this fantastic performer. But, those paying attention were getting a real show. He took it up a notch at one point with some old Robert Johnson blues. Something even I know. But, this was different too. It was a version of the Crossroad blues that started out authentic almost note for note and then wailed into something new and vital and unknown. It was as if from somewhere inside raw power was channeled and his guitar took on a life of its own. This ain't Clapton. This ain't Johnson either. There is power here. I thought to myself, "Man, I wish I had this on tape. This is incredible."
It went on for what must have been five or six songs, one song ending and morphing into the next. Natural breaks and different songs and yet not one note seemed out of place. One minute it is edgy and hard and cool; the next minute it is soulful and mysterious. It was as if each and every human emotion was being generated by the guitar. Throughout he locked his eyes on the audience. Each one riveted by his stare their central nervous systems interconnected.
The moment was both beautiful and eerie. And just then, at that moment, some guy yelled out, “Play something that rocks.” Inside, I squirmed just a little. The music we had been listening to was exquisite blues. I was no blues purist or anything, but this guy made that music come alive in a way I had never heard. It didn’t need to rock. It was perfect in and of itself. But, part of me also feared that the crowd might be turning on the performer, too.
But, instead of being put off, the guy on stage just smiled. “What do you want to hear?” he asked.
“How about some Metallica,” the dude yelled and some in the crowd groaned. Some laughed, of course. And I am not really sure if the guy was all that serious. He sounded young, and was probably a bit drunk, too.
Again, the bluesman on stage just smiled and said, “No problem, I think I got some blues you might like.” And then it happened again. John started off slowly, methodically, his fingers dancing on the fret board. And then picked up pace. Soon this one guitar sounded like four electric guitars. It was definitely not Metallica. It was much rawer than that. It’s possible that some of Metallica’s ‘Wherever I May Roam’ was in there. But, it was done blues style – soft and reminiscent at first. I knew the tune so I was thrilled and he absolutely nailed the major theme. But, I sensed more was coming and I was not disappointed. In the middle it ceased to be something I knew and became something culled from inside his very soul. Beautiful and frightening at the same time, it morphed into a new creation. “Wherever I may roam,” he howled at the chorus but then inserted his own lyrics. Lyrics of sadness and guilt of a life spent searching and yearning. I was literally blown away. And so was every member of the crowd most especially Mr. Metallica.
Every eye and every ear was focused now on the stage. Where some had been tuning out – all were now involved. Standing at center stage with just a guitar, he had led us all in a shared experience. We were connected like an extended nervous system. I felt like I could feel the rhythm pulsate through us. Thinking back now, I can only put useless and timid words to these memories. No word or thought comes close to what it was like. I would say something like “you just had to be there,” but even that doesn’t convey how special this seemed. It was like an exorcism without God or for that matter the Devil. It was like being ripped balls to bone and watching yourself in slow motion. It was freedom and it was death at the same time.
When John finished his set, the crowd was clapping and cheering. I turned around and looked at the room and it was now full of people. It was standing room only. And it seemed to happen all the sudden. It was as if the news of this great blues had spread virally. I imagined people on phones calling friends saying things like, “You gotta get down here,” and “You’ll never believe what I am hearing.” Maybe they were all wandering vagrants who heard the sounds and followed them here. In the smoke and haze I am not even sure they were real at all. It happened so fast. Hell, it could have been a roomful of ghosts.
I saw a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in many years so I parted through the crowd to say hello. His name was Dan and we had lost touch the way friends often do when time and distance take their toll. “Damn, I haven’t seen you in years,” I said extending my hand. Dan was transfixed though. He had tears in his eyes and he was still shaking from the last song. Finally, after a moment he recognized me and took my hand.
“I would climb out of hell itself to hear John Campbell play guitar,” Dan said. His reaction just floored me. I had never heard the name or music like this before. And Dan talked of it as if he had not only heard it but savored it the way one savors a fine wine one can only afford on special occasions.
“John Campbell,” I replied, “never heard of him." You sure you ain’t got him mixed up with someone else. This guy, this music, this stuff is revolutionary. Something this good I would have heard before.”
“You ain’t been listening,” Dan replied. “That is John Campbell sure as I stand here in front of you, the best damn blues man who ever walked the planet or picked up a guitar.” I remembered that Dan had always been a bit off, so I tried to avoid an argument. “Dude just walked in and asked to play, “I said. “His name is John, though. You got that right. Does seem strange doesn’t it?”
“Count yourself lucky,” he said.
Dan though had grown visibly tired of our conversation. When the bluesman he identified as John Campbell made his way back to the stage, he pulled away and walked to an open area where he could get a better view. “Sorry,” he said as he started away, “I came here to listen. You don’t know how good this sounds and how long it’s been since I heard music this good.”
For his last set, John played a few more songs. Each one was more intense than the previous song. And yet, each one was distinct and powerful. Each told a story. When he finished his set he was spent and soaked in sweat. He had given everything. I stood there stunned. Everyone around me seemed to be feeling the same thing. It was as if we had been smashed by a freight train. But, we didn’t want it to end. When I noticed him heading again for the back door, I followed him. Surprisingly, no one else had the same thought. Many were smiling and I even sensed that some were smiling at me and not with me as if they were aware of a joke and knew the punch line and were only waiting for the story to conclude.
When I reached him we were at the back door so I followed him out. “Man, that was great,” I said again and then asked him if he was John Campbell. He just smiled. “I appreciate yah,” he said. Then he added shyly as if it were not that important, “People call me Johnny Slim.” I don’t remember how long the conversation actually lasted because it seemed like time stood still. I asked him how much he got from passing the hat and he told me he made more money throwing dice or arm wrestling.
“Money’s not really the point though,” he stated. And then he asked me, “Did you hear it?” I told him that I did and that I thought it was awesome, but he seemed unsatisfied with my answer. “No,” he said and his face was serious, “I mean did you hear it?”
I looked at him funny. “That was the blues,” he said. “That is the answer to the question you asked earlier.” I told him again that I thought it was great. He again smiled gently and said thanks. But, then he got serious again. “The real blues is dying, you know. I am counting on you to set it straight. Write it down.”
“What is the real blues?” I asked. “Isn’t it just a genre of music?”
John just smiled again. And then he told me how it was, “It's like when you look at something that is dark - and it's hard to face - and you sing a song about it and that's the first step I think to overcoming it, to getting it under control. That's what has always been the great power of it. And at the same time it praises the good times.”
I had never seen a performer like John before and he explained that, too. “The blues song is a victory,” John noted. “It’s like grabbin’ that thing by the throat, wrestlin’ with it, lookin’ it square in the eye, throwin it down on the ground and stompin’ on it till it turns into dancin.” John stopped a moment and then continued. “When I am on stage if I can get ahold of that feelin’, man, I’m gonna ride it just as long as I can. The music's a very visceral experience for me, and I try to do it with all I've got, in case it's the last time, because you never know. It's the only game in town every night for me.”
John told me he had a freight train to catch and wanted to get to that poker game. I asked him if I could tag along. “Nah,” he said. “That’s my road. You got your own roads to walk.”
For whatever reason, I sensed what was going on – that he would move on – that it was the end – and I panicked. “Man, let me follow you. I’ll do anything – hell I could carry your guitar for you,” I pleaded.
Then John got a little angry. “You didn’t learn a thing did you!” he exclaimed. “You gotta walk your own roads. The blues is victory! It’s not just the music – it’s’ a way of life. Doesn’t matter what you do – gotta play it like it’s the last time you ever get on stage. Make it count. Don’t just slop your way through life, man. Make it real. That’s what the blues is.”
My initial reaction was to walk away. I felt like I had been slapped. It is just music after all I told myself. I made my way back over to my friends’ table and sulked. But, there was something deeper than just music going on with John for sure. After a few minutes of contemplation, I decided that I didn’t care about my pride. I guess it made sense to me. But, I wanted to hear more. I wanted to savor the moment. But, when I scanned the crowd, John was nowhere to be found. I figured he had made his way out back for another smoke. He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, would he? So, I started watching the door waiting for his return. But, he never did.
For days his words and music echoed in my brain. I felt haunted by it. After a while, I decided to look him up on the Internet and I found him and a lot more. My long ago friend was right. That was John Campbell. Only John Campbell had been dead for 10 years. But, what really floored me is that my friend Dan had also passed on. When I called a common friend to get Dan’s number, he told me that Dan had died a few years ago from cancer.
The realization still shocks me to this day. I sometimes wonder if it was all real or not. Maybe I imagined it all. I can’t really tell you that now. I guess it’s as real as I make it. And when I listen to John Campbell’s second album, Howlin’ Mercy, that night is as real as any memory I have ever had or known. And you know something, John was right. It is all there in the music. All you gotta do is listen.