my hellhound

HELLHOUND ON MY TRAIL

by Joel Lipman

So when people dig a blues doo, do they swim the music,
blast the hat, get rough, get ragged and swampy,
crawl to the club, swagger, stagger, eat gumbo, slum easy, boogie?

Do they watch the tube in the grande hotel, prone on the bed--whatever's
stupid in Cleveland, probably geronomonian baseball
or news from the local chathead? Do they
stick it in the sauna (I did)? Do they burn it
in the john (I did)? Do they lose their floor in the parking deck (I did)?
Do they eat rice with the Chinaman, toss jello shots,
suck worms with the slummies on the pier, noodles at Thai Guy,
lick cherries at Manhattan Rose's Hi Ball Heaven? Did it all.

Or they take in the Odeon--all night, never quite sure which ear's
livin', which one's dead, which one's just glued upside your head
while the acoustic harp goes cosmic? I needed to know some of that
before Government Mule took the stage, but didn't, so I left.

Which doesn't mean I don't dig Govt Mule--I didn't have a chance.
The floor got sticky, I ran into Zelinski on the stairs--we wanted to
cruise back over time to the Ottawa Tavern, long closed,
the shutters peeling, burn one out back, but Peter Green took the boards
and we each cashed beer tickets and got demented.
Zena was there. And Mike, Ardyth, Wilson T., Joey from Hula's in
Hamtrammack, a bunch of scrubs from Elyria-- bangers. I tried to look
the other way, but the punkies kept screaming "Chris Whitley! Chris Whitley!"
So I bought his boss CD and wished I could have found one by G. Love,
the Philly dude who burned his ticket and walked offstage to ecstasy.
I saw him later, the night much rounder Sunday outside Severance Hall, where
he sat on the concrete abutment in a red shirt, surrounded by pretty girls.

Now this guy Johnson, dead 60 years from poison, scratchin' the neck
of a $9 axe with a busted bottle, slurring and mauling phrases in Dallas
while the room walls sagged and the car horns barked--whaddabout him?
Heard those singers, watched their lips part, ate my chicken, drank bourbon.
But that Johnson, daddycool to Eric Clapton, tell me.... Taj Mahal without
Hawaii and
muttonchop whiskers, Rob Wasserman poor and nasty in a cottonshack, Cassandra
Wilson eatin' lynchmob specials and grits without the high yellow beauty
and chill whiteboy sidemen--something like that, if you knew him.

But nobody did, 'cept Johnny Shines, who too is sadly gone.

So when the story of this illbegotten land is writ, with all the slaves
and corpses
stacked and counted, with clublights dimmed and roadside joints darkened
and buried,
when the blues is something faint and steamy, dead and gone before the human
sobs and laughter wander out into the everywhere-Delta night, that's when
Mr. Johnson antes up his licks and notes and the scratchy, cracky old
sounds awaken.
END


				HELLHOUND ON MY TRAIL

				by Joel Lipman

		So when people dig a blues doo, do they swim the music, blast the hat, get rough, get ragged and swampy, crawl to the club, swagger, stagger, eat gumbo, slum easy, boogie? Do they watch the tube in the grande hotel, prone on the bed--whatever's stupid in Cleveland, probably geronomonian baseball or news from the local chathead? Do they stick it in the sauna (I did)? Do they burn it in the john (I did)? Do they lose their floor in the parking deck (I did)? Do they eat rice with the Chinaman, toss jello shots, suck worms with the slummies on the pier, noodles at Thai Guy, lick cherries at Manhattan Rose's Hi Ball Heaven? Did it all. Or they take in the Odeon--all night, never quite sure which ear's livin', which one's dead, which one's just glued upside your head while the acoustic harp goes cosmic? I needed to know some of that before Government Mule took the stage, but didn't, so I left. Which doesn't mean I don't dig Govt Mule--I didn't have a chance. The floor got sticky, I ran into Zelinski on the stairs--we wanted to cruise back over time to the Ottawa Tavern, long closed, the shutters peeling, burn one out back, but Peter Green took the boards and we each cashed beer tickets and got demented. Zena was there. And Mike, Ardyth, Wilson T., Joey from Hula's in Hamtrammack, a bunch of scrubs from Elyria-- bangers. I tried to look the other way, but the punkies kept screaming "Chris Whitley! Chris Whitley!" So I bought his boss CD and wished I could have found one by G. Love, the Philly dude who burned his ticket and walked offstage to ecstasy. I saw him later, the night much rounder Sunday outside Severance Hall, where he sat on the concrete abutment in a red shirt, surrounded by pretty girls. Now this guy Johnson, dead 60 years from poison, scratchin' the neck of a $9 axe with a busted bottle, slurring and mauling phrases in Dallas while the room walls sagged and the car horns barked--whaddabout him? Heard those singers, watched their lips part, ate my chicken, drank bourbon. But that Johnson, daddycool to Eric Clapton, tell me.... Taj Mahal without Hawaii and muttonchop whiskers, Rob Wasserman poor and nasty in a cottonshack, Cassandra Wilson eatin' lynchmob specials and grits without the high yellow beauty and chill whiteboy sidemen--something like that, if you knew him. But nobody did, 'cept Johnny Shines, who too is sadly gone. So when the story of this illbegotten land is writ, with all the slaves and corpses stacked and counted, with clublights dimmed and roadside joints darkened and buried, when the blues is something faint and steamy, dead and gone before the human sobs and laughter wander out into the everywhere-Delta night, that's when Mr. Johnson antes up his licks and notes and the scratchy, cracky old sounds awaken. END