By sheer coincidence, the nine months I spent in New York taking lessons from Dave Van Ronk coincided with a unique opportunity to build up my blues library. I assume a collector had died, because a record store called Dayton’s, on Broadway just across 12th Street from the Strand bookstore, had mint copies of virtually every early blues reissue LP that had been issued from the late 1950s through the mid 1970s — from Folkways to Biograph, Blues Classics, Herwin,  and all the early Yazoos, back to when that label was still called Belzona.

This presented me with a dilemma: my folks were giving me $25 a week for all expenses beyond my room and board at NYU, and Dave charged $15 for his lessons, which left me with $10 to spend on records. Dayton’s was charging $3 per LP, and had at least a couple of hundred I wanted, and every week I lived in fear that some better-heeled blues fan would sweep in and clean them out. So each week I would spend hours in Dayton’s, reading liner notes and trying to figure out which records I simply had to get, balanced against which ones seemed most likely to disappear if I left them till next week… like, I wanted the Belzona St. Louis Town compilation, but it seemed more likely to last a couple more weeks than the Yazoo Young Big Bill Broonzy…

The miracle was that, for nine months, no one came in and made a major buy. I’m sure a few records slipped from my grasp, but I don’t recall them, and week after week I went through agony and chose three albums, brought them back to my dorm room, and played them over and over again, driving my roommate out to the library. I wasn’t yet good enough to be able to figure out much of what I was hearing, but at least I got the sounds in my ears, and began to develop a sense of how various people sounded and who was imitating whom, and whom I liked more or less.

At that point, the artists that most caught my attention were what are now often called Piedmont players, though Van Ronk tended to call them Eastern Seaboard players, and one of my favorites then and ever since was Carl Martin. I think I first heard him on the Yazoo Guitar Wizards compilation, and then on East Coast Blues, but it could have been the other way round — in any case, I loved his singing and his guitar style, and eventually learned four of the five songs he did on those albums (I’ve posted his version of “Old Time Blues“)… and then, twenty years later, ended up playing guitar for several years with his old musical partner, Howard Armstrong. Howard was a magnificent polymath, a painter, linguist, raconteur, and multi-instrumentalist, who specialized in mandolin and fiddle, but would sometimes pick up a guitar and play roughly this version of “Crow Jane.” I’d already learned it off Martin’s record, but it was Howard who got me to move up the A-chord bass riff to the fifth fret, though I’m not sure he played it quite this way.

One of the early songs Dave Van Ronk taught me, this was largely composed by Len Chandler, one of the most musically sophisticated writers on the Village folk scene. Chandler had been a classical oboe player in Akron, Ohio, and Dave recalled Variety referring to him as “musician turned folksinger.” As Chandler recalls it, Dave was the first person to bring him down to Washington Square and introduce him around, and he shortly became the house musician at the Gaslight Cafe, when it was still the Gaslight Poetry Cafe — there is an incredibly rare LP released on the very short-lived Gaslight label called The Beat Generation, which has him along with the two house poet/comedian/MCs, John Brent and Hugh Romney (who later became the irrepressible hippie clown Wavy Gravy).

Both Dave and Chandler remember hearing the traditional version of “Green, Green Rocky Road” from the poet Bob Kaufman, who had learned it as a child in New Orleans. It was a popular African American children’s game song throughout the South, and there’s a nice version recorded by Harold Courlander in Alabama that was issued by Folkways in the early 1950s. In Dave’s recollection, Kaufman sang it for him and Chandler backstage at the Commons, the coffeehouse where Dave was doing most of his playing in the late 1950s, but Chandler recalls learning it from Kaufman over dinner in Chandler’s apartment.

In any case, Chandler came up with a new melody and wrote the verses, Dave learned it from him, and it became one of the most enduring and requested songs in Dave’s repertoire, as well as one of his fundamental guitar arrangements in dropped D tuning. I was so used to hearing Dave do this song that I never noticed how odd the timing is on the chorus, until I was given the job of playing guitar for an all-star chorus of his friends and peers as part of a memorial concert at the Bottom Line. Roughly half the people knew Dave’s version the way he did it, but the others knew it from Peter, Paul and Mary’s variant or from someplace else and didn’t catch the dropped beats, and it took us forever to get it straight… and then, when we had it straight, David Bromberg showed up for the second show and tried to make us all do it in regular 4/4 instead of Dave’s way, because that was how he knew it…

To finish off, here are Courlander’s notes on the children’s game:

“The children form a circle with the leader in the center. The group sings ‘Green, green’ and the leader answers, ‘Rocky road,’ skipping around the ring. As the chorus is sung the leader is deciding which person to choose. As he picks one, the group sings the first line of the verse, naming the child selected. The leader brings his choice to the center and kisses her…”

Hence, “Tell me who you love, tell me who you love.”

Another classic Van Ronk guitar arrangement, this was also the first song I learned by Leroy Carr. Carr was a massively influential figure who virtually redefined blues in the late 1920s and early ’30s, turning it from rowdy, shouting dancehall, theater, or streetcorner music into a sensitive, moody style suited to late night meditations in quiet rooms with a glass of whiskey close at hand. His innovations were immeasurably aided by new technologies: first electrical recording, which could capture the intimate sound of crooners like Carr and Bing Crosby — the defining male singers in blues and pop for the next few decades — and then the popularity of jukeboxes, which supplanted pianos as the main barroom music devices when Prohibition was repealed in 1933. Carr’s records became jukebox staples, along with recordings by his myriad followers and imitators, earning innumerable nickels in the slow hours before closing time.

This was probably the first Carr song I heard, thanks to Paul Oliver’s two-LP anthology, The Story of the Blues, issued to accompany his book of the same name. More than any other collection of that early reissue period, Oliver’s set suggested not only the depth and brilliance, but also the range of early blues, with Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong alongside deep Delta guitarists, the Georgia fiddler Eddie Anthony (his “Georgia Crawl” may have been my favorite cut on the album), and this track from Carr and his guitar-playing partner, Scrapper Blackwell.

A lot of urban revivalists considered Carr and Blackwell too smooth for their tastes — romantic adolescent lads in New York, Cambridge, and London were turning to blues for dark Delta shouters, not moody, gentle singers who played spare, evocative piano — but Van Ronk was very much an exception. Despite his reputation as a hoarse shouter, he loved Carr (and Crosby), and made careful study both of Blackwell’s guitar style and of Carr’s laconic piano chording. As he wrote in the liner notes to “Midnight Hour Blues”:

Sparseness is a good thing if you want to be pretty. Silence — a pause — is as important to music as a note. Silence is a part of music.
All those nice big fat thirds I got from Leroy Carr. The guitar is as close as I can get to a transcription of his lead piano part.

Another of my favorite Dave Van Ronk guitar arrangements, and a perfect example of how he would edit an accompaniment down to its absolute essentials. His model was one of Bessie Smith’s greatest records, featuring Louis Armstrong on cornet and Fred Longshaw playing unobtrusive piano. Other guitarists faced with Smith’s more ragtime-influenced blues records tend to get complicated and work out intricate arrangements that mimic piano ragtime, but Dave was thinking as a singer and wanted something that would support his vocal, not distract from it. The result is a singer’s dream, gently swinging while leaving plenty of space.

The lyric was one of Smith’s best, and she is credited as co-writer with someone named Stuart Balcom, or sometimes John Henry — there are internet sites that suggest these are the same person, but I have no idea what their source is. John Henry, as best I can find, was a pseudonym for Perry Bradford, composer of numerous blues songs including the original breakthrough hit by a black recording artist, Mamie Smith’s “Crazy Blues,”and since Balcom seems to have no other songs to his credit, he might be another Bradford mask.

In any case, it’s a wonderful song, and a good example of the kind of lyrics that were more popular back when blues was mainly women’s music, in terms both of the performers and the audience. Actually, among black listeners the blues audience is still overwhelmingly female and the theme of the aging male lover getting traded in on a more recent model is still popular. As Moms Mabley used to say, “The only thing an old man can do for me is take a message to a young man.”

(Mabley also used to say, “Making love to an old man, honey? Making love to an old man is like pushing a car up a hill…

…with a rope.”)

This accompaniment in “dropped D” tuning, carefully arranged to seem simple and unobtrusive, has always seemed to me the Apollonian ideal of a Dave Van Ronk guitar arrangement.  He recorded it during his early peak of popularity, right after the Folksinger LP, on an album that featured him with a trad jazz band including some of his old friends from Brooklyn and Queens. Half the tracks had the full band, half just Dave with his guitar, and someone made the odd choice to mingle the cuts rather than having a solo side and a band side, with the result that I’ve very rarely listened to the record, because when I’m in the mood for the quiet, meditative solo stuff I don’t want to hear the rowdy band, and when I’m up for the band the solo cuts are too quiet… which is a pity, because that record has some of Dave’s greatest solo performances, including “Green Rocky Road,” “St. Louis Tickle,” and this song.

“Kansas City Blues” was one of the defining songs of the third blues boom — the first was a dance craze, set off by W.C. Handy’s hits in the early teens; the second a record craze for “blues queens,” set off by Mamie Smith’s “Crazy Blues” in 1920; and the third took off with Blind Lemon Jefferson’s success and mostly featured male singers accompanying themselves on guitar or piano. One of the first major hits of that boom was recorded by a Memphis street singer named Jim Jackson and issued toward the end of 1927 as “Jim Jackson’s Kansas City Blues.”

Born in 1884, Jackson was one of the oldest artists who recorded in that period and his repertoire is a window into what African American musicians were playing in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, from rural ditties like “Old Dog Blue” to minstrel comedy numbers like “I Heard the Voice of a Porkchop,” Handy’s “St. Louis Blues,” and his hit about moving to Kansas City, which was so popular that he shortly followed it with “Jim Jackson’s Kansas City Blues,” parts 3 and 4, then “I’m Gonna Move to Louisiana.” Other artists jumped on the bandwagon, the Memphis Jug Band and Lonnie Johnson recording their own “Kansas City Blues” and Charlie Patton asserting his individuality by singing “Going to Move to Alabama.”

I would guess that by 1928 there were very few blues singers who didn’t have some version of this song in their repertoires, and variants of it continued to circulate in the jazz world, which may well be where Dave first heard it — the liner notes to his album describe it as “one of the most popular race recordings of the twenties and … still a favorite of many today.” The funny thing being that when I came across it in the early 1970s I was a dedicated folk-blues listener, regarded it as a traditional “country blues,” and would have been baffled if anyone had suggested it was a pop hit.

I’m pretty sure the first recording I had of this was an instrumental version on The Guitar and Banjo of Reverend Gary Davis, but the first person I heard sing it was Dave Van Ronk. It could have been any number of other people — Ramblin’ Jack Elliott played it a lot, which is where Dylan picked it up — but it was one of Dave’s showpieces and also one of the first things he taught his students. Roy Book Binder tells a funny story that puts this in some perspective, related in Bill Ellis’s study of Davis. Roy had been given a matchbook with Reverend Davis’s phone number, and after working up his courage for a few weeks, called the Reverend on the phone:

I said, “I’d like to take guitar lessons.”
He said, “When do you want to come over?”
I said, “Maybe next week.”
He said, “I’m an old man, I’m home now.”
Book Binder went over to Davis’s house, and to show what he knew, played “Candyman,” to which Davis responded:
 “Good God-a-mighty, you sound like Dave Van Ronk!”

Apparently Davis had learned the song around 1905, in his hometown of Spartanburg, SC. Sometimes he said he’d learned it from local players, sometimes that he heard someone play it in a traveling medicine show, and Van Ronk recalled him saying he’d heard it from a rambling musician everyone just called “the gittar man.” The guitar part seems to have been ubiquitous throughout the South, though not always connected to this lyric, a notable example being Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “Hot Dogs.”

Davis’s version was a good deal more rhythmically regular than Jefferson’s, or rather Davis’s versions, plural: he sometimes played it straight, sometimes as a two-step, and sometimes as a waltz. The way Dave learned it, the most distinctive thing is the backwards bass — normally, guitarists who keep an alternating bassline play it low-high, low-high, but in “Candyman” and “Cocaine” Dave reversed that, so the deep note falls on the offbeat. He said he learned it that way from Rev. Davis, but Andy Cohen convinced me at one point that actually Davis played the bass normally and it just sounds backwards… and then Ellis, who has written a deeply researched dissertation on Davis’s playing, further complicated matters by writing that Davis sometimes played it backwards and sometimes forwards — the tricky part being that it’s hard to tell which he’s doing until he gets to the F section at the end of a verse….

…all of which is pretty technical for non-guitarists, but if you want to have some vague sense of it, in my version I play the basses backwards through the C sections of most verses, but forwards through the “Big Leg Ida” verse.

As for the lyric, the term “candy man” meant a pimp, or at least a male paramour, also termed a “sweetback” or “sweetback man.” (I’ve addressed the parallel term “salty dog” in an earlier post, as well as Mississippi John Hurt’s more explicit take on “Candy Man.”) Van Ronk was misled by the references to gingerbread, peppermint sticks, and Santa Claus, and when Davis declined to sing the lyric because it was sacrilegious, he protested, “but that’s children’s song”… to which Davis responded, “Yeah, you get a lot of children with songs like that.” Until this moment, it never occurred to me that there is an obvious parallel to the similar confusion surrounding “Big Rock Candy Mountain,” which I addressed in a post on that song’s nasty history a couple of months ago.

This was the first piece Dave Van Ronk taught me, and felt like deja vu, since it’s very similar to “Ninety-Nine Year Blues,” the first fingerpicking piece my earlier guitar teacher taught me. I suppose I expected something more ambitious, since I’d just played Willie McTell’s “Georgia Rag” to demonstrate my prowess (as described in my previous post). But Dave started all his students on “Spike Driver,” and I was there for my first lesson, so that’s what he gave me. He’d recorded it in 1961, on his second LP, but he didn’t suggest I should go back and listen to that — he was teaching it as a John Hurt piece, which he considered the obvious foundation for any study of American fingerstyle guitar.

That was partly because he loved and admired John Hurt, both as a musician and as a friend, and partly because Dave always thought in historical terms and considered Hurt’s playing exemplary of the vernacular African American guitar styles that predated blues and ragtime, and thus a necessary foundation for everything else. The next piece he taught me was Elizabeth Cotten’s “Wilson Rag,”  which is similarly foundational (if you don’t know it, here’s a link to her version), and to briefly digress, nothing would have irritated Dave more than hearing T Bone Burnett refer to his guitar style as “Travis picking,” which is what white country musicians started calling this kind of playing in the 1960s as a substitute for the term “n—er picking” — thus cleaning up their language while giving a white guitarist credit for what had been universally considered a black style.*

As for “Spike Driver Blues,” it was one of the two John Hurt pieces available to the general run of New York folkies in the 1950s (along with “Frankie”), because they were included on Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music. The lyric is Hurt’s stripped-down personalization of the John Henry legend, adapting a railroad work song to guitar and keeping its strong note of protest and pride:

Take this hammer and carry it to the captain
Tell him I’m gone…
This old hammer killed John Henry,
But it won’t kill me.

I’d heard the song on Hurt’s records, but never paid much attention to it because it was so simple, nor had I noticed Dave’s version, and even after Dave made me learn it I didn’t appreciate it — but years later, when I got more serious about studying Hurt’s music, I was struck by the power underlying its simplicity.

Dave sang some verses Hurt didn’t sing, borrowed from a variant of the same song recorded by the white banjo player Bascom Lamar Lunsford as “Swannanoa Tunnel.” Dave’s formative friends on the folk scene included folklorists like Roger Abrahams and Ken Goldstein, and he described this kind of lyric using academic folklore terminology, as a “jury text” — a sort of ur-version of a song, assembled by mixing and matching verses and phrases from various versions collected in the field. This is no longer considered respectable in folklore studies, where one is supposed to present the field versions as they were recorded from particular informants, but it remains a good method for singers who want to come up with their own version of a traditional song.

*I single out Burnett because he described Dave as doing “Travis picking” in numerous interviews connected to the movie Inside Llewyn Davis. I liked the movie, and liked the way Oscar Isaac played Dave’s songs, but Burnett’s terminology irritated me because Dave learned from people like John Hurt, Reverend Gary Davis, and Furry Lewis, just as Travis did, and as far as I know he was not influenced in the slightest by Travis, or that whole world of virtuosic white country pickers. Indeed, for political as well as musical reasons, he generally disliked that world, and the notion that Gary Davis was doing “Travis picking” would have rendered him apoplectic.

In 1976 I graduated high school and headed off to New York University — it was the only college I applied to, because it was the only college in Greenwich Village and I was only going to college to take guitar lessons from Dave Van Ronk, who lived in an apartment on Sheridan Square.

I showed up for my first lesson and Dave asked me to play something that would give him a sense of what I knew, and I played this song. I had learned it from my favorite blues guitar book, Woody Mann’s Six Black Blues Guitarists (later republished as Six Early Blues Guitarists), which was beautifully curated, with particularly accurate and clearly written transcriptions. That was where I learned Blind Blake’s “Early Morning Blues,” Scrapper Blackwell’s “Kokomo Blues,” Big Bill Broonzy’s “Long Tall Mama,” and Tampa Red’s “Boogie Woogie Dance,” but at age seventeen “Georgia Rag” was far and away my favorite.

So I played it for Dave, and he chuckled and said, “That was very nice — you played the wrong chord in the bridge, just like McTell did.” We hadn’t even started the lesson, and already he’d provided a revelation: that something Willie McTell played might be “wrong,” and by extension that it was OK to critique the old masters rather than simply accepting them as gospel. I didn’t have the nerve to ask what he meant, but a few months later when my chord sense had improved I figured it out: McTell (at least as transcribed by Woody Mann, whom I tend to trust) starts the bridge with an E chord, then goes to F, adds the sixth, moves that up a fret to play an F#6, then goes to C — and the F#6 is actually a half-assed substitute for a B.

Of course, there are all kinds of right and wrong, and I was used to McTell’s version and liked it and I’ve stuck with it. But that was a good introduction to the way Dave thought about old blues recordings, which was that they were often good, sometimes great, and occasionally works of genius, but that didn’t mean they were above criticism. Nor was anything else — he would listen to Lester Young or Louis Armstrong, and make a funny expression when they hit a “clam” (wrong note), and I won’t swear he was always right, but it was always worth considering. He was the same way with visual art or literature: “The trouble with Shakespeare is he wrote so beautifully that when he ran out of things to say, he kept writing.” Again, the lesson was not so much the specifics, but the idea that you could find fault with Shakespeare — and, more than that, that if you were serious about music, or art, or literature, it was your duty to examine it carefully and seriously, and figure out what worked and what didn’t, and why.

Getting back to “Georgia Rag” — I already had one Willie McTell LP before I left home, and this song was on it, but as far as I can tell I made no attempt to learn how he actually played and sang the song. Part of the reason was probably that he was playing a 12-string guitar tuned down to Ab, so there was no way I could get my guitar in the same pitch, but in any case I basically ignored his version and just learned what Mann had written, then came up with a way to sing the lyric over what I was playing, and called that Willie McTell’s “Georgia Rag.” Which is to say, the wrong chord Van Ronk noticed may be the only accurate thing in my version… but what the hell, I’ve been playing it this way for forty years.

And while we’re on the subject of revealing mistakes… McTell’s recording was a quicky attempt to capitalize on the success of Blind Blake’s “Wabash Rag,” and apparently Blake’s song was still in his head when he made the record, so at one point he slips up and sings “doing that rag, that Wa-Georgia rag.”

I came to Guy Clark relatively late, after I was already familiar with Townes Van Zandt and Joe Ely, and through Joe had discovered Butch Hancock and Jimmy Dale Gilmore. I’d probably heard a few of Guy’s recordings, maybe “Homegrown Tomatoes” on the radio, but I was more of a folk and blues (and rock, and jazz) fan than a country fan, and his major label records sounded like mainstream country to my uneducated ears. So the first time I recall focusing on him was a solo performance of this song on a two-LP set of Texas songwriters playing at the Kerrville Folk Festivals of the early 1970s, which came out on the Adelphi label in 1983.

I was blown away by the lyric’s blend of dry humor, sincerity, and tenderness, and the way the words fit so neatly into the curves of the melody, and I learned it immediately, and played it in some fairly rough bars, and it tended to quiet them down, which is the highest praise possible. And, of course, my girlfriend liked it, which, of course, was the point.

More important in the long term, it introduced me to Guy as a songwriter and singer, and I went out and bought Old No. 1… and what more need be said? Over the years I’ve learned at least half the songs on that record, and if they didn’t all stay in my repertoire that was mostly because I liked Guy’s versions so much that I preferred to listen to him than to sing them myself. But I ought to get around to “Rita Ballou” before this project is over, and “Desperadoes Waiting for a Train,” and “Watermelon Dream,” which I almost recorded on my Streetcorner Cowboy CD.

I wrote most of these early posts following my own musical evolution, and this one would have come somewhat later in that story, but as I was in the midst of this project he died and I wanted to do something about that. And since I couldn’t do anything more useful, I posted this song as an expression of my appreciation and respect, and as a suggestion that people to go back and listen to him. He was a good one.

As a teenager I rarely found anyone my own age who had the slightest interest in the music I liked, but towards the end of high school I discovered that one of my classmates, Perian Flaherty, sang folk songs, and we went out a couple of times and sang on the street together — at least, I remember singing with her once on Palmer Street in Harvard Square, outside Passim Coffeehouse. Perian’s repertoire was mostly from Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell, and at that point I didn’t know any Joni Mitchell, so Baez was where we overlapped.

I had never really been a Baez fan. There was something about her voice that didn’t work for me — except when I saw her live, which was always magical and made me a believer — but my parents had Joan Baez in Concert, pt. 2, and my sister was a fan and got her songbook, and one way and another I picked up quite a few things from her repertoire. This is the one I remember singing with Perian — she sang the verses, and I echoed her lines on the chorus: “And only say (and only say) that you’ll be mine (that you’ll be mine)…

I later heard it by the Monroe Brothers and the Stanley Brothers, whose music is more to my taste, and I would have said I now did the Stanleys’ version — but listening back I find I still pretty much sing Baez’s verses. I don’t recall singing this with anyone but Perian and that was almost forty years ago, but I still hear her voice and miss chiming in with her on the choruses.