I would say that I am a believer. A scientific believer. Years ago, there was a test floating around on the internet. You answered an extended series of questions, and judging on those answers, your “religion type” was revealed. The spectrum included all the world religions, from Fundamentalist Baptists to Atheists, to Hindus, to Catholics.
My Seattle brother and I took the test at the same time. It was hilarious. He and I had the exact same classification that really wasn’t any type of religion at all. It was something like Universalist Unitarian Peace Pagans with a pinch of Buddhism on top.
Anyway, I don’t lean toward any religion in my real life, but I do spend a LOT of time thinking about my spirituality and how this Universe works. What is my part? Or do I even have a part? The questions are endless. The answers are scant.
Needless to say, I continue to ask and search. I mentioned above that I am a scientific believer. My beliefs are difficult for me to explain because I am not sure that I understand them fully. But I edge toward the opinion that science and the spiritual can coexist and work in perfect unison.
At any rate, with science, theories exist. And much time is spent either proving or disproving those theories. As such, I will entertain stories where “faith” is concerned, as well as the “nether” world.
So my story today is about a man named Robert Johnson. A real man, that most of us are not familiar with. But. If you’ve ever seen “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?” you know his part.
All I have to say concerning his life is to be careful what you wish for.
Along with that. Be careful who you wish TO.
Robert Johnson turned out to be a famous blues singer and guitarist, born in 1911.
Eventually — and I mean eventually — that man could really play guitar. He became fantastically gifted and famous. In all that wonder, Robert Johnson died young. And with that, he left behind an array of recordings that inspired the world of Blues.
His young life was filled with poverty. He skipped back and forth between Mississippi and Arkansas while his mother sought work on any cotton plantation she could find. Robert was mostly up to no good, trying to score money anywhere he could. In those places and times, he had several different names, including Robert Dodds, aka Robert Spencer, aka Robert Dusty. And more.
He was barely 13 years old and already had a laundry list of aliases. But what he really wanted more than anything was a name of his own. And to be famous. Robert was a teenager when he finally learned the true identity of his father. His dad was a sharecropper from Hazlehurst named Noah Johnson. So he finally found out his true patriarchal parentage and officially renamed himself, Robert Johnson.
His mother settled in Mississippi, working on a plantation there. Johnson married at 16 after getting a girl pregnant. But she and the baby died during childbirth, and Robert suffered a deep and lasting sadness. The only thing that made him feel better was music. He loved to go to town and hear the legendary musicians play. He liked to play too and often begged them to get up on stage with them. The only problem was, he totally sucked — an annoying noisemaker, at best.
More than anything, he wanted his name to be known as a great musician.
And the story takes us to a lone crossroads in some dusty podunk place in the belly of America, where Robert stood and made a deal. Folklore tells us he met the Devil while standing there begging for his fame. The Devil was glad to oblige, and they made an exchange. Robert Johnson sold his soul for musical mastery.
Right after that, Robert disappeared from his home. Most people assumed he moved to Arkansas with his parents. Some thought he went to Memphis. Nobody knew, and life went on without him. But then, he suddenly reappeared in Mississippi six months later. Everyone agreed. Johnson had changed. Undeniably. Nobody could put a finger on it, but he seemed different. And one thing was absolutely for certain. The new Robert Johnson could play the hell out of a guitar. In fact, he had become the best guitarist in all of Mississippi. That man, who used to make noise, was now playing and singing better than anyone. Johnson’s sudden, mysterious transformation sparked disturbing rumors. All about his meeting at the crossroads.
Delta folklore held that, at midnight, at the crossroads of Highways 61 and 49, you could sell your soul in exchange for fame and fortune. That’s what everyone believed, and Johnson never denied the rumors.
He shot to fame, especially in the South. To this day, he is known as one of the greatest blues players in all of history. But it all ended early. He died on August 16, 1938, at the age of 27. Johnson had just performed at a barn dance outside Greenwood, Mississippi. Witnesses say they saw a man put something in Johnson’s drink. Then, three days later, his body was found on the side of the road. The cause of death was poisoning.
Now, I could never say if the story was true or not. I just know one thing is certain. I will not ever step onto that crossroad at Highways 61 and 49, especially at midnight.
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“Son, the greatest trick the Devil pulled was convincing the world there was only one of him.”
― David Wong, John Dies at the End
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“The devil is an optimist if he thinks he can make people worse than they are.”
― Karl Kraus
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“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.”
― William Shakespeare
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Boy, he could play. After that meeting at the crossroads.
