Crossroad Blues, Part 2
Dec. 13th, 2015 12:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rayasoWeek 2
Topic: Spoons
It was early in the morning on a gray day in a greasy hash house, and Ray Jackson ate his usual scrambled eggs and oatmeal, carefully placed the silverware on his plate, paid the bill, then headed for the exit, never to return. It was just another diner in another town on his way to somewhere else, but this time it was different.
Ray’s time was up, and he was headed back to the crossroads. I’m not losin’ much, he thought, no wife, no kids, no house, not even a goddamn dog, just an old pickup and these spoons. Ray patted the pocket on his tattered jean jacket, just to make sure they were there. “Can’t lose ‘em now, have to turn ‘em in,” he muttered. No one heard him; the dirt parking lot was empty, as always.
Once those spoons had mattered, but that was years ago, before Ray’s fingers had become stiff and gnarled, back when he was Spoons Jackson, and he had flashed the fastest spoons ever seen, pounding out music no one had ever heard, and would never hear again. “Spoons” had been the greatest spoon player ever, but his time was long past.
After he shoved the remnants of last night’s dinner off his seat, a dinner which had not been, as advertised, “The Best Burger Ever,” Ray climbed into the cab of his truck, which was messy with the detritus of a life lived on the road. Ray headed south to Clarksdale, Mississippi, to the intersection of Highways 49 and 61 and his appointment with the Devil. “Got to be there at midnight. That’s how the deal works.”
It was a lonely drive, but Ray was used to it. The crowds had faded away long ago. Now he faced miles of open road, past towns with names like DeWitt, Dry River, and his favorite, Lonesome. Ray had been born in the Delta, and he was far from home, but at last he was finally headed back.
As a young man he had heard the music in front of grocery stores, in honky-tonks, and at backyard barbecues – it had been everywhere. People blowing on jugs, playing washboards, strumming old guitars and sawing on broken-down fiddles, people singing soft and low, singing about hard times, singing the blues, and if he had been real lucky, there’d be someone playing the spoons.
Spoon players had been the stars, no doubt about it. The first time Ray had heard one, he had known what he wanted to do, so one day he had grabbed a pair of spoons from somebody’s kitchen and pitched in. Ray hadn’t exactly been a natural at first, but he eventually had become good enough to have his own band, Spoons Jackson and the Blue Devils. He had managed to scrape a living out of it, traveling from bar to bar, moving up to some real stages with microphones.
Times had been easy. The liquor had been cheap, the women had all wanted the spoon player, and Ray had had too much of both. But Ray had wanted more. God, I was young and stupid back then, thought Ray as the miles rolled by.
There had been better spoon players, like Rapid Fire Franklin, Bones Johnson, and the best of all, Fingers McGee, who could play the spoons with both hands at the same time.
But Ray had spooned out, “I just couldn’t get no better,” not without a little help. The crowds had started thinning out, and the Blue Devils had begun to drift away, for wives, real jobs, and better lives than travelling the spoon band circuit.
I turned to the only help I knew, he thought as he drew closer to Clarksdale and his meeting with the Devil, but now I got to pay what’s owed.
Back then, everyone had known about the crossroads, but no one had been stupid enough to go there. “Except me,” sighed Ray. “Sure wish I had listened.”
Ray couldn’t remember the details, not after all this time and all his drinking, but he knew that after one session with the Blue Devils at a honky-tonk near Clarksdale, Butch Tucker, the jug player, and Dale Ray, the fiddler, had told him they were quitting the band and leaving for home. “It’s time to give it up,” Butch had told him, “and it’s time for you, too, if you’re smart enough.” “It sure as hell ain’t my time,” Ray had yelled, and he had gone back inside to get ten shades of drunk.
I was young, desperate, and drunk – ripe pickin’s for the Devil himself, remembered Ray, as the clock ticked closer to midnight.
After Ray got drunk enough, he had remembered the legend of the crossroads, how Robert Johnson, an awful guitarist, had taken his guitar to the crossroads of Highways 49 and 61, and the Devil had retuned his guitar in exchange for his soul. Robert Johnson had gone on to become a blues legend. The sonnabitch died at 27 – I made it lots longer, thought Ray, too long. His hands had betrayed him long ago, as his skill had slowly drained away.
At the crossroads, down on his knees in the dirt, cars passing by and people yelling at him, Ray had prayed for the Devil to appear, offering his soul in exchange for becoming the best spoon player ever.
All Ray could remember was waking up in the dirt with a monstrous hangover. Right there beside the highways, Ray had pulled his spoons out of his pocket and he had started playing, playing as he had never played before, playing as no man had played before, tears running down his cheeks.
Ray couldn’t remember seeing the Devil, but he knew what had happened. He also knew he had to return when he could no longer play, and now he was long past due.
What a time Ray had had after the crossroads. He had convinced Butch and Dale to come back, and the Blue Devils had started making it big. The crowds had become too large for the liquor joints, so they had started booking bigger and bigger halls.
Everyone had come to see Ray, and Ray had known it. He had demanded more solo time, and then more money. I wanted more and more – it was all about me, mourned Ray. Finally, Ray had left the Blue Devils and gone solo.
His solo career had skyrocketed and he had begun to headline the music shows at county fairs. Ray had been discovered by a talent scout looking for authentic American music performers. No one had been more authentic than Ray, and soon he had travelled to New York and the folk music fans. His career had crested when he had almost appeared as a warm-up act for Ed Sullivan.
Skyrockets fall and music crazes end, and so had Ray’s career. Too quickly he was back at the county fairs, then he had begun appearing at the honky-tonks again, and finally, he had simply begun playing for anyone who would pay him, birthday parties included.
His career had really turned sour when he had first felt a pain in his thumb when the weather turned cold, and the pain then spread through his fingers until his hands were almost too stiff to play. Damned arthritis finished me -- I could barely hold my spoons, he mourned, I couldn’t even play for myself.
Ray arrived at the crossroads at 11:00 p.m., exactly as planned, and pulled off to a patch of dirt, barren except for a lifeless tree, where he went to sit. I was drunk then and I’ll be drunk now, he thought as he pulled out a bottle and began drinking hard and fast.
“I was the king of spoons, no one was close, not even Fingers. I had it all, the fame, the money, and the women – what’ve I got now? Not even this dirt is mine.”
Ray pulled out his spoons one last time, and tried to play, but they fell from his useless fingers. “I’m not Spoons anymore and I sure as hell can’t be Ray. It was a good long ride, but I’m done and so is my deal.”
Ray was so drunk he missed the Devil, same as before. When he came to, the crossroads was gone, and Ray was without a doubt in Hell, playing music of a sorts. He was a member of a new band, the Red Devils, with a washboard made of razors, an exploding jug, and Robert Johnson on a flaming guitar, burning his awkward hands.
Ray had the lead on plastic sporks, condemned to play forever in Hell.
He had one last fan – Satan himself, who came by to enjoy his torment and to increase the pain for being dumb enough to trade his soul just to play spoons. Satan loved irony, and Ray would be living it for all eternity.
At least Robert Johnson had a song to show for his trip to the crossroads.
* * * * *
Link to Eric Clapton/Cream performing Robert Johnson’s “Crossroad.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y9FkEjOBJuw
Link to a spoon performance by Abby the Spoon Lady.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kKJ6cg8xEpw
A great big thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
halfshellvenus for beta-reading this and her helpful suggestions.
Topic: Spoons
CROSSROAD BLUES, PART 2
It was early in the morning on a gray day in a greasy hash house, and Ray Jackson ate his usual scrambled eggs and oatmeal, carefully placed the silverware on his plate, paid the bill, then headed for the exit, never to return. It was just another diner in another town on his way to somewhere else, but this time it was different.
Ray’s time was up, and he was headed back to the crossroads. I’m not losin’ much, he thought, no wife, no kids, no house, not even a goddamn dog, just an old pickup and these spoons. Ray patted the pocket on his tattered jean jacket, just to make sure they were there. “Can’t lose ‘em now, have to turn ‘em in,” he muttered. No one heard him; the dirt parking lot was empty, as always.
Once those spoons had mattered, but that was years ago, before Ray’s fingers had become stiff and gnarled, back when he was Spoons Jackson, and he had flashed the fastest spoons ever seen, pounding out music no one had ever heard, and would never hear again. “Spoons” had been the greatest spoon player ever, but his time was long past.
After he shoved the remnants of last night’s dinner off his seat, a dinner which had not been, as advertised, “The Best Burger Ever,” Ray climbed into the cab of his truck, which was messy with the detritus of a life lived on the road. Ray headed south to Clarksdale, Mississippi, to the intersection of Highways 49 and 61 and his appointment with the Devil. “Got to be there at midnight. That’s how the deal works.”
It was a lonely drive, but Ray was used to it. The crowds had faded away long ago. Now he faced miles of open road, past towns with names like DeWitt, Dry River, and his favorite, Lonesome. Ray had been born in the Delta, and he was far from home, but at last he was finally headed back.
As a young man he had heard the music in front of grocery stores, in honky-tonks, and at backyard barbecues – it had been everywhere. People blowing on jugs, playing washboards, strumming old guitars and sawing on broken-down fiddles, people singing soft and low, singing about hard times, singing the blues, and if he had been real lucky, there’d be someone playing the spoons.
Spoon players had been the stars, no doubt about it. The first time Ray had heard one, he had known what he wanted to do, so one day he had grabbed a pair of spoons from somebody’s kitchen and pitched in. Ray hadn’t exactly been a natural at first, but he eventually had become good enough to have his own band, Spoons Jackson and the Blue Devils. He had managed to scrape a living out of it, traveling from bar to bar, moving up to some real stages with microphones.
Times had been easy. The liquor had been cheap, the women had all wanted the spoon player, and Ray had had too much of both. But Ray had wanted more. God, I was young and stupid back then, thought Ray as the miles rolled by.
There had been better spoon players, like Rapid Fire Franklin, Bones Johnson, and the best of all, Fingers McGee, who could play the spoons with both hands at the same time.
But Ray had spooned out, “I just couldn’t get no better,” not without a little help. The crowds had started thinning out, and the Blue Devils had begun to drift away, for wives, real jobs, and better lives than travelling the spoon band circuit.
I turned to the only help I knew, he thought as he drew closer to Clarksdale and his meeting with the Devil, but now I got to pay what’s owed.
Back then, everyone had known about the crossroads, but no one had been stupid enough to go there. “Except me,” sighed Ray. “Sure wish I had listened.”
Ray couldn’t remember the details, not after all this time and all his drinking, but he knew that after one session with the Blue Devils at a honky-tonk near Clarksdale, Butch Tucker, the jug player, and Dale Ray, the fiddler, had told him they were quitting the band and leaving for home. “It’s time to give it up,” Butch had told him, “and it’s time for you, too, if you’re smart enough.” “It sure as hell ain’t my time,” Ray had yelled, and he had gone back inside to get ten shades of drunk.
I was young, desperate, and drunk – ripe pickin’s for the Devil himself, remembered Ray, as the clock ticked closer to midnight.
After Ray got drunk enough, he had remembered the legend of the crossroads, how Robert Johnson, an awful guitarist, had taken his guitar to the crossroads of Highways 49 and 61, and the Devil had retuned his guitar in exchange for his soul. Robert Johnson had gone on to become a blues legend. The sonnabitch died at 27 – I made it lots longer, thought Ray, too long. His hands had betrayed him long ago, as his skill had slowly drained away.
At the crossroads, down on his knees in the dirt, cars passing by and people yelling at him, Ray had prayed for the Devil to appear, offering his soul in exchange for becoming the best spoon player ever.
All Ray could remember was waking up in the dirt with a monstrous hangover. Right there beside the highways, Ray had pulled his spoons out of his pocket and he had started playing, playing as he had never played before, playing as no man had played before, tears running down his cheeks.
Ray couldn’t remember seeing the Devil, but he knew what had happened. He also knew he had to return when he could no longer play, and now he was long past due.
What a time Ray had had after the crossroads. He had convinced Butch and Dale to come back, and the Blue Devils had started making it big. The crowds had become too large for the liquor joints, so they had started booking bigger and bigger halls.
Everyone had come to see Ray, and Ray had known it. He had demanded more solo time, and then more money. I wanted more and more – it was all about me, mourned Ray. Finally, Ray had left the Blue Devils and gone solo.
His solo career had skyrocketed and he had begun to headline the music shows at county fairs. Ray had been discovered by a talent scout looking for authentic American music performers. No one had been more authentic than Ray, and soon he had travelled to New York and the folk music fans. His career had crested when he had almost appeared as a warm-up act for Ed Sullivan.
Skyrockets fall and music crazes end, and so had Ray’s career. Too quickly he was back at the county fairs, then he had begun appearing at the honky-tonks again, and finally, he had simply begun playing for anyone who would pay him, birthday parties included.
His career had really turned sour when he had first felt a pain in his thumb when the weather turned cold, and the pain then spread through his fingers until his hands were almost too stiff to play. Damned arthritis finished me -- I could barely hold my spoons, he mourned, I couldn’t even play for myself.
Ray arrived at the crossroads at 11:00 p.m., exactly as planned, and pulled off to a patch of dirt, barren except for a lifeless tree, where he went to sit. I was drunk then and I’ll be drunk now, he thought as he pulled out a bottle and began drinking hard and fast.
“I was the king of spoons, no one was close, not even Fingers. I had it all, the fame, the money, and the women – what’ve I got now? Not even this dirt is mine.”
Ray pulled out his spoons one last time, and tried to play, but they fell from his useless fingers. “I’m not Spoons anymore and I sure as hell can’t be Ray. It was a good long ride, but I’m done and so is my deal.”
Ray was so drunk he missed the Devil, same as before. When he came to, the crossroads was gone, and Ray was without a doubt in Hell, playing music of a sorts. He was a member of a new band, the Red Devils, with a washboard made of razors, an exploding jug, and Robert Johnson on a flaming guitar, burning his awkward hands.
Ray had the lead on plastic sporks, condemned to play forever in Hell.
He had one last fan – Satan himself, who came by to enjoy his torment and to increase the pain for being dumb enough to trade his soul just to play spoons. Satan loved irony, and Ray would be living it for all eternity.
At least Robert Johnson had a song to show for his trip to the crossroads.
* * * * *
Link to Eric Clapton/Cream performing Robert Johnson’s “Crossroad.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y9FkEjOBJuw
Link to a spoon performance by Abby the Spoon Lady.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kKJ6cg8xEpw
A great big thank you to
halfshellvenus for beta-reading this and her helpful suggestions.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-12-19 12:20 am (UTC)Also, I couldn't help but think of Soundgarden's 'Spoonman' song from the 90s. *ducks*
Great piece.
no subject
Date: 2015-12-19 02:42 pm (UTC)