Named after a president, William McKinley Gillum eventually picked up the nickname Jazz. There’s no explication that on the internets, so your guess is as good as mine. Regardless of that, Gillum grew up amidst some troubled times. Apart from the fact that the looming depression didn’t help matters, Gillum’s parents both died when he was pretty young, leaving him in the company of an abusive uncle. Needless to say, Gillum didn’t care too much for beatings and left home before turning ten. The life of ramblin’ – for blues players at least – is commonly figured to be some personal thing, something pushing each player to just hit the road for a time to workout whatever’s kicking around in his head. Gillum, though, left for his well being.

He picked up odd jobs – day labor or farm work – in and around his native Mississippi only supplementing his income with busking on his days off. The harmonica, though, isn’t necessarily given to solo performances. And upon taking a trip up north, Gillum fell into the company of Big Bill Broonzy while in Chicago. The two would spend the next few years working in a variety of settings, but often accompanying each other. Gillum’s voice might not have been the focus of those collaborations, but his high pitched harmonica blowing served to add a ghostly flair to the work of Broonzy.

The depression – just like everyone else – negatively impacted the ability for Gillum to make a living. He didn’t disappear per se, but only showed up on a few sides during the ‘60s after his first label folded amidst the monetary problems that the country encountered during the ‘40s. His reappearance supposedly wasn’t all that extraordinary. What’s worse, though, is the fact that he was shot dead in ’66 during an argument obviously ending his shot at impacting the blues resurgence of the time.

There’re a few different collections that attempt to round up the work from Gillum. The Documentary sets are easily the most comprehensive coming in with four discs, but really who wants to wade through all of that? Instead RCA reconstituted the sides Gillum issued during his time with the Bluebird imprint. I’ve read some criticism of that label as being bland or not necessarily representative of the music from the era, but the sides represented on The Bluebird Recordings (1934 - '38) are all comprised of sheer entertainment: no mess, no fuss.

Some of Gillum’s work does have an odd, stately presence to it – “Just Like Jesse James” possesses that weird strut. But elsewhere it’s just a band playing some blues. While most of the songs here – and in the genre – deal with topics most commonly addressed in a serious manner, “Sarah Jane” is a completely different story. The track, a fast paced, jaunty blues, aptly describes a woman that Gillum is infatuated with. The oddity here, though, is that Sarah Jane is nuts. There’s even a line in there about Gillum licking her feet. What’s not to like about that? Gillum’s disc isn’t indispensible, but that glimpse into comedy might make it more entertaining that a great many other looks at forgotten blues folks.