The Blues is Forever

A.A. Castro/Blues Is Forever/1 Anthony A. Castro 1D Oak Crest Court Novato, CA 94947 (415)897-0305 [email protected]

about 1,600 words

The Blues Is Forever A Musical Fantasy By A. A. Castro

A.A. Castro/Blues Is Forever/2 It’s 2:00 AM on a cold October night. The young man has snuck out of the plantation where he works and is walking towards the crossroads down the highway. He’s got a guitar on his shoulder, a beat up old thing that doesn’t even look like it’s playable. He doesn’t care. He knows what he has to do. His name is Robert Johnson and he’s going to be the greatest blues guitar player of all time. The only thing between him and fame are his fingers; slow, clumsy things that just can’t seem to make the guitar sound like he hears it in his head. So he’s come out here to do what the old man told him he had to do: sell his soul to the Devil so he can play the blues. The wind is cold and it cuts thru his clothes right to the bone. He stands in the middle of the crossroads, the guitar in his hands. He thinks to himself that he still has time to go back and forget all about this as he looks at the branches swaying in the wind. They’re bare and they look like skeleton fingers scratching the sky. I can’t go back to that life, he thinks to himself, I gotta sing my blues. With trembling hands, he strums the guitar, head lowered and eyes closed. He feels the fingers tapping his shoulder, twice. He doesn’t turn around; the old man told him he can’t look or the deal will never happen. Without looking, he hands the guitar to a dark hand. That’s all he sees. The next thing he hears is a sliding note that ends in a wail and he hears the Devil singing the blues… I got to keep moving, blues falling down like hail… And the day keeps on remindin’ me… There’s a hellhound on my trail…

A.A. Castro/Blues Is Forever/3 The man hands the guitar back. That’s it, the deal is done. Robert Johnson will be the greatest guitar player of all time, but his soul belongs to the Devil. It’s now early August in 1938. Robert Johnson is laying down on a cot, breathing harshly, his forehead covered in a cold sweat. He thinks to himself, I can’t die yet, the Devil ain’t done his part yet. He’s a blues musician and a damn good one but he’s not famous and he’s not rich. He recorded fifteen songs a few years back but his records didn’t sell. He shivers and shakes, clutching the mojo hand his grandmother gave him the day he left her farm. He turns his head. There’s a man standing on the doorway, a dark man. He’s not black, he’s just…shadowy, his face always in darkness. The man walks into the room and looks at Robert Johnson. His lips don’t move but Robert Johnson can hear him in his mind saying it’s your time and I’ve come to collect on our deal. Robert Johnson shakes his head. No, he thinks, you didn’t do your part of the deal ‘cause I ain’t rich or famous. You can’t take my soul yet, he screams in his mind. He hears the Devil laughing in his mind, saying foolish boy, you never said when you wanted to be famous…your name will be remembered by anyone who ever picks up a guitar but it won’t be until you’re long dead and moldering in the grave…now quit this life and come with me. He clutches the mojo hand one last time. It can’t end like this, he thinks, I won’t let it, my soul has to be free! With one last rattling breath, Robert Johnson dies. But the Devil doesn’t get his soul. Somehow, the raw force of his desire tears the soul of Robert

A.A. Castro/Blues Is Forever/4 Johnson free from the clutches of the Devil because he was right: the Devil tried to cheat him. But now his soul has to flee, it has to hide because the Devil never forgets or forgives. He’ll chase Robert Johnson’s soul from one end of eternity to the other until he catches him. So Robert Johnson’s soul flees through all of time and space… You may bury my body. Down by the highway side So my old evil spirit Can get a Greyhound bus and ride… It’s now late November in 1942. Seattle is a cold and rainy city and the young pregnant woman shivers in the ambulance taking her to the hospital. Her contractions are coming faster and faster now; the baby could come at any time. The soul of Robert Johnson is there also. It’s been waiting, waiting for just the right body and soul to merge with, someone born with the musical talent it needs for fulfillment. It’s the only place where it can hide from the Devil. Her name’s Lucille, and she’s only seventeen. Her husband is in the Army, stationed in Oklahoma, and she’s all alone. The birth is hard, it takes hours before she hears the doctor tell her that it’s a boy and someone else asks what the baby’s name is. She thinks for a second before answering that her boy’s name is Johnny Allen Hendrix. The night I was born, lord the moon stood a fire red. Said the night I was born, the moon turned a fire red. My poor mother her cryin', she said "The gypsy was right!"

A.A. Castro/Blues Is Forever/5 And she fell right dead. Now it’s early 1966 and Johnny Allen Hendrix now goes by Jimi Hendrix. He’s in London, the first time he’s left the USA. It’s a big, vibrant city and there’s so much to see and do but he just doesn’t have the time. He’s a guitar player and he can wail the blues and rock out like nobody else can. A bass player named Chas Chandler is helping him put together a band and manage his career. Right now, he’s walking into a London flat. It’s a party and Chas is introducing him to another guitar player named Eric Clapton. They hit it off right away and spend the rest of the evening talking about how much they both love the blues. After a while, this guy with a giant nose named Pete joins them and all three decide to leave and party at Eric’s place. They’re sitting on Eric’s couch as he pulls out a battered old album and tells Jimi and Pete to get ready to hear the greatest blues cat of all time. He hands Jimi the album cover…it’s called “Robert Johnson, King of the Delta Blues Singers.” It doesn’t mean anything to him until the needle hits the groove and he hears that plaintive wail again… Something snaps and turns in Jimi’s mind. He knows who he is now, what he can do and what he has to do. He’s Robert Johnson and he’s also Jimi Hendrix, two modern titans of music who are about to create some of the greatest music ever recorded. His heart swells with joy and happiness at the uncountable possibilities stretching before him. He’s walking home later, and he’s crossing the street when he sees him. The dark man, the Devil who’s been searching for his soul for all these years. Jimi turns pale and

A.A. Castro/Blues Is Forever/6 runs, but he knows that the Devil will chase him until he catches him. It’s not fair, Jimi thinks, I’ve got all this music in me but I don’t have any time. The voice of Robert Johnson is in his mind then, saying boy, you better find the time ‘cause you may never get another chance. Jimi is now playing the Olympia in Paris, the Monterey Pops Festival, Woodstock. People go crazy for him, they’ve never seen or heard anything like him before. He makes the guitar sound like nobody ever has. He’s rich and he’s famous. But at every show, every time he looks at the wings of the stage he sees him standing there, waiting. The dark man dressed in black from head to toe, face always shrouded in shadows, the Devil only he can see. Now it’s mid-September of 1970. In a flat in London, Jimi Hendrix dies of an accidental overdose of sleeping pills and red wine. His girlfriend hears him talking to someone but they’re the only two people there. He clutches a very old mojo hand tightly, so tightly that he’s buried with it in his hand. But his soul, the blues-filled soul of Johnny Robert Allen Hendrix Johnson, is free again. A broom is drearily sweeping Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life. Somewhere a Queen is weeping, Somewhere a King has no wife. It floats thru time and space. It searches, always, never tiring until it finds the right vessel to make the music live again. And the Devil is right behind it, chasing it thru the endless reaches of infinity.

A.A. Castro/Blues Is Forever/7 So the next time you’re in a bar or a party and you see a young man strap on an electric guitar, take heed. Listen to him and if you hear a sound like nothing you’ve ever heard before, look deep into that young man’s eyes. Somewhere in the back there, you’ll see a nattily-dressed young man strumming an old Gibson and next to him a young man dressed like a gipsy and playing a left-handed guitar upside down. Oh, and if you see a shadowy man dressed in black, don’t approach him or try to talk to him. Just stay away from him if you value your soul. Why? Because the blues is forever, baby…the blues is forever. THE END