The breathtaking story runs a night into a woody house
trapped by the fire, on the dusty Texan field. There inside, in one of the
bedrooms second story, lays a baby, a black woman, the servant with her bare feet
who run on the floor porch. She opens the door and breaks through the menacing
flames. The house can crack without any advice, but valiant and decided her
upstairs, right towards the room where the baby in his carrycot cries.
Among the smoke, she enveloped with a blanket, held in
her arms, rushed to the kitchen, to the door. Few minutes after, she is running
on the green lawn, at the light of the red flames which furiously bit the
structure. Many meters and saved at last, the heroine opened widely her
eyes, screamed loudly when the house creaked and fell down as a dying bison.
That child in those merciful arms was John Dawson, the great blues guitar
player known as Johnny Winter. I understand that is the truthful love to the
blues. On it resides his justification of being in debt with the black people.
The anecdote, reliable or not, is beautiful. I have long since heard for first
time from an old man, and review the story of a musician who gave himself with
soul and life to the guitar, and blues.
Take a gaze to the map, and we observe Texas is the
sister of Mississippi. Texas is a sunny and vast territory filled with desert
and plain, with its tornados and cowboys. In a suggestive manner, let´s say
that it is the window to the West, and the backdoor to the South, to a sandy
landscape, full of stones, scorpions and rattle snakes, in those
enchanted lands where people – in antique times – used to celebrate “corrida de
toros”, in that so curious world where live together Spanish- fashioned
houses with Mexican tequilas and a hats, boots and guns, so usual in Texans.
Texas, without any fear to doubt, offered traditionally good material to this
music genre: Albert Collins, Albert King, ZZ Top, them all, sacred cows, who
spread their chords and notes in the world. In Texas Robert Johnson had
recorded at the ‘30 his handful of songs to leave his legacy.
Respect Johnny Winter, his case appeared biased to the
paradox, ´cause his hot way to play has an original touch, besides, that
contradicts his surname, and contrasts with his almost Nordic-pale. From his
long discography, the first LP I have ever listened was “Scorching Blues”,
recorded in 1974 accompanied with the Muddy Waters band, died at 1973.
The following I listened was “Captured Live!”, Third Degree, Still Alive and
Well. Since the first second in whichever Winter´s song catches you that
burning characteristic at the hour to play, and sing.. In his voice is guarded
the proverbial wisdom of the Blues, his belief was the same to the slaves sons
believed. Believes that we hardly understand. The magnetism sexual besides all
of Mojo; the joker demon Eshú (known also as Elegba, Legba or Elegbara) who was
a wicked tramp sawing seeds of discord, the voodoos from the Yorubas cosmology,
in West Africa to establish in Haiti and in the low lands of New Orleans…with
the cult of snakes and the secret ceremonies of black magic. That source of
music and rites had departure from the black continent to arrive in Caribbean
Antilles, and then Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Texas…
Let´s get some review of songs of him: Dallas: sang with
slide technique, and a Dobro, in that he rolled Indian Scales; Bad Girl Blues,
he sings about the love between women, and sounds two Dobro´s in lapses, those
guitars sound as a calling of mermaids; Rolling and Tumbling: a Robert
Johnson´s classic turned a furious blues and figures into the list of “The
Progressive Experiment Blues”; Mean Town Blues, an accelerated boogie with an
unforgotten duel of guitars. The Indian scales which Winter inserts in his
phrases are commons in the Hendrix style too, making honor to his Cherokee
bloodline. He used to his own way in Voodoo Chile, and in some home record of
Hound Dog, and in other opportunities. I advise that they both find out an
origin to play, they both mix the native with the African. Winter had the
pleasure to show us that marvel called Dobro, he played as few this one with
slide, even hotter and overwhelming than his own masters: Hooker y Waters.
Johnny Winter – despite to have been a guitar hero – kept
himself further from to be a rock-star as Hendrix. The Foxy Lady´s songwritter
was in a very another sinthony, his soul and expectatives, beyond the blue
ocean, in London, main city of fashion and vanguard. The Texan, at his own way,
had his roots very sank into the wool fields, in the work-song slaves, who
worked from sun to sun. He used to understand with the purely nigro, with the
faithfully rural. And, if he developed a face quite rocker, he would never left
the songs of the Deep South. As guitar player and singer always found the wild
chords provided by Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, JL Hooker.
If we compare with other Texas bluesman as Steve Ray
Vaughan, Johnny Winter is hard to give him some precedent. The high-pitched
sound from his Gibson Firebird X, his sharp technical pick, the very fast
scales fingers, his tireless musical arrangements while he sings, are technical
y simply matchless.
Texas is today the ground where the life is hard. Texas
was the musical school to Johnny Winter, where he listened to his early idols,
made the first steps with ukulele first and guitar then, at twelve years old.
He saw many musician of the époque, was the producer of Muddy and Hooker. His
great jump were at 1969, in the famous Woodstock. Drugs, alcohol, fast life to
die young, he was while live one of the few who could survive of that stormy
generation, skipping the abyss who ate to Morrison, Hendrix, Joplin or Brian
Jones. He must through a long rehab after his sudden fame.
Now, being that the music is the art elevated at its
maxim potency” as Nietzsche said, an outstanding guitarist also represent this
thought. I love the Johnny Winter music as I could cherish to a lush walnut
that drops so deep his roots very deep in the soil, I´d love to, as a strange avis
in terra. Because he had shown many faces at music, he could found out the
original roots of the Blues.
Within few years will be scarce musicians as him. The
world will spread like a big fat octopus its technological tentacles, optical
fibers and webs. Will come biological wars without turn around. Then it
will blow hunger winds, hurricanes of embezzlement. The man will imítate to the
machines, with no time whether the love or the friendship. Artistically, won´t
exist those old musicians or pure artists. It shall remain those, who
push buttons and turn perils, those ones who go out the tone, those who gift
their goodwill to the musical marketing, to the unsustainable politics who
impoverished the people. It will abound those who ignore to Jon Spencer
Blues Explosion, David Bowie, BB King. Don´t trust of them.
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