Reverend Gary Davis has always been at the top of my list of guitar heroes and influences, along with Mississippi John Hurt, Dave Van Ronk, Joseph Spence, and Jean-Bosco Mwenda. I’ve gone through a couple of periods of immersion in his playing, but don’t tend to perform my favorite arrangements, because he was a gospel singer and I’m an atheist, so most of his lyrics don’t work for me.

Up to now, I’ve gotten around that in various ways: posting a couple of his instrumentals, “Cincinnati Flow Rag” and “The Boy Was Kissing the Girl and Playing Guitar at the Same Time“; and a couple of his secular songs, “Candyman” and “Cocaine Blues” (though the latter really owes more to Dave Van Ronk);  and his terrific version of “Samson and Delilah,” which is a story rather than a testimony; and sneaking in a couple of his more explicitly religious songs as a gospel instrumental medley — but this one is a straightforward religious admonition…

…which, nonetheless, I love to play and sing, mostly because it’s showy and a lot of fun. My father never understood my musical tastes and choices — he was generally supportive of my ambition to be a professional singer and player, but his typical response to my shows was to suggest I should try to be more like Pete Seeger — but when he heard me play this at a gig, he came up afterwards and asked how I made the guitar talk. Honestly, that’s not the hard part of the arrangement, but it’s definitely one of the fun parts, and it felt good that he was impressed.

So there’s that, and then a couple of years ago I was thinking about Davis’s chording, which, as noted in a previous post, is a master class in economy of motion, and realized how he was playing the D to G shift that forms the basic background to the first line. (If you don’t play guitar, skip ahead; if you do, check this out.) His basic D shape, which he moved all over the neck, was a barre on the first three strings at the 2nd fret,with his thumb holding down the sixth string, his middle finger on the second string, 3rd fret, and his ring finger getting the fourth string, 4th fret… and he goes from that to the G by just sliding the whole thing up one fret and shifting his middle finger to the third string.

That’s such a beautiful move that it brought the song back into my repertoire — not for performances, but for my own pleasure. And since this project is about the music that lives in my head, here it is. Hope you have half as much fun watching it as I have playing it… and check out Davis’s original, which is a whole ‘nother thing. He was the best.

I’ve heard so many people do beautiful versions of “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” that I never felt a need to perform it myself. I’ve known it forever, and sometimes sang it for my own pleasure, but there is no way I was going to even approach the haunted power of Hank Williams’s original — kind of the same problem I have with some Townes Van Zandt songs.

I’ve heard great versions that didn’t have that degree of pain — in particular, I heard Little Richard sing it three times within two weeks, and every time was different and memorable: once, he played it by himself at the piano; once, he called over his guitarist to sit with him on the piano stool, and just sang it with the guitar; once he had the whole band shaping a soulful background. The band never knew how he would do it on a given night, and it was always fresh and brilliant.

Anyway, since this project is about the songs in my head, I’ve been thinking about posting a version of this one for years, but never came up with an arrangement that felt like it was anything but a pale imitation of Hank or other people. Then, this summer, I set myself the project of keeping my guitar in open G for two months and working on slide. It’s mostly been blues, but I was inspired by a piece I was writing about my friend Steve James, and he had some nice licks in which slide lines flowed into fingered notes, and I was fooling around with some of those and at some point found myself playing the first part of this arrangement.

That was the beginning, and then I began hearing little programmatic things I could do behind or around the lyrics. A lot of white rural music (and more Black rural music than is often acknowledged) was influenced by 19th century concert and “parlor” guitar playing, and if you go through the old guitar books, there are a lot of pieces that use programmatic effects: harmonics for church bells, bass rolls to imitate galloping horses, sliding notes with a notation saying “like a distant bugle…”

These days that sort of thing is considered corny, but as Ray Charles said about his ABC concept albums, “Corny? Hell, yes, but I’m a corny cat.” So I use the slide to play the whining train, the falling leaves, the falling star…

…and in some ways the result is more amusing than soulful, but it freed me up to sing the lyric more comfortably than I ever sang it when I was trying to summon existential pain — maybe because the pain was never genuine, but the amusement is. As Bob Dylan said, the problem with a lot of young blues singers is they’re trying to get into the blues, but the old guys were singing to get out of the blues.

I still know a lot of Hank Williams songs I’m not posting, but after figuring out how to do this, and a version of “You Win Again” that mixes influences from Lightnin’ Hopkins and Jerry Lee Lewis, I’m hoping the others will eventually come around.

I worked this one up when I wrote Riding with Strangers, because it was an obvious choice for someone who had written a book about Robert Johnson and now was doing a tour centered on hitchhiking. I didn’t do a lot of playing on that tour, but for five dates in Idaho I was traveling with Rosalie Sorrels, who with incredible generosity added her name and voice to my presentations, trading songs and doing the driving.

There’s a funny story about that: since I’d written a book about how much I enjoyed that form of travel, I figured I had to live the part, so I hitched from the first date, in Portland, Oregon, to the last one in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Rosalie lived way up in the mountains above Boise, down a dirt road, and I’d been wondering how I’d get past Boise and up to her place… which wasn’t made easier when a driver dropped me off on the highway west of town… and then a taxi pulled over.

The driver was a young woman, and it turned out that she was off work and just driving around because it was a beautiful day, and damned if she didn’t take me all the way up into the mountains and down the dirt road to Rosalie’s cabin. So I showed up in a taxi, and Rosalie came out, ready to tease me for chickening out and paying for the ride… and, long story short, the driver came in for a drink, we had a lovely evening, and Rosalie told that story at every stop on the tour.

I hadn’t performed “Cross Road Blues” before that, because so many other people played it, but worked up a version for that tour and tailored it to fit my own experience. I didn’t change much, in terms of the lyrics, but obviously my attitude and experiences as a white guy hitchhiking in the  twenty-first centuries were different from what inspired Robert Johnson to compose the song as a Black man in the Depression-era Mississippi Delta.

Before I get to that, though: Johnson’s song is about being stuck at a crossroads in rural Mississippi, trying to “flag a ride,” not about selling his soul to the Devil. Samuel Charters had another theory: that it was about a crisis of faith, with Johnson at life’s crossroads, calling on the Lord to save him — and it’s true that he starts with the verse about falling on his knees and praying, which supports Sam’s interpretation. But there is also a verse where he calls on his friend Willie Brown (a terrific guitarist, who I’ve covered in my post about “Future Blues“) and the one about wishing his girlfriend knew he was out there.

So I can see Sam’s interpretation, but I still hear it as a song about hitchhiking, and I sing the verse about falling on my knees after the one about flagging ride, remembering a couple of times when, despite being a lifelong atheist, I waited so long on a hot day, with no water and night falling, that I did get on my knees and pray. Those moments were brief and I was laughing at myself, even while I hoped the gesture might change my luck and certainly couldn’t hurt it.

Johnson’s situation was a lot less funny. That verse about the sun going down — if I got stuck on the road at night, the worst that could happen was I’d be cold and miserable for a few hours, but Mississippi was full of “sundown towns,” where Black people could be jailed if they were found after dark… if someone wasn’t mean or drunk enough to kill them.

So I sing a lot of the same words, but they have a very different feel. I’m also playing a different guitar part, because this is a project about memory, and even the parts I thought I remembered from his playing seem to have evolved into other licks.

So it’s still his song, but when I sing it I’m picturing my own experiences — which makes a lot more sense than trying to pretend, even for a minute, that I’m Robert Johnson.

(Though I generally try to reshape them to fit my own style and abilities, I’ve reworked a few other Johnson songs and written about them in previous posts: “Traveling Riverside Blues (Rolling and Tumbling),” “From Four Until Late,” and “Walking Blues.”)

To me, Son House will always be the defining Delta blues musician, and in some ways the defining blues musician, period. That is partly a statement about his talents and partly about when I heard him and how he affected me, personally.

Like most people who were around in the 1960s and not fortunate enough to hear him live, I was introduced to House by the album he recorded for Columbia Records in 1965. The odd thing about that record, for me, is that although House was an excellent lyricist and the songs were largely his own, the tracks that captured my imagination were an old gospel song, “Don’t You Mind People Grinning In Your Face,” which he sang a cappella, and this regional standard, which John Hurt and Furry Lewis recorded as “Pera Lee.”

This seemed to me to perfectly capture what made House’s slide playing unique — his uncanny control of pitch, dynamics, and nuance. When I was in Lahore, Pakistan, and my host, who had a home recording studio and a superlative collection of recorded ragas by masters of the North Indian classical style, commented that he didn’t understand why Western musicians had so little interest in tone, I played him House’s recording of “Pearline” (this was long before the internet, but I had a cassette with a bunch of my favorite blues recordings), and he was amazed.

There was much more to House than that. I didn’t understand until I saw him on videos — and I’m sure some people who saw him live will say the videos still don’t have it — but he is the only blues artist I have ever seen who truly seems possessed by the music, the way people are possessed by the spirit in African and African diaspora religious traditions. I don’t know how else to say that or to describe the transformation that seems to take place, and the spiritual depth of his greatest performances — and it is surely relevant that he was a preacher before he began playing guitar, and left the church for the music.

When historians trace the lineage of Delta blues, they tend to make Charlie Patton the trunk and source of the style, with a good deal of justification. Patton had a unique rhythmic power and complexity, and a couple of core tunes that were adopted by all the players who came in contact with him. (I’ve posted my take on Tommy Johnson’s “Bye and Bye,” a version of Patton’s “Pony Blues,” and House and Willie Brown’s “Future Blues” or “Jinx Blues,” another Patton standard.) But for a lot of us the defining Delta sound is the slide style adopted by Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters, and Patton didn’t play like that: that was Son House. I gather he said he picked up the rudiments from another guitarist, Rube Lacey, but none of Lacy’s recordings suggest he had anything like the subtlety, inventiveness, and power of House’s best work.

To me, no one did. Robert Johnson made some superb recordings in House’s style — I’ve posted about his “Walking Blues,” which is taken directly from House, who used the same guitar part for several songs, and also sang many of the same verses. In Escaping the Delta, I put forward the theory that this was Johnson’s original, root style; that he first went into the studio  planning to record some potential hits in the more recent, urban styles of Leroy Carr, Peetie Wheatstraw, and Casey Bill Weldon, but ran out of his prepared tunes, so on the last day recorded a bunch of songs from House — and that those recordings are his most fervent, ferocious performances, because House was a far more passionate model than the current hitmakers. House was also a stronger singer than Johnson; he was one of the greatest singers ever in the blues tradition, with a wildness in his voice that left its mark on Johnson and Muddy Waters, but which neither — to my ears — ever matched. (They had other strengths; I’m not saying House was better; but when they sound most like him, they fall short of what he could do.)

Anyway… I especially loved House’s recording of “Pearline,” but it never would have occurred to me to perform a version of it, because, again, what I love about it is his uncanny control of pitch, dynamics, nuance, which I have never heard equaled and can’t come close to myself (especially when it comes to pitch) — and his voice, and his depth and power. But this Songobiography project is about what has affected me, what I’ve learned, and what I’ve loved. I mostly try to rework pieces in my own way, to personalize them and come up with arrangements that show my strengths… but in this case, I’m just remembering and paying tribute.

I generally stay away from open tunings, partly because I have enough trouble keeping a guitar in tune in one tuning… but a lot of my favorite guitarists liked them, and they have a deep history in southern Black culture. In previous posts I wrote and talked about the way some early Black guitarists took banjo tunings and techniques and put them on guitar, demonstrating with Furry Lewis’s “Casey Jones” and Lead Belly’s “Poor Howard.” This is another example, from John Hurt, fitted with his lovely variant of the “Frankie and Albert” ballad.

I’ve already posted a more typical version of “Frankie and Johnny” — the white folk/pop variant of that ballad, and also written about the underlying story and its reinvention in my book, “Jelly Roll Blues.” Unlike other Black southern ballads from the same period (“Stackolee,” “Duncan and Brady,” “Delia,” “Louis Collins”) the Frankie and Albert ballads have virtually no overlap with the historical killing: Frankie Baker didn’t go out looking for Allen Britt, the man she shot, nor did she shoot him over another woman. He came home late one night, found her in a bed in the front room rather than the back room they normally shared, got angry and tried to cut her with a knife, and she shot him in self-defense.

Before I learned that story, I understood Hurt’s penultimate verse to end with a malapropism: I thought that when he sang “The judge said, ‘Miss Frankie, you’re gonna be justified’,” he meant she was going to be judged guilty, which is the usual ending in the Frankie ballads. Hurt may indeed have meant it that way, but in fact the judge did rule that she was justified. As she later recalled:

“I simply had protected myself.… You know, I was afraid of Albert. He beat me unmercifully a few nights before the big-blow-off. My eye was festered and sore from that lacin’ when I went before Judge Clark. He noticed it, too.…The judge even gave me back my gun. Don’t know what I did with it. Guess I pawned it or gave it away. Everybody carried a gun in those days.”

Hurt’s original recording of this piece, in 1928, is one of the technical oddities of that era: the song was too long to fit on one side of a 78 rpm disc, and rather than editing it to be shorter, the engineers slowed down the machine to get his full version — so the recording played back significantly faster than he performed it, and pitched two full tones higher.

As it happens, the higher key also felt more comfortable for my voice, so I’ve tended to play this song capoed on the fourth fret — but I’ve recently been traveling with a little guitar from the 1940s that is set up for slide and sounds much better open than capoed. That felt a little uncomfortable at first, in terms of the singing, but it struck me that Hurt didn’t have a significantly deeper voice than I have; he was just much more relaxed. So I’ve be trying to relax my voice and sing it where he sang it, and likewise to play his basic arrangement throughout, rather than trying to come up with interesting variations for the instrumental breaks — not to be more “authentic” or to imitate him more exactly, but because it sounds better this way.

I’m not going to say one can never improve on John Hurt, or come up with interesting variants of his arrangements. I’ve posted a lot of his songs here,* and on most of them I’ve added my own variations. But this one feels right to me the way it is, and the more I play it, the more convinced I am that this is the way I want to keep doing it.

*Previous John Hurt posts include: “Monday Morning Blues,” “Satisfied and Tickled Too,” “Coffee Blues,” “Candyman,” “Stagolee,” “Louis Collins,” “Ain’t No Telling (Pallet on the Floor),” “Got the Blues, Can’t Be Satisfied,” “Richlands Women,” “See See Rider,” “Spike Driver’s Blues,” “My Creole Belle,” and “Let the Mermaids Flirt with Me.”

“Black Dog Blues” is another song I learned off the reissue anthologies I picked up at Dayton’s Records during my year in New York in the mid-1970s. I first heard it on Yazoo’s East Coast Blues 1926-1935, played by Bayless Rose, then on Yazoo’s Mr. Charlie’sBlues, played by DickJustice. I didn’t learn their guitar parts — though Rose’s, in particular, is terrific — but it quickly became one of my standard ragtime-blues pieces, interchangeable with “Don’t Let Your Deal Go Down,” which has a lot of the same verses (at least in my versions).

The original versions were titled “Black Dog Blues,” with a chorus lamenting that the singer’s lady called him an “Old Black Dog,” but Rose’s version alternated that chorus with one that began “Call me a dog when I’m gone,” and I stuck with that.

My choice to drop the racial identification brings to mind the racial confusion around Rose’s version, which was issued in Gennett Records’ “Race” line, meaning he was marketed as a Black performer, although there is some doubt whether he was Black — or, more accurately, whether he was socially categorized as Black. (Forgive me for repeating that “Black” and “white” as US racial categories are social, not genetic:  Someone who came to the US as a Portuguese, Greek, or Italian is considered “white,” even if their skin color and curly hair is a reminder of the centuries of connection between those areas and Africa; someone whose ancestry includes even one person who was brought to the US as an African slave is considered “Black,”  no matter how large a proportion of their ancestry is European.)

When the LPs were released, the Yazoo blues experts had not been able to find anything about Rose, but they noted that although marketed as Black he sounded white. More recently (in 78 Quarterly #12, 2005), Chris King published an interview with Dick Justice’s daughter Mildred, in which she recalled her father learning “Black Dog Blues” from a railroad worker named Bailey Rose, who was “quite a bit older… had a drawl but not a bad one… [and] was always chewing tobacco.”

King asked if Rose was Black, and she  said he was not, adding, “He was kind of foreign-looking though… You know, he was sort of short with dark, curly hair but with darker skin, sort of like an Arab, but he was no n—-r.” King also checked the original recording ledger, and found that next to Rose’s (unissued and lost) version of “Beale Street Blues,” someone had written, “Person not colored.”

King suggested Rose might have been Melungeon, an ethnic group native to the Appalachian region and first mentioned in print (at least, using that spelling) in 1889, when an ophthalmologist named Swan Burnett (husband of Frances Hodgson Burnett, the author of The Secret Garden) read a paper at the Anthropological Association of Washington  in which he suggested their ancestry was a mix of European, African, and Native American, as indicated by the name, which he suggested was a corruption of the French mélange — though he added that they resented that name and considered themselves Portuguese.

However… King noted that all of this was speculation, and after I posted this post, a couple of very knowledgeable people chimed in to say that pretty much everything in his article was wrong.

Gloria Goodwin Raheja, who has been researching Justice and the other Logan County guitarists for almost twenty years, writes that Justice learned the song directly from Rose and she has learned a lot more about Rose and that relationship, but is saving the full story for the book she is writing. Bayless Rose was not a common name, and there was a Black mine worker and laborer with that name in Lexington, Kentucky, who turns up in multiple official documents and a few newspaper stories. He was definitely considered Black, and Tony Russell has written to say King misunderstood the “person not colored” notation, and the Lexington Rose is probably him — which Raheja confirms. She writes:

“There were several men in the region named Bayless Rose, and sorting out the complete story of the musician and singer was one of the thorniest genealogical/historical tasks I had to do in the course of the research for my book. I can confirm that he died in Lexington and moved quite a few times–apparently in pursuit of work–during the course of his life.”

Which is all I know at this point, and I’m very much looking forward to Raheja’s book. Meanwhile…

None of this has much to do with the song, which has been one of my favorite picking pieces, on- and off-stage,  for almost fifty years.

I have Bill Morrissey to thank for turning me into a Merle Haggard nut, and making me realize how close country  music — especially the strain popularized as “honky tonk” — is to blues. Of course, to a large extent it came out of blues; Jimmie Rodgers was primarily a blues singer, with an obvious debt to Lemon Jefferson; Hank Williams was primarily a blues singer, at least to my ears; and Merle Haggard was clearly a blues singer, to the point that he wrote a song called “White Man Singin’ The Blues.” I’d add Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn, and Waylon Jennings, and… you get the idea.

And, reciprocally, a lot of Black singers were deeply influenced by white country music — not just all the ones who covered country hits, from Dinah Washington to Ray Charles, Solomon Burke, and Etta James, but blues singers like Howlin’ Wolf and B.B. King, who both named Jimmie Rodgers as one of their main influences, and Muddy Waters, whose 1941 repertoire list included a half-dozen Gene Autry hits.

I’ve sometimes tried to emphasize that overlap, for instance on my version of Hank Williams’s “You Win Again,” which I flavor with some Lightning Hopkins licks. But in a lot of cases, I have the original voice in my head and just want to do the best I can with a song that for one reason or another caught my ear and said, “Give me a try.”

Which brings me to “Cigarettes and Coffee Blues,” which isn’t a blues in the classic sense, but qualifiesin honky-tonk terms. I got it off an album of Lefty Frizzell hits, which I’d bought because Merle listed him as a major influence. I liked the way he sang, but honestly never listened to him as much as I thought I should…  and when I just went back and checked out his version of this one, it’s very different from what I remembered. I also hadn’t noticed (or hadn’t remembered) that it was composed by Marty Robbins. (I just checked out his version; I don’t think it holds a candle to Lefty’s.)

This feels to me like a nice example of Nashville formula songwriting: I figure someone (presumably Robbins) thought, “There are all those songs about ‘My baby left me, so I’m getting drunk,’ but not everybody gets drunk, so let’s try a twist on that, and have the guy sit up drinking coffee. Of course, that twist had already been tried, very successfully with “Black Coffee,” a terrific 1949 hit for Sarah Vaughan — though, as it happens, my favorite version is by Percy Mayfield — which also mentions smoking cigarettes, both directly and obliquely: “I’m moonin’ all the mornin’, moanin’ all the night,/ And in between it’s nicotine, and not much heart to fight.”

So maybe Robbins was just reworking a pop hit. In any case, it’s a nice song.

This is probably my favorite Jimmie Rodgers song, which is saying a lot. I don’t remember when I first heard one of Rodgers’s records, but whenever it was, I already knew at least a couple of his songs. I’d learned “Mule Skinner Blues” from Cisco Houston and “T. B. Blues” from Pete Seeger, and I’d tried to manage the yodel on the latter, but I couldn’t get it — maybe in part because at that point I was eleven or twelve years old and my voice hadn’t changed, but I didn’t get appreciably better with adolescence.Not that I ever stopped trying — I worked on Bob Dylan’s version of “Freight Train Blues” and Jack Elliot’s “Sadie Brown,” and later on I managed to get some kind of handle on Hank Williams’s version of “Lovesick Blues.”

By that time I would have been more familiar with Rodgers’s originals. I loved the way he sang, yodeling or not, and his guitar work, as well as some of the more pop arrangements like “Any Old Time,” which I originally heard and learned from Maria Muldaur’s version. I’d also heard Merle Haggard’s tribute album, with its gorgeous version of “Miss the Mississippi and You.” What I hadn’t heard, and still haven’t, is the recording of Mississippi John Hurt and Skip James doing a duet of “Waiting for a Train” — it exists, but has never been released — but I was aware of how many great Black blues artists recognized Rodgers as one of the defining masters of that genre. Tampa Red, Tommy Johnson, and the Mississippi Sheiks all recorded yodeling blues in his style; B.B. King often named him as a favorite; and Howling Wolf said he always wanted to yodel like Rodgers, but the closest he could get was his namesake falsetto howl.

That’s probably the only thing Wolf and I have in common, and without the yodel I didn’t see the point of doing Rodgers’s songs… and then I was hitchhiking across the US in 2005, the trip I wrote about in Riding with Strangers. (There’s more about that in some previous posts, like “Key to the Highway” and, yeah, “I’ve Been Everywhere.”) That time, I mostly stuck to the interstates, but from St. Louis to Iowa City I followed the old roads. The most memorable part of that leg was a night in Hannibal, Missouri, sleeping rough in the yard of the Mark Twain house: the cops rousted me around midnight, and I explained that I’d asked myself, “What would Huck Finn do?” — which got a laugh, but they moved me on and I slept the rest of the night under some pine trees outside town. I got back on the road early the next morning, and after an hour or so watching the local going-to-work traffic, got a lift from a guy who was inspecting grain elevators and took me a couple of dozen miles to his rural turn-off.

Here’s how I wrote about it in the book:

It was the first time this trip that I was somewhere I could walk. For a hitchhiker, that’s a pretty fair definition of “country”: a stretch of road where you might as well be walking as standing in a good spot. This was not a particularly scenic bit of country. It was flat and dust-yellow, and there was some kind of electrical plant or generator over to the right…. I’ve always liked the periods of walking, as long as the weather cooperates. It makes a change from riding, a chance to stretch your legs, and there’s also the macho pleasure of covering ground under your own steam. That’s one pleasure that grows with age, the enjoyment of pushing your body, going hungry, sleeping on bare ground, then shouldering a pack and walking ten or fifteen miles if you have to.

Also, it was an opportunity to yodel. Set me out in the middle of the prairie and I can sing like Jimmie Rodgers, especially if there’s no one for miles around. It had been over a year, and the flat farmland roofed by a cloudless blue sky formed a perfect concert hall:

I may be rough, I may be wild,
I may be tough and accounted vile,
But I can’t give up my good old rough and rowdy ways
Yodel-ay-ee-hoo, de-lay-ee-hoo, de-lay-eeee . . .

I was kind of disappointed when a car pulled over.

I swear, under the open sky, when no one is around, I really can yodel like Jimmie Rodgers. Indoors, with people listening, it’s not the same, but I still like to give this one a try.

I always liked the Drifters, as who didn’t? Like most vocal group fans, I particularly liked the original line-up featuring Clyde McPhatter, a defining lead vocalist of the early Rhythm and Blues era, and I’ve paid tribute already with a version of their early hit, “Money Honey” — not that I do it justice. But I must admit that I actually know more songs by the second iteration: by the late 1950s McPhatter had gone solo, the group’s fortunes had declined, and their manager fired the remaining singers and replaced them with another group, which until then had been known as the Five Crowns.

The second Drifters originally featured Ben E. King, who sang lead on their defining hits, “There Goes My Baby” — the first major R&B hit to use a string section and the Brazilian baion rhythm that their producers, Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller made a trademark — and “Save the Last Dance for Me” (which I should probably do in a future post). King then went solo, and their next big hits featured Rudy Lewis, who was in turn replaced by Johnny Moore, who had previously replaced McPhatter as lead in the first group, and that brings us to “Under the Boardwalk,” their last top ten hit…

…which is probably more than most people care to know, but I’m currently writing a short history of rock ‘n’ roll, so am deep in these weeds.

I have no memory of learning this song — or rather, I have a vague memory of learning it while I was living in Seville, Spain, in a small apartment with ten other foreigners, most of us street musicians, but can’t think of how or why I would have learned it there. In any case, I’ve known it for well over forty years, but only began fooling around with a guitar part when I considered putting it up here, at which point I realized it was yet another opportunity to play around with the semi-African approach I worked out for “Iko Iko” and “Jamaica Farewell” (as well as “Margaritaville,” which I suppose I’ll have to put up here at some point). Meanwhile, summer is right around the corner, and I’m playing this a lot.