Episode 166: “Crossroads” by Cream

A History of Folk Music in 500 Songs

by Andrew Higgins.

Episode 166

Crossroads

by Cream

Before we start, a quick note that this episode contains discussion of racism, drug addiction, and early death.

There's also a brief mention of death in childbirth and infant mortality.

It's been a while since we looked at the British blues movement and at the blues in general, so some of you may find some of what follows familiar, as we're going to look at some things we've talked about previously, but from a different angle.

In 1968, the Bonzo Dog Band, a comedy musical band that have been described as the missing link between the Beatles and the Monty Python team, released a track called Can Blue Men Sing the White?

Can Blue Men Sing the Whites, or I'll have a cries for singing

That track was mocking a discussion that was very prominent in Britain's music magazines around that time.

1968 saw the rise of a lot of British bands who started out as blues bands, though many of them went on to different styles of music.

Fleetwood Mac, Ten Years After, Jethro Tull, Chickenshack, and others were all becoming popular among the kind of people who read the music magazines, and so the the question was being asked, can white men sing the blues?

Of course, the answer to that question was obvious.

After all, white men invented the blues.

Before we get any further at all, I have to make clear that I do not mean that white people created blues music, but the blues as a category.

and particularly the idea of it as a music made largely by solo male performers playing guitar, that was created and shaped by the actions of white male record executives.

There is no consensus as to when or how the blues as a genre started.

As we often say in this podcast, there is no first anything.

But like every genre, it seems to have come from multiple sources.

In the case of the blues, there's probably some influence from African music by way of field chants sung by enslaved people.

Possibly some influence from Arabic music as well.

definitely some influence from the Irish and British folk songs that by the late 19th century were developing into what we now call country music, a lot from ragtime, and a lot of influence from vaudeville and minstrel songs, which in turn themselves were all very influenced by all those other things.

Probably the first published composition to show any real influence of the blues is from 1904, a ragtime piano piece by James Chapman and Leroy Smith, One of them things

That's not very recognizable as a blues piece yet, but it is more or less a twelve-bar blues.

But the blues developed, and it developed as a result of a series of commercial waves.

The first of these came in 1914, with the success of W.

C.

Handy's Memphis Blues, which, when it was recorded by the Victor Military Band for a phonograph cylinder, became what is generally considered the first blues record proper.

The famous dancers Vernon and Irene Castle came up with a dance, the Foxtrot, which Vernon Castle later admitted was largely inspired by black dancers, to be danced to the Memphis Blues, and the Foxtrot soon overtook the tango, which the Castles had introduced to the US the previous year, to become the most popular dance in America for the the best part of three decades.

And with that came an explosion in blues in the handy style, cranked out by every music publisher.

While the blues was a style largely created by black performers and writers, the segregated nature of the American music industry at the time meant that most vocal performances of these early blues that were captured on record were by white performers, black vocalists at this time only rarely getting a chance to record.

The first blues record with a black vocalist is also technically the first British blues record.

A group of black musicians, apparently mostly American but led by a Jamaican pianist, played at Cero's Club in London and recorded many tracks in Britain under a name which I'm not going to say in full.

It started with Cero's Club and continued alliteratively with another word starting with C, a slur for black people.

In 1917 they recorded a vocal version of St.

Louis Blues, another W C handy composition.

The first American black blues vocal didn't come until two years later, when Bert Williams, a black minstrel show performer who, like many black performers of his era, performed in blackface, even though he was black, recorded, I'm sorry I ain't got it, you could have it if I had it, blues.

means blue.

Life to me is just one point you.

If money grew

on Christmas tree,

I'd starve to death

hanging around for a breeze.

I've got that call around tomorrow.

And if I have it, you can borrow.

Blue.

But it wasn't until 1920 that the second, bigger wave of popularity started for the blues.

And this time it started with the first record of a black woman singing the blues, Mamie Smith's Crazy Blues.

He made me feel so blue.

I don't know what to do.

Sometimes I sat aside

and then began to cry.

Cause my best friend

There's a change

in the ocean.

Send him not even to see my baby.

I tell you, folks, there

ain't no change in me.

My love for the living

will always

be.

You can hear the difference between that and anything we've heard up to that point.

That's the first record that anyone from our perspective, 103 years later, would listen to and say that it bore any resemblance to what we think of as the blues.

So much so that many places still credit it as the first ever blues record.

And there's a reason for that.

Crazy Blues was one of those records that separates the music industry into before and after,

like Rock Around the Clock, I Want to Hold Your Hand, Sergeant Pepper, or Rapper's Delight.

It sold 75,000 copies in its first month, a massive number by the standards of 1920, and purportedly went on to sell over a million copies.

Sales figures and market analysis weren't really a thing in the same way in 1920, but even so it became very obvious that Crazy Blues was a big hit.

and that unlike pretty much any other previous records, it was a big hit among black listeners, which meant that there was a market for music aimed at black people that was going untapped.

Soon all the major record labels were setting up subsidiaries devoted to what they called race music, music made by and for black people.

And this sees the birth of what is now known as classic blues, but at the time, and for decades after, was just what people thought of when they thought of the blues as a genre.

This was music primarily sung by female vaudeville artists backed by jazz bands, people like Mar Rainey, whose earliest recordings featured Louis Armstrong in her backing band.

Made me love

you.

Now you'll get

them so.

And Bessie Smith, the Empress of the Blues, who had a massive career in the 1920s before the Great Depression caused many of these race record labels to fold, but who carried on performing well into the 1930s.

Her last recording was in 1933, produced by John Hammond, with the backing band including Benny Goodman and Jack T.

Garden.

He's got a rhythm.

Yeah.

When he stomps his feet, he sends me.

Red off the sleep, check all your razors

and your guns.

It wouldn't be until several years after the boom started by Mamie Smith that any record companies turned to recording black men singing the blues accompanied by guitar or banjo.

The first record of this type is probably Norfolk Blues by Rhys Dupree from 1924.

loving girl.

I'm going to an off

to see my

loving girl.

And if I holly buns, me see,

she's just my dear old pal.

And if I see her, I'll tell all this bad news to you.

And there were occasional other records of this type, like Airy Man Blues by Papa Charlie Jackson, who was advertised as the only man living who sings self-accompanied for blues records.

But you round, going to the grove, and never comes back to your house no more.

And I knew you'd try to slow me down.

You know you're the push and rare and sound.

Keep on talking with silly wheels.

So you're never going to turn on the wheel.

So you can keep on talking little darling straight, but don't need no airy man.

And what be drowned in on annoying trains?

But contrary to the way these are seen today, at the time, they weren't seen as being in some way authentic or folk music.

Indeed, there are many quotes from folk music collectors of the time, sadly, all of them using so many slurs that it's impossible for me to accurately quote them, saying that when people sang the blues, that wasn't authentic black folk music at all, but an adulteration from commercial music.

They clearly, according to these folk music scholars, learned the blues style from records and sheet music rather than as part of an oral tradition.

Most of these performers were people who recorded blues as part of a wider range of material, like Blind Blake, who recorded some blues music, but whose best work was his ragtime guitar instrumentals.

But it was when Blenleman Jefferson started recording for Paramount Records in 1926 that the image of the blues as we now think of it took shape.

His first record, Got the Blues, was a massive success.

And this resulted in many labels, especially Paramount, signing up pretty much every black man with a guitar they could find in the hopes of finding another blind lemon Jefferson.

But the thing is, this generation of people making blues records, and the generation that followed them, didn't think of themselves as blues singers or blues men.

They were songsters.

Songsters were entertainers, and their job was to sing and play whatever the audiences would want to hear.

That included the blues, of course.

But it also included, well, every song anyone would want to hear.

They'd perform old folk songs, vaudeville songs, songs that they'd heard on the radio or the jukebox, whatever the audience wanted.

Robert Johnson, for example, was known to particularly love playing polka music, and also adored the records of Jimmy Rogers, the first country music superstar.

In 1941, when Alan Lomax first recorded Muddy Waters, he asked Waters what kind of songs he normally played in performances, and he was given a list that included Home on the Range, Gene Autry's I've Got Spurs That Jingle, Jangle, Jingle, and Glenn Miller's Chattanooga Choo Choo.

We have few recordings of these people performing this kind of song, though.

One of the few we have is Big Bill Boonzi, who was just about the only artist of this type not to get pigeonholed as just a blues singer, even though blues is what made him famous, and who later in his career managed to record songs like the Timpanali Standard, The Glory of Love.

glory of love.

But for the most part, the image we have of the blues comes down to one man, Arthur Labley, a sales manager for the Wisconsin Chair Company.

The Wisconsin Chair Company was, as the name would suggest, a company that started out making wooden chairs, but it had branched out into other forms of wooden furniture, including for a brief time, large wooden phonographs.

And like several other manufacturers, like the Radio Corporation of America, RCA, and the Gramophone Company, which became EMI, they realized that if they were going to sell the hardware, it made sense to sell the software as well, and had started up Paramount Records, which bought up a small label, Black Swan, and soon became the biggest manufacturer of records for the black market, putting out roughly a quarter of all race records released between 1922 and 1932.

At first, most of these were produced by a black talent scout, J.

Mayo Williams, who had been the first person to record Mar Rainey, Papa Charlie Jackson, and Blind Lemon Jefferson.

But in 1927, Williams left Paramount, and the job of supervising sessions went to Arthur Labley, though, according to some sources, a lot of the actual production work was done by Aletha Dickerson, Williams' former assistant, who was almost certainly the first black woman to be what we would now think of as a record producer.

Williams had been interested in recording all kinds of music by black performers, but when Labley got a solo black man into the studio, what he wanted more than anything was for him to record the blues, ideally in a style as close as possible to that of Bly and Lemon Jefferson.

Labley didn't have a very hands on approach to recording.

Indeed, Paramount had very little concern about the quality of their product anyway, when Paramount's records are notorious for having been put out on poor quality shellac and recorded badly.

And he only occasionally made actual suggestions as to what kind of songs his performers should write.

For example, he asked Son House to write something that sounded like Blind Lemon Jefferson, which led to House writing and recording Mississippi County Farm Blues, which steals the tune of Jefferson's See That My Grave is Kept Clean.

When a band got wiped on it

I rather be broken out

I rather be broken out

I rather be broke

When Skip James wanted to record a cover of James Wiggins's 44 Blues, Labley suggested that instead he should do a song about a different gun.

And so James James recorded 2220 blues.

We won't help or not.

And Labley also suggested that James write a song about the Depression, which led to one of the greatest blues records ever, Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.

I'm young everywhere you go.

Times it's harder than ever been before.

These musicians knew that they were getting paid only for issued sides, and that Labley wanted only blues from them, and so that's what they gave him.

Even when it was a performer like Charlie Patton.

Incidentally, for those reading this as a transcript rather than listening to it, Patton's name is more usually spelled ending in a EY, but as far as I can tell, IE was his preferred spelling, and that's what I'm using.

Charlie Patton was best known as an entertainer first and foremost, someone who would do song and dance routines, joke around, play guitar behind his head.

He was a clown on stage, so much so that when Sun House finally heard some of Patton's records in the mid-sixties, decades after the fact, he was astonished that Patton could actually play well.

Even though House had been in the room when some of the records were made, his memory of Patton was of someone who acted the fool on stage.

That's definitely not the impression you get from the Charlie Patton on record.

see me.

You may go,

you may stay,

but she'll come back some

sweet days.

Bye-bye, bye, sweet mama.

Patton is, as far as can be discerned, the person who was most influential in creating the music that became called the Delta Blues.

Not a lot is known about Patton's life, but he was almost certainly the half-brother of the Chatman brothers, who made hundreds of records, most notably as members of the Mississippi Sheiks.

Was in the frame

one summer day,

just when she loved me.

In the 1890s, Patton's family moved to Sunflower County, Mississippi, and he lived in and around that county until his death in 1934.

Patton learned to play guitar from a musician called Henry Sloane, and then Patton became a mentor figure to a lot of other musicians in and around the plantation on which his family lived.

Some of the musicians who grew up in the immediate area around Patton included Tommy Johnson.

If I don't care, you gon' care somebody else

When sun goes shining

My bag goes empty I don't

pop staples

I was standing

by my window

on a cold and cloudy day

When I saw the

horse come rolling,

oh, to carry my mother

away

will it certainly

be undrugged

by

Robert Johnson,

you did wrong.

Tell my friend Willie Brown.

You can run, you can run.

Tell my friend Willie Brown.

And I got close to a bruise, my lord.

They bomb sacking down.

Willie Brown, a musician who didn't record much, but who played a lot with Patton, Sunhouse, and Robert Johnson, and who we just heard Johnson sing about.

I went, I be down,

just that him and

outside, wife,

never been before.

And Chester Burnett, who went on to become known as Howlin' Wolf, and whose vocal style was equally inspired by Patton and by the country star Jimmy Rogers.

Shining

just like gold.

But don't you hear me cry?

Once Patton started his own recording career for Paramount, he also started working as a talent scalp for them, and it was him who brought Sun House to Paramount.

Soon after the Depression hit, Paramount stopped recording, and so from 1930 through 1934, Patton didn't make any records.

He was tracked down by an AR man in January 1934 and recorded one final session.

me brings you

long, have you see your brand new young

But he died of heart failure two months later but his influence sped through his protégés and they themselves influenced other musicians from the area who came along a little after like Robert Lockwood and Muddy Waters.

This music, or that portion of it that was considered worth recording by white record producers, only a tiny, unrepresentative portion of their vast performing repertoires, became known as the Delta Blues.

And when some of these musicians moved to Chicago and started performing with electric instruments, it became Chicago Blues.

And as far as people like John Mayall in Britain were concerned, Delta and Chicago Blues were the blues.

John Mayall was one of the first of the British blues obsessives, and for a long time thought of himself as the only one.

While we've looked before at the growth of the London blues scene, Mayall wasn't from London.

He was born in Macclesfield and grew up in Cheadle Hume, both relatively well-off suburbs of Manchester, and after being conscripted and doing two years in the army, he had become an art student at Manchester College of Art, what is now Manchester Metropolitan University.

Mayle had been a blues fan from the late 1940s, writing off to the US to order records that hadn't been released in the UK, and by most accounts, by the late 50s he'd put together the biggest blues collection in Britain by quite some way.

Not only that, but he had one of the earliest home tape recorders, and every night he would record radio stations from continental Europe which were broadcasting for American service personnel.

So he'd amassed mountains of recordings, often unlabelled, of obscure blues records that nobody else in the UK knew about.

He was also an accomplished pianist and guitar player, and in 1956, he and his drummer friend Peter Ward had put together a band called the Powerhouse Four, the other two members rotated on a regular basis, mostly to play lunchtime jazz sessions at the art college.

Mayall also started putting on jam sessions at a youth club in Withenshaw, where he met another drummer named Huey Flint.

Over the late 50s and into the early 60s, Mayall, more or less by himself, built up a small blues scene in Manchester.

The Manchester blues scene was so enthusiastic, in fact, that when the American Folk Blues Festival, an annual European tour which initially featured Willie Dixon, Memphis Slim, T-Bone Walker, Sonny Terry and Varney McGee, and John Lee Hooker, first toured Europe, the only UK date it played was at the Manchester Free Trade Hall, and people like Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Brian Jones, and Jimmy Page had to travel up from London to see it.

But still, the number of blues fans in Manchester, while proportionally large, was objectively small enough that Mayle was captivated by an article in Melody Maker, which talked about Alexis Corner and Sybil Davis's new band Blues Inc.,

and how it was playing electric blues, the same music he was making in Manchester.

He later talked about about how the article had made him think that maybe now people would know what he was talking about.

He started travelling down to London to play gigs for the London Blues scene, and inviting Corner up to Manchester to play shows there.

Soon Mayo had moved down to London.

Corner introduced Mayol to David Graham, the great folk guitarist, with whom Corner had recently recorded as a duo.

Mayole and Graham performed together as a duo for a while, but Graham was a natural solo artist, if ever there was one.

Slowly, Mayle put a band together in London.

On drums was his old friend Peter Ward, who'd moved down from Manchester with him.

On bass was John McVie, who at the time knew nothing about blues.

He'd been playing in a shadow-style instrumental group, but Mayle gave him a stack of blues records to listen to to get the feeling, and on guitar was Bernie Watson, who had previously played with Screaming Lord Such and the Savages.

In late 1963, Mike Vernon, a blues fan who had previously published a Yardbirds fanzine, got a job working for Decca Records and immediately started signing his favourite acts from the London Blues Circuit.

The first act he signed was John Mayle and the Bluesbreakers, and they recorded a single, Crawling Up a Hill.

Every morning about a half half past eight.

But what a week I miss, I don't believe.

I kept the others try to concentrate.

But life is just a slow train crawling up a hill.

Try and stop one day to figure it out.

I've been my drive without a shadow of doubt.

I've seen the blues I don't know all about.

But life is just a slow train crawling up a hill.

Mayle later called that a clumsy, half-witted attempt at autobiographical comment, and it sold only 500 copies.

It would be the only record the Blues Bakers would make with Watson, who soon left the band to be replaced by Roger Dean, not the same Roger Dean who later went on to design frog rock album covers.

The second group to be signed by Mike Vernon to Decker was the Graham Bond Organization.

We've talked about the Graham Bond organization in passing several times, but not for a while and not in any great detail.

So it's worth pulling everything we've said about them so far together.

and going through it in a little more detail.

The Graham Bond organization, like the Rolling Stones, grew out of Alexis Corner's Blues Incorporated.

As we heard in the episode on I Wanna Be Your Man a couple of years ago, Blues Incorporated had been started by Alexis Corner and Cybil Davis, and at the time we joined them in 1962, featured a drummer called Charlie Watts, a pianist called Dave Stevens, and saxophone player Dick Hextall Smith, as well as frequent guest performers like a singer who called himself Mike Jagger.

and another one, Roderick Stewart.

That group finally found themselves the perfect bass bass player when Dick Hextor Smith put together a one-off group of jazz players to play an event at Cambridge University.

At the gig, a little Scottish man came up to the group and told him he played bass and asked if he could sit in.

They told him to bring along his instrument to their second set that night, and he did actually bring along a double bass.

Their bluff having been called, they decided to play the most complicated, difficult piece they knew, in order to throw the kid off.

The drummer, a trad jazz player named Ginger Baker, didn't like performing with random sit-in guests, but astonishingly he turned out to be really good.

Hextall Smith took down the bass player's name and phone number and invited him to a jam session with Blues Incorporated.

After that jam session, Jack Bruce quickly became the group's full-time bass player.

Bruce had started out as a classical cellist, but had switched to the double bass inspired by Bach, who he referred to as the governor of all bass players.

His playing up to this point had mostly been in trad jazz bands, and he knew nothing of the blues, but he quickly got the hang of the genre.

Bruce's first show with Blues Incorporated was a BBC recording.

I'm gonna mess with you.

Make it pretty girls

lead me by my hand.

The world's gonna know I'm the hooching

man, we got the fail.

According to at least one source, it was not being asked to take part in that session that made young Mike Jagger decide there was no future for him with Blues Incorporated and to spend more time with his other group, the Rolling Stones.

Soon after, Charlie Watts would join him for almost the opposite reason.

Watts didn't want to be in a band that was getting as big as Blues Incorporated were.

They were starting to do more BBC sessions and get more gigs, and having to join the musicians union.

That seemed like a lot of work.

Far better to join a band like the Rolling Stones that wasn't going anywhere.

Because of Watts' decision to give up on potential stardom to become a Rolling Stone, they needed a new drummer, and luckily the best drummer on the scene was available.

But then, the best drummer on the scene was always available.

Ginger Baker had first played with Dick Hextel Smith several years earlier, in a trad group called the Storyville Jazz Men.

There, Baker had become obsessed with the New Orleans jazz drummer Baby Dodds, who had played with Louis Armstrong in the 1920s.

Sadly, because of 1920s recording technology, he hadn't been able to play a full kit on the recordings with Armstrong, being limited to percussion on just a woodblock.

But you can hear his drumming style much better in this version of At the Jazz Band Ball from 1947, with Mugsy Spania, Jack T.

Garden, Cyrus Sinclair, and Hank Duncan.

Baker had taken Dobbs' style and run with it, and had quickly become known as the single best player, Bar Non, on the London jazz scene.

He'd become an accomplished player in multiple styles, and was also fluent in reading music and arranging.

He'd also, though, become known as the single person on the entire scene who was most difficult to get along with.

He resigned from his first band on stage, shouting, you can stick your band up your arse.

after the band's leader had had enough of him incorporating bebop influences into their trad style.

Another time, when touring with Diz Disley's band, he was dumped in Germany with no money and no way to get home because the band were so sick of him.

Sometimes this was because of his temper and his unwillingness to suffer fools, and he saw everyone else he ever met as a fool, and sometimes it was because of his own rigorous musical ideas.

He wanted to play music his way and wouldn't listen to anyone who told him different.

Both of these things got worse after he fell under the influence of a man named Phil Seaman, one of the only drummers that Baker respected at all.

Seaman introduced Baker to African drumming, and Baker started incorporating complex polyrhythms into his playing as a result.

Seaman also, though, introduced Baker to heroin, and while being a heroin addict in the UK in the 1960s was not as difficult as it later became, both heroin and cocaine were available on prescription to registered addicts, and Baker got both.

which meant that many of the problems that come from criminalisation of these drugs didn't affect addicts in the same way, but it still did not, by all accounts, make him an easier person to get along with.

But he was a fantastic drummer, as Dick Hextall Smith said.

With the advent of Ginger, the classic Blues Incorporated lineup, one which I think could not be bettered, was set, but Alexis Corner decided that the group could be bettered, and he had some backers within the band.

One of the other bands on the scene was the Don Mendel Quintet.

a group that played soul jazz, that style of jazz that bridged modern jazz and RB, the kind of music that Ray Charles and Herbie Hancock played.

The Don Rendell quintet included a fantastic multi-instrumentalist, Graham Bond, who doubled on keyboards and saxophone, and Bond had been playing occasional experimental gigs with the Johnny Birch octet,

a group led by another member of the Rendell quartet featuring Hextel Smith, Bruce, Baker, and a few other musicians, doing wholly improvised music.

Hextel Hextel Smith, Bruce, and Baker all enjoyed playing with Bond, and when Corner decided to bring him into the band, they were all very keen.

But Cyril Davis, the co-leader of the band with Corner, was furious at the idea.

Davis wanted to play strict Chicago and Delta blues, and had no truck with other forms of music like RB and jazz.

To his mind, it was bad enough that they had a Sax player, but the idea that they would bring in Bond, who played Saxand Hammond organ?

Well, that was practically blasphemy.

Davis quit the group at the mere suggestion.

Bond was soon in the band, and he, Bruce, and Baker were playing together a lot.

As well as performing with Blues Incorporated, they continued playing in the Johnny Birch Octet, and they also started performing as the Graham Bond Trio.

Sometimes the Graham Bond Trio would be Blues Incorporated's opening act, and on more than one occasion the Graham Bond Trio, Blues Inc.

and the Johnny Birch Octet all had gigs in different parts of London on the same night, and they'd have to frantically get from one to the other.

The Graham Bond trio also had fans in Manchester, thanks to the local blues scene there and their connection with Blues Incorporated, and one night in February 1963 the trio played a gig there.

They realised afterwards that by playing as a trio they'd made £70,

when they were lucky to make £20 from a gig with Blues Incorporated or the Octet,

because there were so many members in those bands.

Bond wanted to make real money, and at the next rehearsal of Blues Incorporated he announced to Corner that he, Bruce and Baker were quitting the band, which was news to Bruce and Baker who he hadn't bothered consulting.

Baker indeed was in the toilet when the announcement was made, and came out to find it a done deal.

He was going to kick up a fuss and say he hadn't been consulted, but Corner's reaction sealed the deal, as Baker later said.

He said, it's really good you're doing this thing with Graham and I wish you the best of luck and all that.

And it was a bit difficult to turn around and say, well, I don't really want to to leave the band, you know.

The Graham Bond trio struggled at first to get the gigs they were expecting, but that started to change when in April 1963 they became the Graham Bond Quartet, with the addition of virtuoso guitarist John McLaughlin.

The quartet soon became one of the hottest bands on the London RB scene, and when Duffy Power, a Larry Pahnes teen idol who wanted to move into RB, asked his record label to get him a good RB band to back him on a Beatles cover, it was the Graham Bond Quartet who obliged.

The quartet also backed power on a package tour with other Panz acts, but they were also still performing their own blend of hard jazz and blues, as can be heard in this recording of the group live in June 1953.

But that line-up of the group didn't last very long.

According to the way Baker told the story, he fired McLaughlin from the group after being irritated by McLaughlin complaining about something, on a day when Baker was out out of cocaine and in no mood to hear anyone else's complaints.

As Baker said, We lost a great guitar player and I lost a good friend.

But the trio soon became a quartet again, as Dick Hextall Smith, who Bakford wanted in the band from the start, joined on saxophone to replace McLaughlin's guitar, but they were no longer called the Graham Bond Quartet.

Partly because Hextall Smith joining allowed Bond to concentrate just on his keyboard playing, but one suspects partly to protect against any future line-up changes, the group were now at the Graham Bond organisation.

Emphasis on the organ.

The new line-up of the group got signed to Decker by Vernon, and were soon recording their first single, Long Tall Shorty.

They've recorded a few other songs which made their way onto an EP and an RB compilation and toured intensively in early 1964,

as well as backing up Power on his follow-up to I Saw Her Standing There, his version of Parchment Farm.

Well, I'm sitting over here on Parchment Farm, and I ain't never done no man no harm.

They also appeared in a film just like the Beatles, though it was possibly not quite as artistically successful as A Hard Day's Night.

Whether you're with it or without, there's only one conclusion.

You must get into orbit with Gonk Go Beat.

We'll proceed to planet Earth to settle a dispute which has arisen between the communities of Beatland and Vallad Isle.

Lastoff!

Well, I was standing on the corner waiting to go home when I heard this sound that made me wanna move.

When it was coming from a dust home across the street, it was kind of stopping me with an arm of beep beat.

It's the war to end all wars, a war of music.

And drop slap in the middle of the hemisphere as a crutch and quaver square from the upper stratosphere.

Starring Kenneth Connor as the way out ambassador searching for a way in.

With Terry Scott as the Gonzko Beats is one of the most bizarre films of the sixties.

It's a far-future remake of Romeo and Juliet, where the two star-crossed lovers are from opposing countries, Beatland and Ballad Isle, who only communicate once a year in an annual song contest which acts as their version of a war, and is overseen by Mr.

ANR, played by Frank Thornton, who would later star in Are You Being Served?

Carry-on star Kenneth Connor is sent by aliens to try to bring peace to the two warring countries on pain of exile exile to Planet Gonk, a planet inhabited solely by Gonks, a kind of novelty toy for which there was a short-lived craze then.

Along the way, Connor encounters such luminaries of British light entertainment as Terry Scott and Arthur Mullard, as well as musical performances by Lulu, the Nashville Teens, and of course the Graham Bond Organisation, whose performance gets them a telling off from a teacher.

All right.

All right.

Now, let's tear it apart.

You're just not with it yet.

Now, Jack,

what's the matter with you?

Oh, me, sir.

How many times have I told you?

Turn up your amplifier.

Next time, I want to hear those big, big sounds that bring the coconuts down.

Really blast it.

And let those balladyle squares across the water hear it.

Dig?

Dig, sir, dear.

Dig.

It's the same with you, Ginger.

You're not playing in a chamber quartet.

This is beat.

Don't worry about splitting your skins.

The group, as a group, only performed one song in this cinematic masterpiece.

But Baker also made an appearance in a drum battle sequence where eight drummers played together.

The other drummers in that scene included, as well as some lesser-known players, Andy White, who had played on the single version of Love Me Do, Bobby Graham, who played on Hits by the Kinks and the Dave Clark Five, and Ronnie Verrill, who did the drumming for Animal in The Muppet Show.

Also in summer 1964, the group performed at the fourth National Jazz and Blues Festival in Richmond, the festival co-founded by Chris Barber, that would evolve into the Reading Festival.

The Yardbirds were on the bill, and at the end of their set they invited Bond, Baker, Bruce, Georgie Fame, and Mike Vernon onto the stage with them, making that the first time that Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker, and Jack Bruce were all on stage together.

Soon after that, the Graham Bond organisation got a new manager, Robert Stigwood.

Things hadn't been working out for them at Decca, and Stigwood soon got the group signed to EMI and became their producer as well.

Their first single under Stigwood's management was a cover version of the theme tune to the Debbie Reynolds film Tammy.

While that film had given Tamla Records its name, the song was hardly an RB classic.

I

hear the carton woods.

woods.

We

spring above.

Tammy.

Tammy.

I think I'm in love.

Ooh, yeah.

The breeze from the bayou

keeps murmuring.

That record didn't chart, but Stigwood put the group out on the road, as part of the disastrous Chuck Berry tour we heard about in the episode on All You Need Is Love, which led to the bankruptcy of Robert Stigwood Associates.

The organisation moved over to Stigwood's new company, the Robert Stigwood Organisation, and Stigwood continued to be the credited producer of their records, though after the Tammy disaster they decided they were going to take charge themselves of the actual music.

Their first album, The Sound of 65, was recorded in a single three-hour session, and they mostly ran through their standard set, a mixture of the same songs everyone else on the circuit was playing, like Hoochie Coochie Man, Got My Mojo Working, and Wade in the Water, and originals like Bruce's Train Time.

It coming coming on, baby.

It coming on, baby.

I'm leaving top, baby.

It comes for more.

You always disagree.

You know what I'm saying?

You're every stay I'm leaving.

Ain't no you should leave it.

I'm leaving top, baby.

Through 1965, they kept working.

They released a non-album single, Lease on Love, which is generally considered to be the first pop record to feature a mellotron.

love, love, love on my bed.

I've got to leave,

love, love, love on my girl.

I've got to see,

got it with this, got it with them.

I've got a lease on love.

I've got to leave on love.

And Bond and Baker also backed another stigwood act, Winston G, on his debut single.

Please don't say, please don't say,

Bruti was a lovely to me.

Please don't say,

please don't say,

you're never gonna set me free.

I don't wanna build my hope up high,

so high that I can touch the sky.

But the group were developing severe tensions.

Bruce and Baker had started out friendly, but by this time they hated each other.

Bruce said he couldn't hear his own playing over Baker's loud drumming.

Baker thought that Bruce was far too fussy a player and should try to play simpler lines.

They'd both tried to throw each other drumming performances, altering arrangements on the fly, and playing things that would trip the other player player up, and neither of them were particularly keen on Bond's new love of the mellotron, which was all over their second album, giving it a distinctly proto-prog feel at times.

Baby, can it be true

Eventually, at a gig in Golder's Green, Baker started throwing drumsticks at Bruce's head while Bruce was trying to play a bass solo.

Bruce retaliated by throwing his bass at Baker, and then jumping on him and starting a fistfight which had to be broken up by the venue security.

Baker fired Bruce from the band, but Bruce kept turning up to gigs anyway, arguing that Baker had no right to sack him, as it was a democracy.

Baker always claimed that in fact Bond had wanted to sack Bruce, but hadn't wanted to get his hands dirty, and insisted that Baker do it.

But neither Bond nor Hextall Smith objected when Bruce turned up for the next couple of gigs, so Baker took matters into his own hands.

He pulled out a knife and told Bruce, If you show up at one more gig, this is going in you.

Within days, Bruce was playing with John Mayall, whose blues breakers had gone through some line up changes by this point.

Roger Dean had only played with the Bluesbreakers for a short time before Mayol had replaced him.

Mayall had not been impressed with Eric Clapton's playing with the Yardbirds at first, even though Graffiti saying Clapton is God was already starting to appear around London, but he had been very impressed with Clapton's playing on Got to Hurry, the B-side to For Your Love.

When he discovered that Clapton had quit the band, he sprang into action and quickly recruited him to replace Dean.

Clapton knew he had made the right right choice when, a month after he joined, the group got the word that Bob Dylan had been so impressed with Mayle's single Crawling Up That Hill, the one that nobody liked, not even Mayo himself, that he wanted to jam with Mayle and his band in the studio.

Clapton, of course, went along.

Listen to me, baby.

There's something you might see.

I wanna be with you, gal.

If you wanna be with me.

But if you got to go,

it's alright.

But if you got to go,

go now,

or if you got to stay all night.

That was, of course, the session we've talked about in the Velvet Underground episode and elsewhere.

of which little other than that survives, and which Nico attended.

At this point, Mayo didn't have a record contract, his experience recording with Mike Vernon having been no more successful than the Bond groups had been.

But soon he got a one-off deal, as a solo artist, not with the Bluesbreakers.

With Immediate Records, Clapton was the only member of the group to play on the single, which was produced by Immediate's house producer Jimmy Page.

Got the power of the devil, and I'm the conjured guy.

Gonna teach you love

at the midnight hour.

Gonna feel you burning like a fashion fire.

Paige was impressed enough with Clapton's playing.

that he invited him round to Paige's house to jam together.

But what Clapton didn't know was that Paige was taping their jam sessions, and that he handed those tapes over to Immediate Records.

Whether he was forced to by his contract with the label, or whether that had been his planned all along, depends on whose story you believe, but Clapton never truly forgave him.

Paige and Clapton's guitar-only jams had overdubs by Bill Wyman, Ian Stewart, and drummer Chris Winter, and have been endlessly repackaged on blues compilations ever since.

But Mayo was having problems with John McVeigh, who had started to drink too much.

And as soon as he found out that Jack Bruce Bruce was sacked by the Graham Bond organisation, Mayle got in touch with Bruce and got him to join the band in McVeigh's place.

Everyone was agreed that this line-up of the band, Mayle, Clapton, Bruce, and Huey Flint, was going places.

Unfortunately, it wasn't going to last long.

Clapton, while he thought that Bruce was the greatest bass player he'd ever worked with, had other plans.

He was going to leave the country and travel the world as a pepipatetic busker.

He was off on his travels, never to return.

Luckily, Mayol had someone even better waiting in the wings.

A young man had, according to Mayol, kept coming down to all the gigs and saying, Hey, what are you doing with him?

referring to whichever guitarist was on stage that night.

I'm much better than he is, why don't you let me play guitar for you?

He got really quite nasty about it, so finally I let him sit in, and he was brilliant.

Peter Greene was probably the best blues guitarist in London at that time, but this line-up of the bluesbreakers only lasted a handful of gigs.

Clapton discovered that busking in Greece wasn't as much fun as being called God in London, and came back very soon after he'd left.

Mayol had told him that he could have his old job back when he got back, and so Greene was out, and Clapton was back in.

And soon the Bluesbreakers' revolving door revolved again.

Manford Mann had just had a big hit with If You Gotta Go, Go Now, the same song we heard Dylan playing

Listen to me, baby.

I'm trying to make you see

that I want to be with you, girl.

If you want to be with me,

but if you got to go,

it's alright.

But if you got to go,

go now,

But their guitarist, Mike Vickers, had quit.

Tom McGuinness, their bass player, had taken the opportunity to switch back to guitar, the instrument he played in his first band with his friend Eric Clapton.

But that left them short of bass player.

Manford Mann were essentially the same kind of band as the Graham Bond organization, a Hammond-led group of virtuoso multi-instrumentalists who played everything from hardcore delta blues to complex modern jazz.

But unlike the Bond group, they also had a string of massive pop hits, and so made a lot more money.

The combination was irresistible to Bruce, and he joined the band just before they recorded an EP of jazz instrumental versions of recent hits.

Bruce had also been encouraged by Robert Stigwood to do a solo project, and so at the same time as he joined Manford Mann, he also put out a solo single, Drinking and Gambling.

I'm getting tired, so take me away.

But but of course, the reason Bruce had joined Mountford Man was that they were having pop hits as well as playing jazz.

And soon they did just that, with Bruce playing on their number one hit, Pitty Flamingo.

All of the guys

call up Lamingo,

cause her hair glows like the sun,

and her

So John McVeigh was back in the blues breakers, promising to keep his drinking under control.

Mike Vernon still thought that Mayo had potential, but the people at Decker didn't agree.

So Vernon got Mayole and Clapton, but not the other band members, to record a single for Small Indie label he ran as a side project.

That label normally only released records in print runs of 99 copies, because once you hit 100 copies, you had to pay tax on them.

But there was so much demand for that single that they ended up pressing up 500 copies, making it the label's biggest seller ever.

Vernon eventually convinced the heads at Decca that the Bluesbreakers could be truly big, and so he got the okay to record the album that would generally be considered the greatest British blues album of all time, Blues Breakers, also known as the Beano album, because of Clapton reading a copy of the British kids' comic The Beano in the group photo on the front.

The album was a mixture of originals by Mayall and the standard repertoire of every Blues O R B band on the circuit, songs like Parchman Farm and What Did I Say?

But what made the album unique was Clapton's guitar tone.

Much to the chagrin of Vernon and of engineer Gus Dudgeon, Clapton insisted on playing at the same volume that he would on stage.

Vernon later said of Dudgeon: I can remember seeing his face the very first time Clapton plugged into the Marshall stack and turned it up and started playing at the sort of volume he was going to play.

You could almost see Gus's eyes meet over the middle of his nose, and it was almost like he was just going to fall over from the sheer power of it all.

But after an enormous amount of fiddling around and moving amps around, we got a sound that worked.

But by the time the album came out, Clapton was no longer with the Bluesbreakers.

The Graham Bond organisation had struggled on for a while after Bruce's departure.

They brought in a trumpet player, Mike Falana, and even had a hit record, or at least the B-side of a hit record.

The Who had just put out a hit single, Substitute, on Robert Stigwood's record label, Reaction.

my coach,

substitutes you for my mum,

substitutes my washing done,

substitutes your life for fact.

I see you actions, you're plastic mat.

I love

white, but my dad was black.

My stamp is here, it's really made out of sad.

But, as you'll hear in episode 183, they had moved to Reaction Records after a falling out with their previous label, and with Shell Talmy their previous producer.

The problem was, when Substitute was released, it had as its B-side a song called Circles, also known as Instant Party, it's been released under both names.

They'd recorded an earlier version of the song for Talmi, and, just as Substitute was starting to chart, Talmi got an injunction against the record, and it had to be pulled.

Reaction couldn't afford to lose the big hit record they'd spent money promoting, so they needed to put it out with a new B-side, but the Who hadn't got any unreleased recordings.

But the Graham Bond organisation had, and indeed they had an unreleased instrumental, so Waltz for a Pig became the B-side to a top five single, credited to the Who Orchestra.

That record provided the catalyst for the formation of Cream, because Ginger Baker had written the song and got £1,350 for it, which he used to buy a new car.

Baker had, for some time, been wanting to get out of the Graham Bond organisation.

He was trying to get off heroin, though he would make many efforts to get clean over the decades with little success, while Bond was starting to use it far more heavily, and was also using acid, and getting heavily into mysticism, which Baker despised.

Baker may have had the idea for what he did next from an article in one of the music papers.

John Entwistle of the Who would often tell a story about an article in Melody Maker, though I've not been able to track down the article itself to get the full details, in which musicians were asked to name which of their peers they'd put into a supergroup.

He didn't remember the full details, but he did remember that the consensus choice had had Eric Clapton on lead guitar, himself on bass, and Ginger Baker on drums.

As he said later, I don't remember who else was voted in, but a few months later the cream came along, and I did wonder if somebody was maybe believing too much of their own press.

Incidentally, like the Buffalo Springfield and The Pink Floyd, Cream, the band we're about to meet, had releases both with and without the definite article, and Eric Clapton at least seems always to talk about them as the cream, even decades later.

But they're primarily known as just cream these days.

Baker, having had enough of the Bond Group, decided to drive up to Oxford to see Clapton playing with the Bluesbreakers.

Clapton invited him to sit in for a couple of songs, and by all accounts the band sounded far better than they had previously.

Clapton and Baker could obviously play well together, and Baker offered Clapton a lift back to London in his new car, and on the drive back asked Clapton if he wanted to form a new band.

Clapton was as impressed by Baker's financial skills as he was by his musicianship.

He said later, musicians didn't have cars, you all got in a van.

Clearly, a musician who was actually driving a new car he owned was going places.

He agreed to Baker's plan, but of course they needed a bass player, and Clapton thought he had the perfect solution.

What about Jack?

Clapton knew that Bruce had been a member of the Graham Bond organisation, but didn't know why he'd left the band.

He wasn't particularly clued into what the wider music scene was doing, and all he knew was that Bruce had played with both him and Baker, and that he was the best bass player he'd ever played with.

And Bruce was, arguably, the best bass player in London at that point, and he was starting to pick up session work, as well as his work with Manfred Mann.

For example, it's him playing on the theme tune to After the Fox with Peter Sellers, the Hollies, and the song's composer Burt Bacharach.

Who is the fox?

I am the fox.

Who are you?

I am me.

Who is me?

Me is a thief.

Are you bringing more

mother grief?

So after the fox, after

the fox,

up to the hunt with chains and locks.

So after the fox, after the fox,

someone is always chasing after the fox.

Clapton was insistent.

Baker's idea was that the band should be the best musicians around.

That meant they needed the best musicians around, not the second best.

If Jack Bruce wasn't joining, Eric Clapton wasn't joining either.

Baker very reluctantly agreed, and went round to see Bruce the next day.

According to Baker, it was in a spirit of generosity in giving Bruce one more chance, while according to Bruce, he came round to eat humble pie and beg for forgiveness.

Either way, Bruce agreed to join the band.

The three met up for a rehearsal at Baker's home, and immediately Bruce and Baker started fighting, but also immediately they realized they were great at playing together, so great they named themselves the Cream, as they were the cream of musicians on the scene.

They knew they had something, but they didn't know what.

At first they considered making their performances into Dada projects, inspired by the early 20th century art movement.

They liked a band that had just started to make waves, the Bonzo Dog Doodar Band, who had originally been called the Bonzo Dog Dada Band, and they bought some props with the vague idea of using them on stage in the same way the Bonzos did.

But as they played together, they realised that they needed to do something different from that.

At first, they thought they needed a fourth member, a keyboard player.

Graham Bond's name was brought up, but Clapton vetoed him.

Clapton wanted Steve Winwood, the keyboard player and vocalist with the Spencer Davis group.

Indeed, Winwood was present at what was originally intended to be the first recording session the trio would play.

Joe Boyd had asked Derek Clapton to round up a bunch of players to record some fuller tracks for an Electro Blues compilation, and Clapton had asked Bruce and Baker to join him, Paul Jones on vocals, Winwood on Hammond, and Clapton's friend Ben Palmer on piano for the session.

Indeed, given that none of the original trio were keen on singing, that Paul Jones was just about to leave Manford Mann, and that we know Clapton wanted Winwood in the band, one has to wonder if Clapton at least half intended for this to be the eventual line-up of the band.

If he did, that plan was foiled by Baker's refusal to take part in the session.

Instead, this one-off band, named The Powerhouse, featured Pete York, the drummer from the Spencer Davis group, on the session, which produced the first recording of Clapton playing on the Robert Johnson song originally titled Crossroad Blues, but now generally better known just as Crossroads.

down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.

I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.

Ask the Lord for mercy,

save me if you please.

We talked about Robert Johnson a little back in episode 97, but other than Bob Dylan, who was inspired by his lyrics, we had seen very little influence from Johnson up to this point.

But he's going to be a major influence on rock guitar for the next few years, so we should talk about him a little here.

It's often said that nobody knew anything about Robert Johnson, that he was almost a phantom other than his records, which existed outside of any context as artefacts of their own.

That's not really the case.

Johnson had died a little less than 30 years earlier, at only twenty-seven years old.

Most of his half-siblings and step-siblings were alive, as were his son, his stepson, and dozens of musicians he'd played with over the years, women he'd had affairs with, and other assorted friends and relatives.

What people mean is that information about Johnson's life was not yet known by people they consider important, which is to say, white blues scholars and musicians.

Indeed, almost everything people like that, people like me, know of the facts of Johnson's life, has only become known to us in the last four years.

If, as some people had expected, I'd started this series with an episode on Johnson, I'd have had to redo the whole thing because of the information that's made its way to the public since then.

But here's what was known, or thought, by White Blues scholars in 1966.

Johnson was, according to them, a field hand from somewhere in Mississippi, who played guitar in between working on the cotton fields.

He had done two recording sessions in 1936 and 1937.

One song from his first session, Terraplane Blues, had been a very minor hit by blues standards.

And I feel you're so lonesome.

You have me when I'm on.

And I feel you're so lonesome.

You have fellow.

You've been driving my turpless for years since I've been gone.

That had sold well.

Nobody knows how well, but maybe as many as 10,000 copies.

And it was certainly a record people knew in 1937 if they liked their Delta Blues.

But 10,000 copies total is nowhere near the sales of really successful records, and none of the follow-ups had sold anything like that much.

Many of them had sold in the hundreds rather than the thousands.

As Elijah Wald, one of Johnson's biographers, put it, Knowing about Johnson and Muddy Waters, but not about Leroy Carr or Dinah Washington, was like knowing about, say, the Sir Douglas Quintet, but not knowing about the Beatles, though I would add that the Sir Douglas Quintet were much bigger during the sixties than Johnson was during his lifetime.

One of the few white people who had noticed Johnson's existence at all was John Hammond, and he had written a brief review of Johnson's first two singles under a pseudonym in a communist newspaper.

I'm going to quote it here, but the word he used to talk about black people was considered correct then, but isn't now, so I'll substitute black for that word.

Before closing, we cannot help but call your attention to the greatest black blues singer who has cropped up in recent years, Robert Johnson.

Recording them in Deepest Mississippi, Vocalian has certainly done right by us and by the tunes Last Fair Deal Gone Down and Terror Plain Blues, to name only two of the four sides already released, sung to his own guitar accompaniment.

Johnson makes Leadbelly sound like an accomplished poser.

Hammond had tried to get Johnson to perform at the Spirituals to Swing concerts we talked about in the very first episodes of the podcast, but he discovered that he died shortly before.

He got Big Bill Brunsy instead, and played a couple of Johnson's records from a record player on the stage.

Hammond introduced those recordings with a speech.

It is tragic that an American audience could not have been found seven or eight years ago for a concert of this kind.

Bessie Smith was still at the height of her career, and Joe Smith, probably the greatest trumpet player America ever knew, would still have been around to play obligatos for her.

Dozens of other artists could have been there in the flesh, but that audience, as well as this one, would not have been able to hear Robert Johnson sing and play the blues on his guitar, for at that time Johnson was just an unknown hand on a Robinsonville, Mississippi plantation.

Robert Johnson was going to be the big surprise of the evening for this audience at Carnegie Hall.

I know him only from his Vircalian blues records, and from the tall, exciting tales the recording engineers and supervisors used to bring about him from the improvised studios in Dallas and San Antonio.

I don't believe Johnson had ever worked as a professional musician anywhere, and it still knocks me over when I think of how lucky it is that a talent like his ever found its way onto phonograph records.

We will have to be content with playing two of his records, the old Walkin' Blues and the new, unreleased, preaching blues, because Robert Johnson died last week at the precise moment when Vircalian scouts finally reached him and told him that he was booked to appear at Carnegie Hall on December 23.

He was still in his middle twenties, and nobody seems to know what caused his death.

And that was, for the most part, the end of Robert Johnson's impact on the culture for a generation.

The Lomaxes went down to Clarksdale, Mississippi, a couple of years later.

Reports vary as to whether this was to see if they could find Johnson, who they were unaware was dead, or to find out information about him, and they did end up recording a young singer named Muddy Waters for the Library of Congress, including Waters' rendition of 3220 Blues, Johnson's reworking of Skip James's 2220 Blues.

third two twenty

My baby she riding round on V8 for

Lord I'm going in my third two twenty

My little girl riding round on the eight four

But Johnson's records remained unavailable after their initial release until 1959 when the blues scholar Samuel Charters published the book The Country Blues, which was the first book-length treatment ever of Delta Blues.

Sixteen years later, Charters said, I shouldn't have written The Country Blues when I did, since I really didn't know enough, but I felt I couldn't afford to wait.

So The Country Blues was two things.

It was a romanticization of certain aspects of black life, in an effort to force the white society to reconsider some of its racial attitudes, and on the other hand, it was a cry for help.

I wanted hundreds of people to go out and interview the surviving blues artists.

I wanted people to record them and document their lives, their environment and their music, not only so that their story would be preserved, but also so they'd get a little money and a little recognition in their last years.

Charters talked about Johnson in the book as one of the performers who played minor roles in the story of the Blues, and said that almost nothing was known about his life.

He talked about how he had been poisoned by his common-law wife, about how his records were recorded in a pool-hole, and said, The finest of Robert Johnson's blues have a brooding sense of torment and despair.

The blues has become a personified figure of despondency.

Along with Charters' book came a compilation album of the same name, and that included the first ever reissue of one of Johnson's tracks, Featuring Blues.

I drop this morning,

our blues walking like a man.

I'd love this morning,

our blues walking like a man.

Two years later, John Hammond, who had remained an ardent fan of Johnson, had Columbia put out the King of the Delta Blues Singers album.

At the time, no white blues scholars knew what Johnson looked like, and they had no photos of him, so a genetic painting of a poor-looking black man with a guitar was used for the cover.

The liner note to King of the Delta Blues Singers talked about how Johnson was 17 or 18 when he made his recordings, how he was dead before he reached his 21st birthday, poisoned by a jealous girlfriend, how he had seldom if ever been away from the plantation in Robbinsville, Mississippi, where he was born and raised, and how he had had such stage fright that when he he was asked to play in front of other musicians, he turned to face a wall so he couldn't see them.

And that would be all that any of the members of the powerhouse would know about Johnson.

Maybe they'd also heard the rumours that were starting to spread that Johnson had got his guitar playing skills by selling his soul to the devil at a crossroads at midnight, but that would have been all they knew when they recorded their filler track for Electra.

you can run.

Tell my friends when the sun goes down.

You can ride, you can run.

Tell my friend before the sun goes down.

While I'm standing at the clouds,

either way, the powerhouse line-up only lasted for that one session.

The group eventually decided that a simple trio would be best for the music they wanted to play.

Clapton had seen Buddy Guy touring with Just a Bass Player and Drummer a year earlier, and had liked the idea of the freedom that gave him as a guitarist.

The group soon took on Robert Stigwood as a manager, which caused more arguments between Bruce and Baker.

Bruce was convinced that if they were doing an all-for-one, one-for-all thing, they should also manage themselves, but Baker pointed out that that was a daft idea when they could get one of the biggest managers in the country to look after them.

A bigger argument, which almost killed the group before it started, happened when Baker told journalist Chris Welch of the Melody Maker about their plans, in an echo of the way that he and Bruce had been resigned from Blues Incorporated without being consulted.

Now with no discussion, Manfred Mann and John Mayall were reading in the papers that their band members were quitting before those members had bothered to mention it.

Mayall was furious, especially since the album Clapton had played on hadn't yet come out.

Clapton was supposed to work a month's notice while Mayall found another guitarist.

But Mayol spent two weeks begging Peter Green to rejoin the band.

Green was less than eager.

After all, he'd been fired pretty much straight away earlier, but Mayol eventually persuaded him.

The second he did, Mayol turned round to Clapton and told him he didn't need to work the rest of his notice.

He'd found another guitar player, and Clapton was fired.

Manfred Mann, meanwhile, took on the Beatles' friend Klaus Vohmann to replace Bruce.

Vohman would remain with the band until the end.

and like Green was from AOL, Vohmann was in some ways a better fit for Manfred Mann than Bruce was.

In particular, he could double on flute, as he did, for example on their hit version of Bob Dylan's The Mighty Quinn.

The new group, The Cream, were of course signed in the UK to Stigwood's Reaction label.

Other than The Who, who only stuck around for one album, Reaction was not a very successful label.

Its biggest signing was a former keyboard player for Screaming Lord Such, who recorded for them under the names Paul Dean and Oscar, but who later became known as Paul Nicholas and had a successful career in musical theatre and sitcom.

Nicholas never had any hits for Reaction, but he did release one interesting record in 1967.

Over the wall we go!

Oh, coppers and nanas.

Over the wall we go.

Leave them them and I'll say a happy new year.

I know all the best ways to break out of here.

I helped a young lady called Ivan.

I bundled him over the wall last night.

Then he got bang and he grabbed me tight.

He had some words that I can't say to you.

Cause he remembered that he was a screw.

That was one of the earliest songwriting attempts by a young man who had recently named himself David Bowie.

Now the group were public, they started inviting journalists to their rehearsals, which were mostly spent trying to combine their disparate musical influences.

Clapton was bringing in old Robert Johnson and Sun House songs, while Bruce was thinking of the band as being somewhat akin to Ornette Coleman.

Bruce had also started writing original material for the group, starting with a song called NSU.

Driving in my car, smoking my cigar.

The only time I'm happy is when I play my guitar.

Apparently, most people thought that song was about the NSU Quickly Moped, but Vruce was actually writing about nonspecific urethritis.

As he said later, it was about a member of the the band who had this venereal disease.

I can't tell you which one, except he played guitar.

The group basically took over all the venues that the Graham Bond organisation had previously played.

Though while the Graham Bond Organisation had been getting paid £40 between four of them, Cream were getting £45 between three of them.

It soon became clear that they were worth far, far more than that.

Clapton had started to change his playing style drastically to fit the other two.

As he put it at the time, my whole musical attitude has changed.

I listen to the same sounds and records, but with a different ear.

I'm no longer trying to play like anything but a white man.

The time is overdue when people should play like they are and what colour they are.

But more important than that, he was trying to play better than the other two.

As the group's friend, the TV director Tony Palmer put it, They realised quite early on that they didn't like each other, and to some extent that helped them become the great group they became.

And it was perfectly clear when you watched them, I think, that they're not wanting to be outplayed by the other two, and that's what made them really fire off.

According to Baker, other sources put this event later, even before they released their first single, Bruce had been trying to persuade Clapton to replace Baker, though how likely this is, given that in every other story about band troubles, it's always Baker who's trying to kick someone out, I don't know.

They stayed together with a promise that everything about the band would be split equally, except the songwriting.

Baker thought that since both he and Bruce were composers, and since nobody in the band was a lyricist, they should bring in the poet Pete Brown, who the Graham Bond organisation had sometimes backed doing his beat poetry, to write lyrics for them, and split the songwriting credits and royalties equally four ways.

As Baker put it in his autobiography, I invited him to come and write some songs with us, oz being the operative word.

We were at a studio in Haverstock Hill, and although Pete had never met Jack or Eric before, they went off together and wrote wrapping paper.

It was the most awful song and had absolutely nothing to do with what Cream was doing, but it got released.

It did indeed get released, as the group's first single.

But while wrapping paper is not really indicative of what Cream would do later, it's not as bad as its reputation, and it suggests that the idea of them being a Dada group influenced by the Bonzo Dog Band might still have been in the back of some of their minds.

Faces calling,

waves moving

in your picture on the wall of a house of old time.

Can you hear me?

Wondering so he's me

in the city,

feeling pretty.

Down that I'm making love to you.

Baker said, I was amazed to see that the songwriting was credited to Bruce and Brown.

No mention of Eric or me.

There was a big row, but I had promised I would never hit Jack again, though I often had to resort to drinking loads of alcohol instead in order to finish the session.

Baker did though start writing material on his own, with Bruce's wife writing the lyrics.

Incidentally, I should note here that Pete Brown died in the early stages of me writing this episode.

Normally I'd mention that at the end of an episode, when I'm wrapping things up, but because of the way this one is structured, there's not really a good place for me to do so.

Also, because of the way this episode is structured, there's not really as much space given to the importance his lyrics had to Cream's success.

So I'm going to acknowledge that here, too.

Wrapping paper was meant to be released at the same time as the group did their first big nationwide tour.

That tour was a typical package tour of the time, and Cream were third on the bill.

At the bottom were bands called MI5 and The Fruit Eating Bears.

not the same fruit-eating bears who were a punk band in the 70s who recorded Dorm in My Face.

Those fruit-eating bears took the original, even less known, group's name.

Then was Oscar, then Max Wall, an old musical comedian born in 1908, then the Magic Lanterns, a band that at various times featured Albert Hammond, godly in Cream of 10cc,

and a bass player called Oz Osborne, whose playing in the band caused a lot of confusion for future music historians who thought he was Ozzy Osborne.

Above Cream were the Merseys, the band formerly known as the Mersey Beats, who'd just had a big hit with Sorrow.

When your lungs wonder, and your eyes are blurred and you're young and blank, I love my cuts when you were so

love.

Sorry,

with your love

on you.

And topping the bill were The Who, whose I'm a boy was being released on reaction simultaneously with wrapping paper and Oscar's latest single.

But everything went wrong.

First, there was a problem at the pressing plant, which meant that 10,000 copies of wrapping paper had to be thrown out, and the release rescheduled for a month later.

Then the Who got an offer to do a 10-day US tour, and cancelled the entire UK tour, only to then discover that a problem with their work permits meant they couldn't play the US tour anyway.

Instead, Cream quickly booked a lot of gigs in smaller venues while they waited for the revised release date of their first single.

And on October 1st, at a gig at the London Polytechnic, Chas Chandler asked if a new guitarist he was managing could sit in.

As always, Ginger Baker didn't want to, but Clapton and Bruce thought it might be fun.

After all, Clapton was God, right?

He could outplay anyone.

We don't have recordings of that night, but we do have recordings of that guitarist playing the song he played that night on other occasions.

Lord knows me

I should have been gone.

Lord knows me

I should have been gone

I'm just sitting right here crying

crying I don't feel it

There was a new god in town.

Every guitarist in London was astonished and upset at the arrival of Hendrix.

Jeff Beck said, Suddenly you couldn't do anything remotely flash or clever, because people would just say you were ripping Hendrix off.

There had been a rivalry between the London guitarists.

Up to that point, there were basically six electric guitarists in London who mattered as far as innovation on the instrument went.

Clapton, Beck, Jimmy Page, Peter Green, Pete Townsend, and Dave Davis.

As soon as Hendrix turned up, there was only one.

Clapton didn't take it well, at all.

He started trying to imitate Hendrix's guitar style in rehearsals, much to Bruce and Baker's disgust.

Within a few months he'd grown his hair out into a curly perm inspired by Hendrix's afro.

He would tell everyone who listened that he was actually copying Bob Dylan's hairstyle, saying, I like Dylan's hair, I went and had my hair curled.

Then Jimmy came on with the curly hair, and his band did it to complete the image, and everybody else did it because they dug Jimmy, and other people did it because they dug me, I guess.

It became quite a trend in England to have curly hair.

Except, of course, that Hendrix had his afro before Clapton.

According to Bruce, When Jimi Hendrix came on the scene, Eric said, One of us has to have a hair do like that.

I said, okay, so long as it isn't me.

So Eric went and got a perm.

There's a fascinating interview from 1967, which I can't quote here because Clapton liberally uses racial slurs and also swears a lot.

But you can find online if you search for the phrase, and Jimmy came over and exploited that to the limit.

In that, Clapton makes roughly three overlapping claims.

The first is the rather patronising one that Hendrix was a beautiful guitar player for his age.

Hendrix was three years older than Clapton.

The second is the claim that Hendrix's showmanship was in direct opposition to his musicianship, that when Hendrix did all his Chitlin circuit tricks, he'd look at the audience's reaction and only really respected people who were listening rather than those who were impressed by pyrotechnics.

That one may well have been true, but given some of what I'm going to talk about later, it also reads to me very much as if Clapton was projecting his own feelings about his own audience onto Hendrix.

And finally, Clapton claimed that the main reason everyone was impressed by Hendrix is that in Britain, everyone believed that black men had large penises.

Meanwhile, Cream were in the middle of recording their debut album Fresh Cream, and Wrapping Paper had come out to excruciatingly bad reviews.

Jack Bruce remembered performing the single on Ready, Steady, Go, and his old bandmates Manfred Mann also being on the show.

He said, you could see them giving us looks, as if to say, they've blown it.

Wrapping paper only reached number 34 on the charts, but the second single did much better.

We

move like the sea.

I Feel Free was another song by Brown and Bruce, with Bruce on lead vocals, and it did much better in the charts, reaching number 11.

It was left off the album, as was wrapping paper, and so Fresh Cream was a mixture of five originals, including Baker's extended drum solo Toad, and five blues covers, two of which, including a Robert Johnson one, had group members adding themselves to the credits as arrangers to get some of the songwriting money.

Stigwood seemed to be losing interest in Cream even before they'd really started.

In January 1967, he entered into the agreement with Brian Epstein that we talked about in the episode on All You Need Is Love and started managing Nem's artists.

He signed the minor Mersey beat star Billy J.

Kramer to reaction and had him record a single for the label: Toy Maker, Toy Maker, make me

Make a girl for every boy,

make a man for every wife,

live an everlasting life.

That was written by three of the members of a new band that Stigwood had signed to NEMS, but not to his own record label, which he eventually wound down as his new signing took up more of his attention.

someone that i knew

have you seen my wife mr jones

do you know what it's like on the outside

don't go talking too loud you can't the bee gees would of course go on to have massive success and be stickwood's biggest clients but at the time cream resented them for taking stickwood's focus away from them armett ertigen was also getting a bit annoyed by stigwood's loss of focus Atlantic were distributing Cream's records in the US, and were about to release the first album over there, and he wanted Cream to play US dates in order to promote the record.

But Stigwood just didn't seem that bothered.

Eventually, though, they did get a series of US dates organised.

Nine Days performing five times a day for five minutes a time on a Murray the Kay Package show in New York, with Simon and Garfunkel, Mitch Ryder, Wilson Pickett, Smokey Robinson, Phil Oakes, and a disparate bunch of other acts.

Cream were actually only on there, because Mitch Ryder really didn't want to do it.

Ryder had told his agent to just keep making ridiculous demands until Murray the K said no.

But Murray the Kay had been desperate to get him.

Ryder had demanded a ridiculous fee.

Murray had said yes.

Ryder had demanded that his dressing room be repainted in blue.

Murray had said yes.

Finally, Ryder had demanded that the Who, who had never played in the US before, also be on the bill, and Murray had said yes to that as well.

So Ryder's agent had called Robert Stigwood, who was handling the Who's bookings, and told him the situation.

Mitch Ryder really didn't want to do it, so Stigwood should make demands for the Who that would mean they wouldn't play, so then Ryder wouldn't have to.

So Stigwood demanded $5,000 for the Who.

A ridiculous sum.

Murray agreed.

So Stigwood added on that the Who would only do it if the cream were also on the bill, and they'd cost another $2,500.

Murray agreed to that, and so both Cream and the Who ended up making their American debuts in front of a load of bemused teenage kids who were there to see pop stars.

As John Entwistle described it, we'd done all the silly tours and mad packages where you go out and find you're supporting a dancing bear and a juggler, but Cream had never been in that environment.

The Bluesbreakers, Graham Bond, the Yardbirds, they were club bands, playing to audiences who knew what they were about, and suddenly they were dropped into this Christmas pantomime environment, with a couple of thousand thirteen-year-olds eating sweets and reading comics.

It really was rather ridiculous.

As it turned out, as well, the teenagers were unimpressed enough by the line-up that Murray didn't make anything like the money he'd expected, and none of the acts ended up getting paid at all, except the Who, whose manager Chris Stamp had insisted on per DMs because they didn't have enough money to eat.

After that run of gigs, though, Cream were booked into Atlantic Studios for a session with Ahmed Ertigan producing them.

That only produced one track, but a month later, they flew back to the US to record more there, this time with the legendary Tom Dowd Engineering and Ertigan's choice of producer, Felix Papillardi, who had recently produced the debut album by the Youngbloods.

Though the bird is on the wing,

and you may not know why.

Come on, people.

Smile on your brother, everybody get together.

Try to love one another right now.

Papilladi almost immediately proved his worth to the band.

The group had been playing a version of an old blues standard, Hey Lordy Mama, but after the first day's sessions, Papalardi had taken a copy of the instrumental track back home, and with his wife Gail Collins had written a new lyric and melody line to the track.

The result, Strange Brew, became the group's next single, and another UK top 20 hit.

Voose was never quite happy with the changes though, saying, There's a bum note in there and it annoys me every time I hear it.

They grafted these lyrics on top of the backing track and it had a different chord change.

If you listen to the song, it sounds like I'm playing the wrong bass line.

That's because I'm playing a different tune.

I cringe every time I hear it.

There were other problems as well.

By this time, Cream had realised that they needed to do different things in the studio and live.

They could show off their playing on stage, but they needed to have songs that would stand up to repeated listens in the studio, and were working on their song craft.

Baker said, There were two bands.

A lot of the studio stuff we hardly ever played live.

Ertigan, though, thought he'd signed a blues band, and thought the music they were working on was psychedelic hogwash.

Other sources credit that comment to Jerry Wexner rather than Ertigan, but neither man was happy with the material.

On top of that, all he'd really known about the band when he'd signed them was that Clapton was the former guitarist with the Yardbirds and John Mayall.

He was the star of the group, so why was the bass player doing most of the singing?

The album, eventually titled Disraeli Gears, was many things, but it wasn't a blues album.

It had songs like Tales of Brave Ulysses, which featured a wa-wha pedal, mostly because Clapton had heard that Hendrix had just bought one, SWLABR, which Bruce later said was inspired by the Monkeys, a version of the old music hall song Your Baby's Gone Down the Plughole, retitled Mother's Lament, and the song that Ertigan and Wexler detested most of all, Sunshine of Your Love.

I'll soon be with you, my love.

Give you my dull surprise.

I'll be with you, darling, soon.

I'll be with you when the stars start falling.

That had started out as a riff that Bruce had been playing on a double bass, which Brown had found difficult to set lyrics to, until they got to the end of an all-night writing session and, staring out the window, Brown wrote the line, It's getting near dawn and lights close their tired eyes.

Clapton later added the chorus music, and the song had been in the group's set for a while before they took it into the studio, where Tom Dowd made the crucial suggestion that Ginger Baker play the downbeat rather than the backbeat.

This fit well with Baker's jazz-influenced style.

It was the kind of thing that a lot of swing bands would do, but Ertigan still hated the track.

It was only when Otis Redding and Bucketee Jones heard it and thought it was great that Ertigan relented and allowed it to be released at all.

Released as the second single from the album, several months after the album's release, it became the group's first and biggest US hit, reaching number five more than a year after it was recorded.

I've been waiting so long

to be where I'm going

in the sunshine of your love.

But it took a long time for that hit to happen, and in summer 1967, there was serious consideration given to splitting up the band, and Jack Bruce even had another offer.

Peter Green equipped John Mayle's blues breakers after Mayle had fired his friend, Mayle's latest drummer Mick Fleetwood, and he was trying to put together his own supergroup in the manner of Cream, with the best players and singers on the scene.

He got in Ainsley Dunbar on drums, Brian Auger on keyboards, though Auger can't be heard on the recordings that have surfaced, but Green said he was there, Bruce on bass and piano, and the Jeff Beck group singer on vocals to form Crazy Blue.

Darling, you must be stone go crazy

to treat me the way, the way that you do

I said,

Darling, you must be so crazy

Unfortunately, at this point everyone had so many entanglements and contracts that the record never came out, and Green had to get a new line up for his supergroup, who debuted only a few days after that session.

Rod Stewart and the rest had all lost their chance to be in the band that became Peter Greene's Fleetwood Mac.

But soon after that, Cream made their first appearance at the Fillmore, and suddenly everything changed.

In the UK they'd been used to playing relatively short club sets, and their only US appearances previously had had them playing only one song a show, but at the Fillmore they were expected to play for hours, and so they had to stretch out.

As Bruce said, when we hit the Fillmore we started to play those long improvisations, because we didn't know hardly any songs.

It was partly a repertoire and partly a product of the times, because all the audiences were stoned out of their collective bonses.

The group went down a storm at the Fillmore, and what had been a one-week residency at one venue ended up becoming a major US tour, with the band being booked for long residencies in other major cities as a result of the Fillmore audience.

When the tour hit New York, Clapton guested with Aretha Franklin on the track Good to Me as I Am to You on her Lady Soul album.

Do stay alive, my darling.

I need a glass of water than you think.

Let me love my love.

These things I swear I say are true.

And all I'm really saying

is be as good

to the airline.

And also guested on the Mothers of Inventions, we're only in it for the money, though only speaking, not playing guitar.

Out of sight, yeah.

Listen, um, you are you are you hung up?

It was straight up.

I can't understand

out of sight, yeah.

Listen, uh,

are you not are you hung up?

One of these days, they have grind to replace every taken in the world

in the war.

While Clapton was on that album, Jimi Hendrix, who wasn't, was on the cover, a parody of the Sgt.

Pepper cover.

For much of the rest of the year, and early into 1968, Cream led a strange double life.

In Britain, they were a pop group, on the hip end of pop, the art school end, but definitely in the light entertainment industry.

They played the Savile Theatre with the Bonzo Dog Doodar Band, the Marine Marine Ballroom at the end of Morecambe Pier, and the Silver Blades Ice Rink in Streatham.

They also made a guest appearance on Twice a Fortnite, a comedy show directed by Tony Palmer, a friend of Clapton's who later went on to be one of the most important rock music documentary makers of all time, and starring Bill Oddy, Graham Garden, Michael Palin, and Terry Jones.

The Twice a Fortnite appearance actually ended with Baker being rushed to hospital with what was at first believed to be an ulcer.

He had had all the symptoms but which turned out actually to be exhaustion.

But Baker was only in hospital for a week before it was back on the treadmill, and this time back to the US, where rather than being pop they were playing to a rock audience who wanted their extended solos and jamming.

This disparity is reflected in their next album, Wheels of Fire, which they worked on through most of 1967 and early 1968.

This was a double album, and Disc One was mostly made up of relatively short songs recorded in the studio by the Cream Quartet, the three members of the group plus Pappillardi.

As Clapton later said, the strange thing about Cream was that every time we went into the studios to record, we formed another group, adding violins or another guitar or something.

These tracks were layered, orchestrated pop songs that made use of Bruce and Papillardi's multi-instrumental abilities.

and the eight-track equipment that Atlantic had, at a time when the best studios in the UK were still on four-track.

Bruce added cello, calliope, and recorder, papillardi, viola, tonnet, and trumpet, and Baker played a variety of tuned percussion as well as his drum kit.

This disc was made up almost entirely of originals, four by Bruce and Brown, and three by Baker and the group's friend Mike Taylor, plus two blues covers suggested by Clapton, who was still not writing material himself.

Disc 2, on the other hand, featured the core trio just playing their normal instruments, live live in San Francisco.

It was labelled as Live at the Fillmore, but in fact three of the four tracks were recorded at the Winterland Ballroom.

Side 2 features two extended improvisations, a 7-minute version of Train Time, the song Bruce had written for the Graham Bond organisation, and a 16-minute version of Baker's drum solo, Toad.

Side 1, meanwhile, spotlighted Clapton on two blues tracks, a 17-minute version of Willie Dixon's Spoonful, which they'd already recorded in a much shorter studio studio version on Fresh Cream, and a relatively concise four-minute version of Robert Johnson's Crossroads.

While that didn't give the group the excuse for ultra-extended soloing, the way some of the other tracks they recorded did, it did become Clapton's signature song, and possibly his definitive guitar performance.

So much so that there's an often-told story about the great Irish blues guitarist Rory Gallagher being told he played Crossroads better than Clapton, and replying, but Eric wrote it.

Crossroads also became the title track to Clapton's career-spanning 1988 box set,

and is still arguably the best example of him as a pure guitarist on record.

Those recordings, according to Bruce, were a fair representation of the band on an average night, but not on one of the nights when we really took off.

The rest of the band agreed.

Their best shows were never recorded.

And there were a lot of shows.

Those San Francisco shows were recorded on a long tour to promote Disraeli gears, and they played more than 70 shows in four months, but the shows were getting worse and worse.

It was apparent that the audience was there to see the great musicians they'd heard about, but not actually to listen to the music.

At one show, they were drowned out by screaming feedback, and the audience loved it.

Another show, the vocal mags didn't work.

The audience didn't mind.

Another show, Clapton's guitar wasn't in the mix.

The audience didn't care.

The group hated performing for people people who weren't listening, and started to play badly as a result.

If the audience didn't care, why would they?

They were on a grinding treadmill and getting on each other's nerves.

Bruce and Baker were arguing about everything from politics, Baker was right-wing and Bruce was a leftist, to the PA systems.

All of them were suffering from exhaustion, especially Baker.

Bruce said later, I'm sure that a lot of people came to see Cream to see if Ginger would die, whereas they'd go to see other bands because they thought the singer was sexy.

They'd come and see us and shout through the window, You're gonna die tonight, Ginger?

And there was another issue too.

Clapton was starting to think that maybe the whole direction the group were going in was wrong.

In late 1967, a tape had started to circulate in British music circles of some new songs by Bob Dylan, who hadn't released any music since a motorcycle accident the previous year.

Originally, the only copy was in the hands of Manfred Mann, who'd been sent it in the hope that they might have a hit with some of the songs, as they had with If You Gotta Go, Go Go Now, and Just Like a Woman.

Dylan had said in 1965 that of all the people who covered his songs, the best was Manfred Mann, and they did indeed record The Mighty Quinn and have a number one with it.

But slowly more copies started to circulate, and more musicians started covering songs from it.

The recording was full of great songs.

There's no

if my

next

book can

This will stay

If your memory serves you well

Not only that, Clapton soon got an advanced copy of the first album by Dylan's backing band on those tapes, a band who just called themselves The Band.

And that contained remakes of some of those Dylan songs, but also new originals like The Wait.

You put the load right

on me.

This music, which we'll be hearing more about next episode, had nothing to do with seventeen-minute drum solos or psychedelia.

This, Clapton knew, was the music he actually wanted to be making.

Maybe it was the music he would have been making if they'd got Steve Winwood in the band like he'd wanted at the start.

He'd play the record and the tape of Dylan's new songs over and over on the tour, wishing he was doing that instead.

Matters came to a head when Bruce suggested to Baker that the group needed their own PA system rather than using the awful venue ones.

Baker, who was the band member most interested in their financial well-being, told him they couldn't afford one, and Bruce was horrified.

What were they even doing this for if they were working themselves to death, having massive hit records, and still couldn't afford basic equipment.

Bruce said he was going home, and made his way to the airport, where two of the band's roadies found him and basically forced him to go back and play that night's gig.

But they cancelled the next ten days' worth of shows.

That was in April 1968, but after those ten days, the group were back on the road, slogging their way through the rest of the US tour until June.

Their next single, Anyone for Tennis, released while they were still working on the Wheels of Fire album, barely scraped the top 40 in the UK, and didn't even make the hot 100 in the US.

To my ears, it shows the influence of their friends the Bonzo Dog Band again, with the recorder part sounding not dissimilar to the Bonzo's recent hit, I am the Urban Spaceman.

But the fundamental problem was, as Noel Redding said, that the things that killed Cream were the same that killed Jimmy.

If one person had booed while Jack was tuning his bass or Eric hit a bum note, then they'd have known that people still cared about what they played.

Instead, they were allowed to get away with everything, until finally it didn't matter what they did.

And the moment they realised that, it was the end.

The killer blow came when someone else expressed that for the first time in print.

John Landau wrote a devastating review of the group in Rolling Stone.

that said in part, The greatest pitfall that stands before them is that an over-accepting audience in the United States will lull them into a complacency in which they increase their virtuosity at the expense of their own involvement.

It would not be difficult for a group of this caliber to start making it all sound like scales.

According to Clapton, he literally fainted when he read that review.

They put the finishing touches on Wheels of Fire, and it was released to a mixed reception.

White Room, a Bruce and Brown song that was the single from the album, became a minor hit in the UK, but a top-ten hit in the US.

Silver horses,

round down moon beams in your dark eyes.

Don't light smile

on you, leaving

But most people seemed to think it was an album of two halves, and only liked one of the halves, to the extent that in Britain, Polydor, their new label, released it as two single discs as well as a double album, so people wouldn't have to buy the one they didn't like.

Rolling Stone loved the live disc, saying, This is the kind of thing that people who have seen Cream perform walk away raving about, and it's good to at last have it on a record.

But they absolutely savaged the studio disc, saying, Cream is good at a number of things.

Unfortunately, songwriting and recording are not among them.

The album was released in July 1968, and went to number one in the US album charts.

Sunshine of Your Love re-entered the charts and belatedly became a massive hit.

and Cream were finally having the massive commercial success they'd expected from the start.

But on the 13th of July, they announced they were splitting.

They were going to do a final US tour at the end of the year and release a contractual obligation album, and that was it.

That album, Goodbye, came out in 1969 and had three studio tracks, one written by each member, and three live tracks.

The studio tracks included Badge, a song Clapton had written with his good friend George Harrison, and which became the group's last single, making the top 20 in the UK, but only number 60 60 in the US.

Yes, I told you that the light goes up and down.

Don't you notice how the wheel goes round?

And you'd better pick yourself up from the ground

before that window cutting down.

Just before that window

While the live tracks included Bruce and Brown's Politician and two old blues songs, Skip James's I'm So Glad and Sitting on Top of the World.

Those songs were also included in the group's final live show, other than a brief 2005 reunion, at the Royal Albert Hall, which was filmed by Tony Palmer for a documentary.

One summer day,

she went away.

Gonna let me

come to stay

just gone.

That's where we'll be leaving Cream for now, but the members of the group will all turn up in future episodes, and will continue their stories then.

But another story also continued.

The story of Robert Johnson.

Because the King of the Delta Blues singers album had sparked a concerted search for information about Johnson among the community of white blues scholars and musicians, and people like Al Wilson of Canned Heat, Gail Dean Wardlow, Paul Oliver, Peter Geralnik, Steve Levier, and Mac McCormick started investigating Johnson's life and writing articles and books on him.

This investigation, at least initially, took a lot of time and involved very few clues.

One way that McCormick tracked down information was writing down every single reference to a place name in any of Johnson's songs, and then travelling to all those those places, knocking on doors, and asking people if they remembered a blues singer called Robert Johnson, who'd been there 30 or so years earlier.

This was time-consuming and slow-going, and the information we have now took literally decades of work.

But because of that work, we now have, in the public domain, more reliable information about Johnson than pretty much any other Delta blues singer of his generation.

But it took a while to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Johnson was a man who, like many of us, was different around different people.

Just as for any of us, our persona on social media is different from how we are when talking with our closest friends or romantic partners, and that again is different from how we are at work, or how we are when talking to our grandparents.

And so at first, the information seemed to make Johnson more unknowable, rather than more known, as utterly contradictory information came through different sources.

This was combined with the inherent unreliability of the information, and again, this unreliability has many different causes.

There were people who simply remembered things badly.

There were people who exaggerated their own role in the story for their own reputation.

I taught him everything he knew.

People who didn't want to speak to a strange white person they'd never met before.

People who wanted to string these rather gullible young white men along and see what nonsense they could get them to believe.

People who decided that they should just say whatever the young white kids giving them money wanted to hear, whether it was true or not.

People who told the truth but used idioms that weren't familiar to people of a radically different background, and every other way in which facts can be confused.

So for example, Son House talked to some researchers about how he'd known Robert Johnson when Johnson was just a kid, and he'd tried to play the guitar and had been terrible, but then he'd gone away, come back, and been astonishingly good.

This was mixed in the researchers' minds, not in anything House actually said, though what House said was inaccurate in itself, with the story that was told by relatives of another blues man named Johnson, Tommy Johnson, which said that he'd sold his soul to the devil.

Add in a few references to crossroads and the devil in Johnson's songs, and it soon became a legend, one known by everyone who knows of Johnson at all, that he'd been a terrible guitar player until he'd gone to a crossroads at midnight.

There a strange black figure had re-tuned his guitar, giving him the power to play better than any man alive, in exchange for his soul.

The more prosaic truth, that when House first met Johnson, Johnson was an early career professional in his late teens, who was a decent player but completely outshone by the much more experienced House.

So Johnson went off and spent several months taking lessons from a more accomplished player and practising constantly, and got better,

is rather less well known.

So let's take an abbreviated look at the actual life of Robert Johnson, king of the Delta Blues Singers.

I went to the crossroad,

bell down on my knees.

I went to the crossroad,

fell down on my knee.

Robert Johnson would not even have been born, were it not for white men trying to steal from black men.

One of the facts about the segregation era South that is not as widely known among white people as perhaps it should be is the extent to which lynching was an economic tool of exploitation.

It was not, as films usually portray, the poorest black men who were lynched for the most part.

Rather, it was those who had managed to get something for themselves, a plot of land, a small business, that a rich white man wanted.

The normal thing was that the white man would make some kind of accusation against the black man, usually that the black man had been trying to have sex with a white woman.

This would anger the other white people, they would brutally murder the black man, and the white man would be able to get the black man's possessions after he died, buying them from the state for a fraction of what they were worth.

So in 1906, when Joseph Marchetti accosted Charles Dodds, a farmer who owned a small piece of land in the street and accused him of talking to a white woman the woman in question was actually mixed race, as was Dodds himself, and there were rumours that Marchetti had an interest in her.

And slashed at Dodds's face with a knife, Dodds knew what was coming.

He quickly ran home, explained the situation to his wife, and hid himself in a bramble thicket so thick that it would appear that nobody could get in there.

He waited in the brambles for almost two weeks until the lynch mob finally gave up looking for him, and then made his escape, dressed in women's clothes in case they were still looking for him.

Dodds moved to Memphis and changed his name to Spencer.

He and his wife still loved each other, but they couldn't be together, and Spencer remarried twice.

His second wife died after they had two children, and he married again and had two more.

He and his wife Julia had had five children.

and in 1911, five years after they split up, Julia had a sixth with her new partner Noah Johnson.

As a single mother, Julia had sent several of her older children to live with their father and his new wife, because they were doing better financially, and when her relationship with Johnson got bad, she turned to her ex-husband for help for herself, their youngest child, and her child by another man.

Spencer took his ex-wife's son in, and Julia stayed at least for a while with him, and longer with their older daughter Carrie.

Robert took on the name Robert Spencer, and as he grew up, Spencer taught him the rudiments of music.

Spencer played guitar and fiddle, and was a big fan of country music, especially fiddling John Carson and Uncle Dave Macon.

And that would have been the music he taught his stepson to play.

He bought out west turtle,

couldn't hardly stay in bed.

Monday morning, on the eastbound train, Goldwork on his

day.

Good work on his

day.

Robert's older half-brother, Charles Spencer Jr., known as Son, also played music, both guitar and piano, and there's a photo of him in a suit, wearing a hat, playing a guitar with his wife by his side.

which looks spookily like the most famous photo of his brother.

Son also taught Robert some of what he knew on the guitar, and introduced him to a lot of music.

Son was a big fan of country music, like his father, but also liked ragtime and jazz, especially Fat Swallow and Louis Armstrong.

While he was being brought up in Memphis, Robert also went to school, which set him apart from a lot of the other Delta Blues singers, many of whom were illiterate, or who had been taught at most to write their names.

Robert's stepfather was a skilled tradesman, and that seems to have been his plan for his son.

Robert lived with his stepfather and his children until 1919, when his mother remarried and came to take her eight-year-old son back to live on a plantation in Arkansas, before moving again to Robinsonville, Mississippi.

At this point, and until he was a teenager, Robert still had no idea that the man he knew as his father wasn't his biological father, and still called himself Robert Spencer.

And he seemed to want to be more like his father and family in Memphis than the field hands he was now living among.

He hated having to work the fields, and would complain about how much he missed Memphis with its music and the big city life.

He also became a voracious reader, and would often carry a notebook in which he'd drop ideas.

But his Memphis family weren't completely out of his life.

He would visit them whenever he could, often staying for long periods, and he became determined that he was going to be a musician, not a farmhand.

His older sister Carrie moved back to to the Delta to be with her mother and brother, and when his mother's new husband wouldn't buy him a guitar, first Robert built himself a diddly bow, a rudimentary string instrument, and then he and Carrie built a cigar box guitar before Carrie helped him save up enough to buy a real one.

He had a boost in his musical education when Willie Brown moved to Robinsonville.

I win, I beg you

just that him in a home.

I'm going

without sidewise

and up in bed.

Young Robert started learning from Brown and sneaking out to watch him perform.

Robert's mother's husband profoundly disapproved of him trying to make a living as a musician, but by the time he was seventeen he was playing in juke joints, playing whatever music people wanted to hear.

He'd play blues, folk songs, ragtime, polkas, and he particularly enjoyed the music of Jimmy Rogers, the first big country music star.

I haven't got a nickel,

not a penny can I see old

Get off, get off,

you railroad bump, he slammed the

It also seems to be around this time that he discovered who his biological father was and started referring to himself as Robert Johnson, as well as Robert Spencer.

And this seems at least in part to have been as a way of making himself more like two of his other musical idols Tommy Johnson, the blues singer we've mentioned a couple of times already, and Lonnie Johnson, who straddled the line between blues, pop, and jazz, and influenced everyone from Elvis Presley, who recorded his Tomorrow Night, and Lonnie Donnegan, who named himself after him, to Charlie Christian and Django Reinhardt, and who recorded guest guitar with Louis Armstrong in the late twenties.

Robert would often refer to himself as one of the Johnson boys, hoping that people would associate him with the more famous musicians.

He was a decent but not great guitarist and singer, making a living but not standing out.

This is the period Son House talked about later, where Johnson tried to challenge House as to who was the better guitarist, but was wildly outplayed and seemed incompetent by House's standards.

But then just before he turned 18, he married a 14-year-old girl he was in love with.

and settled down and started mostly doing field-hand work to support his new wife.

She got pregnant and went off to stay with family to have the baby.

When it was about due, Robert hitchhiked up to be there for the birth, but took some time out to play in a few duke joints along the way and have a little fun, as a teenager would do.

He got there to find his wife and baby had died in childbirth, and her family were blaming his playing the devil's music for him not having been there, and maybe for her death itself.

He was utterly devastated, and this seems to have changed his personality totally.

He moved back in with his mother and her husband, but he was getting drunk and into fights with the older man, and regularly disappeared for days and weeks at a time.

But he stayed around the plantations because there were so many musicians there to learn from.

Willie Brown had introduced him to a variety of great musicians who Brown played with, including Charlie Patton.

I will thank the old man

King Deli

You gon' need somebody when you come to

Yes, I got a lawyer to go my boy Handsome house

Oh, I'm gonna get the religion.

I'm gonna join the Baptist Church.

I'm gonna be a Baptist preacher, and I don't wanna have no words.

Oh, I'm a preaching soon.

Johnson was at this point obsessed with music.

After the death of his wife and child, he had nothing else in his life, and he was absolutely driven.

But he was also driven to find his own birth father, and so he made his way to the small town where he'd been born to search for Noah Johnson.

He didn't find him, but he did find an older man, Ike Zimmerman, who took him in for the best part of a year, and spent that year teaching him to play guitar better.

The two used to go out to a nearby graveyard every night to play guitar together, because it was a quiet place where you wouldn't disturb anyone.

It's this year and the massive improvement in Johnson's technique that resulted, plus Johnson's changed personality as a result of the tragedy he'd suffered, that lent some tiny plausibility to the posthumous rumours that he'd sold his soul to the devil.

Around this time Johnson got a girl, a friend of Zimmermann's daughter, pregnant.

She had the baby but refused to marry him because he was living an immoral vagabond life.

Instead he married another, older woman, and moved in with her in Clarksdale, but the marriage soon ended as Johnson became an itinerant musician, and his second wife died died in 1933, less than two years after they married, apparently without him knowing or caring.

He also never seems to have seen his son Claude.

Indeed, Johnson's family often claimed, and his surviving stepsister still does, that Claude's claim to be Johnson's son was fictitious, because they never heard mention of him until the 1990s.

The first evidence we have of Johnson's music on record is not actually a recording by him, but by his friend Johnny Temple.

And it's the worst old feeling, baby,

that I ever had.

The boogie bass pattern on that record is something that Temple would always later say had been taught him by Johnson.

For the most part though, Johnson was very secretive about his playing.

He loved to play for audiences, but if he ever saw another musician watching him too closely, he'd turn around and hide his fingers, so nobody could learn his tricks.

One of the few musicians he ever taught anything to was Robert Jr.

Lockwood, the son of one of Johnson's many girlfriends, who Johnson regarded as his stepson and helped build his first guitar.

To be rollin' this away

Lockwood would go on to play with Sonny Boy Williamson 2 before having a career of his own.

Over the few days in which Johnson's first set of recording sessions took place, they recorded many other musicians.

The way labels making music for minority populations would operate in those days was that they would book a room somewhere and get as many local musicians as they could in the area to record in extended sessions that would give them material to release for six months or a year.

This led to a myth that grew up that Johnson recorded while facing a corner to get a better sound.

In fact, Johnson recorded perfectly normally, facing a microphone in the middle of one room while the engineers worked the disc cutter in the other.

The only time he faced a corner was when the engineers invited in some of the Mexican musicians to hear their new discovery.

Johnson didn't want to show them his playing.

As always, the record company weren't interested in Johnson's performances of Gene Autry or Jimmy Rogers' songs.

They wanted original material.

not the covers of pop hits that made up the bulk of Johnson's performances.

So he obliged.

In these initial sessions, over the course of a few days, Johnson recorded sixteen songs, two takes of each, including songs like Crossroad Blues, Ramblin' on My Mind, I Believe I'll Dust My Broom, Sweet Home Chicago, and his one hit, Terrorplane Blues, all of which became blues standards after they were rediscovered, as well as more idiosyncratic songs like They're Red Hot, inspired by the local cuisine.

These songs are noteworthy because Johnson did two takes of each, and the songs were more or less identical each time.

This was very, very unusual for Delta Blues performers.

Normally, Delta Blues singers would alter their songs every time.

They were part of a folk tradition, and they used floating verses and improvised depending on how they felt at the time.

Johnson, on the other hand, was slightly younger and more modern than the previous Delta musicians.

He'd grown up in a world where music came on records and the radio, and a song was the same every time you listened to it.

He He could also read and write.

Unlike most of his contemporaries, Johnson was fully literate and a voracious reader, and would write down his lyrics.

Johnson's songs were still very heavily inspired by other musicians' work.

Compare, for example, Johnson's Sweet Home Chicago.

I'm heavy loans, baby.

I'm broke, I gotta go.

to go

back to the land of California, to my sweet home, Chicago.

I'm two and two is four,

four and two is six

with Kokomo Arnold's old original Kokomo Blues.

I'm one and one is two, mama, two and two is four.

You mess around, you pretty mama, you know we got to go, kind crying on.

Baby, don't you wanna go

back to the level light city?

To sweet old Kokemo.

Now four and one is five, mamma.

Five and one is six.

You mess around your pretty mama.

You're going to get me drink, crying on.

Baby, don't you wanna go?

But in jambal, Johnson's songs have more of a coherent, thought-out feel than those of people like Charlie Patton, Skip James, or Sun House.

Similarly, his Come On In My Kitchen, while lyrically distinct, clearly owes a lot to Sitting on Top of the World, the song first recorded by the Mississippi Sheiks.

After those recordings, Johnson started to travel even more widely than he had before, often accompanied by a friend, another musician named Johnny Shines.

Shines, like Lockwood, learned from Johnson, and the two were travelling companions off and on for two years.

Shines was particularly impressed by Johnson's ability to play contrapuntal lines on the guitar.

At the time, most songsters would perform with a second guitarist.

The one on vocals would play rhythm parts, while the other would play lead.

Johnson, though, had learned piano and had particularly long fingers, as well as a sharp musical mind and dedication.

He was playing the kind of parts on guitar that a piano player would play, playing a melodic bass line and picking out chordal melodies at the same time.

Johnson would often strike out on his own though, because one of the things people remembered about him, along with that he was a womanizer, a reader, and that he had an eidetic memory for music and could play any song after hearing it once, was that he was extremely quiet, didn't like to get emotionally close to other people, and preferred his own company.

So when Johnson made his second trip to Texas to record, this time to Dallas in June 1937, Shines went part of the way with him, but he ended up making the last leg of the journey alone.

That time, rather than recording Mexican artists, the record label were mostly recording Western swing artists, including a session by the Lycro Stow Boys, the band that Bob Wills had formed, which we talked about back in episode 3.

Though Wills had left by the time they recorded this session.

I don't worry.

Cause I'm that non-powerful world.

There has been days didn't know your name.

Why should I worry?

Why in vain?

Oh, now she's gone.

I don't worry.

The songs that Johnson recorded at this session would again include several songs that became Blues classics, including Me and the Devil Blues and Love in Vain.

And I followed her

to the station

with my suitcase in my hand.

And I followed her to the station

with a suitcase in my hand.

But by this time, Blues listeners were more interested in full-band SETI blues than solo acoustic performers, and none of these recordings did very well.

Six months later, Columbia Records bought Vocalion and shut down the budget subsidiaries on which Johnson's records had most of their sales.

Johnson was never invited back to record again.

For a big chunk of what turned out to be the last year of his life, Johnson and Shines travelled further than Johnson had ever been before.

A cousin of Shines had killed a man in self-defense, and had been advised that the best thing he could do would be to leave the U.S.

altogether.

So Johnson, Shines, and Shines' cousin made a trip to Canada by their usual methods of hitchhiking, taking trains, and paying their way by performance.

They travelled through St.

Louis, Chicago, and Detroit before hitting Canada, where they performed on a nationally broadcast gospel radio show.

Then Johnson and Shines headed back south to New York.

In Harlem, Johnson met another musician, who invited him to play his electric guitar.

But after trying it, Johnson said he couldn't make it sing like he wanted and preferred his acoustic.

Given the location and the time period, and the small number of people playing electric guitar in late 1937 and early 1938, it seems fairly likely that this other musician, whose name Shines didn't get, was Charlie Christian, who we talked about in the very first episode.

And it's rather sad to think that if he had only known it, John Hammond, who knew Christian, could have met Johnson that night.

And Johnson's subsequent life could have been very different, and possibly much longer.

Because on August 16th, 1938, Robert Johnson died of what was probably poisoning, probably poisoned by the jealous partner of a woman he'd been interested in.

And the train

rolled up to the station

and I looked her in the eye

when the train rolled up to the station

and I looked her in the eye.

Well, I felt lonesome, I was lonesome,

and I could not help but cry.

I say he was probably poisoned by a jealous partner because in 2019 the most detailed account of that poisoning so far was published, in Bruce Confort and Gail Dean Wardlow's biography of Johnson, which is an exemplary piece of work and the most detailed book yet on the subject.

And then, last month, it came out that that account was false, because it was based on reports by Mac McCormick.

McCormick was one of the most dedicated of all white blues scholars, and he made more contributions to the general public's knowledge of Robert Johnson than almost anyone else.

In the 1970s, he tracked down many of Johnson's surviving friends and relatives, and interviewed them for what he planned to be the definitive biography of Johnson, Biography of a Phantom.

McCormick got Johnson's half-sister Carrie Thompson, the woman who'd helped him build his first guitar, and who, before the discovery of Claude Johnson, was presumed to be his heir, to do some interviews with him.

and to sign a document saying that he had the right to use those interviews for his book.

He also borrowed her family photos, including photos of Johnson which had never been published.

Then another white blues scholar, Steve Levia, came along and did the same thing.

Levia also offered to help Thompson claim the copyrights in her brother's work, which turned out, according to Thompson's surviving half-sister Annie, to mean assigning Levia most of her rights.

But Levia was at least interested in doing something with Johnson's music.

There'd been a second album rounding up the tracks that hadn't been on King of the Delta Blues Singers, but Levia wanted to do more.

Working with John Hammond, he tried to put together a box set containing every recording that Johnson had made, including all the outtakes.

It would have liner notes by Le Vere and feature a photo Thompson had lent him.

Well, the blue light was my blues,

and the red light was my mine.

That box set was meant to come out in 1975.

It came out in 1990, and the reason was Mac McCormick.

McCormick had a reputation as being possibly the best blues scholar in the world, but he was also someone with serious problems.

He was furious that Levier was pushing into what he considered his territory and started threatening Columbia Records, firstly using the real documents that Thompson had signed, later using other more expansive documents he'd forged to claim he had the rights to Johnson's life story and the photos they were going to use.

He also started to claim that he'd discovered extra heirs of Johnson's who needed to be included in any legal settlement.

McCormick held up the release and any royalties going to Thompson until 1990, by which point Thompson herself was dead.

And legal repercussions continued on until the year 2000.

Two white men, neither of whom had ever met Robert Johnson or even known about him until long after his death, fighting over who got to own Johnson's sister's family photos, and which of them owned the rights to Johnson's life.

While Thompson had lent the two men several photos, this legal wrangling meant that none saw publication until 1986, after Thompson's death, and more than a decade after she'd first loaned her photos out.

Until then, the wider world had no idea what Robert Johnson looked like.

Since then, two more photos have been published, and there are rumours of a fourth in McCormick's collection.

When the box set did come out in 1990, it sold a million copies and won a Grammy.

But Thompson had died seven years earlier, and her last years were spent distraught, as she was caught in a legal battle between two white men who she regarded as both being thieves and con artists out to exploit her dead brother.

McCormick even started to claim that the Robert Johnson we know about wasn't the real Robert Johnson, that he'd discovered another Robert Johnson who was the one who made the records, just to throw Le Vere off.

Le Vere and McCormick both died in 2015, about a month apart, and McCormick's biography, which he'd been working on since the early 1970s, was left unfinished.

It was finally published last month by the Smithsonian Institute, after a major effort of going through McCormick's archives.

But what was published wasn't the complete book.

Part of this was at the request of Johnson's surviving stepsister Annie Anderson.

As the editors say in the afterword to the book, Mrs.

Anderson requested that the Smithsonian transfer McCormick's interviews of her sisters Carrie Thompson and Bessie Hines to the control of her family as well.

For Anderson, what McCormick and Levia took from her sisters, not simply through the financial losses accrued through legal costs, but also the years of stress, anxiety, sadness, nightmares, and trauma, delegitimises any signed agreement between them and McCormick.

In respect for her wishes, we expunged the stories her sisters provided to McCormick from this publication, and have restricted public access to them.

But also, the editors discovered, and revealed in conjunction with the book's release, that masses of what McCormick had been touting for years as his discoveries, including his story of how Johnson was murdered, were simply false, pure fabrications he'd made up because of his paranoid belief that other historians were stealing his work.

The preeminent historian of Robert Johnson, the man who'd dedicated more than forty years to finding every detail of his life, had poisoned the well of history so thoroughly we may never fully know exactly what parts of the Robert Johnson story we have now are true.

That book, as it's available now, is incomplete but very valuable as a historical document, and edited with as much sensitivity as is possible.

It's one of three books published in the last four years that have between them remade our understanding of Robert Johnson.

One of the others is Conforth and Wardlow's book, which I'll also link in the notes.

But there's one final one that needs mentioning here.

Annie Anderson, Johnson's stepsister, is still alive and in her 90s.

In 2020, she wrote a book, Brother Robert, telling her side of the story, both all her recollections of her big brother's life, and the story of how white men who wrote Blue's music history destroyed her beloved sister's life in order to profit from her dead brother, while his family got no money but unending trauma.

It's a heart-rending book.

And it's especially so when I consider my own position.

I am a white man writing music history.

I will literally profit from this episode.

I make my living doing this podcast.

I believe what I'm doing with this podcast is, on balance, a good thing, but I'm sure that McCormick and Levier could have said the same.

Towards the end of Anderson's book, she says, I understand that Steve Levier has gone on, and Mac McCormick, too.

But there are others, and always will be, white men who don't know us and think they own us.

Steve Levier may be resting in a golden casket that Brother Robert bought him.

I think it is incumbent on me.

I think it's absolutely necessary, given the story I've just told, to end this episode with a commercial of sorts.

If you've been interested at all in anything I've said about Robert Johnson, then go out and buy a copy of Brother Robert by Annie Anderson, the last living person with a strong familial connection to Johnson, and read her words and her story.

I said at the beginning that white men invented the blues, and they did.

The music was created by black people, but everything we know about the genre and its history has been shaped by the tastes, the prejudices, and the misconceptions of white men like Arthur Labley, John Hammond, John Mayole, Eric Clapton, Steve Levere, Mac McCormick, and now me.

You've heard what a white man has to say about this.

Now go and read what a black woman who is actually there says, and pay her to do so.

It won't fix a historical injustice, but it's a start.

who we the mate

Hey

who be a woo

all my love and fame

Rollin' rock and rim of the sea

Oh

rock

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