August 16 1938 Robert Johnson Dies

...and leaves a whole lot of folklore in his wake

The night of August 13 1938 was probably normal enough for Robert Johnson. He was drinking whiskey (or some liquor) in a juke joint near Greenwood Mississippi. People were dancing. He had his eye on a local girl for a night of fun. He was being a guitar god. All was well. But at some point, he began getting stomach pains. And according to accounts, his suffering increased for three days and he bayed at the moon in agony. He died on August 16.

If you don’t know who Robert Johnson is, then a hipster in your neighborhood just had a ministroke. If you have seen the picture above, then you at least know what he looks like. Suited, cross-legged, easy smile, guitar across his chest, fedoraed – Robert Johnson has been the pictorial ambassador of American Blues in all of our lifetimes. With good reason too. Johnson was a roving musician in the 1920s-30s, playing the juke joints of the Mississippi Delta, one of the gritty birthplaces of American blues. He had enormous influence on blues and rock n roll guitarists who came after him. But perhaps Johnson is most famous for the lore that surrounds his life and his early death. Baying at the moon aside.  

Part of the lore is linked to his guitar skill. Now he is widely regarded as the quintessential blues guitarist, but this wasn’t always the case. According to his contemporaries, Johnson’s guitar playing was subpar; that is, until he disappeared for a few months and came back supernaturally good. Legend has it that he sold his soul to the devil at the junction of Highways 49 and 61, which was evidently the place to be if you needed a skill, didn’t have time to practice, and didn’t mind spending eternity broiling in hellfire. This is usually dismissed as superstitious folklore, but a quick peruse at his collection’s titles does suggest a thematic tilt. “Me And The Devil Blues,” “Up Jumped The Devil,” and “Hell Hound on My Trail.” So, who knows? Maybe if we dug around, we’d find “Holy Crap, I Sold My Soul to the Devil at the Junction of Highways 49 and 61 and He’s Coming to Collect on August 16 1938 near Greenwood, Mississippi! Help!”

Other mysteries surrounding the Johnson lore are how he died and where he’s buried. His burial place could be a pauper’s grave or under a big pecan tree. Also it seems that Johnson might not have needed any help from the devil reaching that hellfire. He was known for having a different girl in every juke joint and being a heavy drinker, according to some “drunk more than sober.” It’s possible this love of women and whiskey got him killed. Some have it that his whiskey was poisoned by the jealous husband of the girl he had his eye on at that juke joint on August 13.    

Still, while though there’s a good chance alcohol killed him, it wasn’t necessarily murder. In the 1920s-30s juke joints were to black clientele what speakeasies were to whites. During prohibition both black and white communities found a way to drink. And occasionally, both communities fell victim to bad alcohol. Moonshine, gut-rot whiskey, and bathtub gin killed or blinded thousands. But juke joints weren’t just a place to drink. For black people, juke joints were the last bastion away from whites, white supervision, horrid Jim Crow laws, constant intimidation and terror, and murder. These likely spawned from shacks that sprouted up near rural work camps in the early 20th century to attract black workers who didn’t have a centralized hangout. People could dance, play and listen to music. Some owners sold booze to make extra money and this led to the juke joint. It’s likely that Johnson died from bad booze, whether it was on purpose will probably never be known.

Johnson’s death is also Hammered History for two other reasons. First, the day after he died he was supposed to perform at Carnegie Hall. Had he been able to, who knows what that would have meant for him, the advancement of blues music, and the development of rock n roll down the line. We’ll never know. Johnson’s death also became American folklore. Robert Johnson died at 27 years old, which makes him a very early (but not the first) member of the 27 Club. The 27 Club is the nickname for the long list of musicians, artists, and actors who have sadly died at the young age of 27. Many of these people died as a direct result of alcohol or drugs, others died of by-products of that lifestyle, like suicide, murder, or accidental death. Other premature inductees include Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, and Amy Winehouse. Johnson is one of the Club’s most famous members, but he probably wouldn’t be thrilled about his membership.

So how to commemorate blues legend Robert Johnson? Since he died of poisoned whiskey, we suggest not doing an historical re-enactment. Today we’re going to enjoy a drink that many African Americans were enjoying in the early 20th century. Cognac.

Just a few years before Robert Johnson met his unpleasant end, more than 200,000 African Americans were sent to France in the armed forces during World War I. Units of African Americans – such as the Harlem Hellfighters – were relegated to fighting with the French Army because American soldiers didn’t want to fight alongside black soldiers. Black American soldiers wouldn’t get the opportunity to be killed alongside their white comrades until the late 1940s. The French didn’t have any such problem and black American soldiers were welcomed to fight with the French Army. Consequently, black Americans were welcomed into French society – way more than they were at home. But French social intelligence didn’t stop there. The French also quickly got the value of blues and jazz music. Thus it was in Parisian clubs that black American performers like Josephine Baker blew up, and in the mainstream of French society that black music and culture was enjoyed. The French welcomed black America into their society and black Americans in France took on aspects of French culture, like being free and not being terrified to walk outside. Is there a chance the Statue of Liberty had an ironic aspect?

One aspect of French culture that black Americans took to was cognac, which is a type of brandy named after the commune of Cognac, France. It is produced by twice distilling grapes produced in the surrounding wine-growing region in the departments of Charente and Charente-Maritime.   It is called eau de vie (literally: water of life) which is much better than the eau de la mort that Johnson choked down on August 13. Today we drink Courvoisier.

Ingredients

-          Courvoisier

-          A glass (which, depends on how you want to have your cognac. But if you spit-clean an old coffee mug and drink your cognac with hints of Folger’s, we won’t judge)

-          Ice, water, nothing, no poison (highly recommended)

Directions

Take the Courvoisier bottle and kiss it as though it is the surgeon who will operate on your thyroid one day. This is to thank it for existing. Next, have it how you want. Suggestions:

-          Neat: pour 2 oz into a snifter. Swirl it around to pretend you know what you’re doing, hand over your car keys, let the games begin. Repeat until you are a guitar demigod.  

-          Water: add two splashes of water to bring out the notes of fruit, use a taster’s glass (like a snifter but a bit longer and allows you to catch the richness). Hold it up to the light, say something about ‘earthy hues’ then pork it away until you bay at the moon.

-          Rocks: add 2-3 ice cubes to a tumbler and then 4 oz of Courvoisier to make up for the fact that you’re making a weaker drink. Hold the glass in the palm of your hand, swirl to clink the cubes, then look up the members of the 27 Club. (NB: do not do this if you are 27 or younger)

No matter how you have it, drink to Robert Johnson, his genius, his influence, and his skills, no matter where he might be on earth or beyond.