Tommy Johnson: I Asked for Water

Performers are necessitated to find a shtick that separates them from the field. Some choose to adapt some public persona that, while detached from reality, eventually becomes reality in more than just a few ways. Early on in the development of the blues, performers were given over to concocting stories as to how they attained a musical acumen unmatched by others. Most frequently, it seems to have come as a result of making a deal with the devil. Peetie Wheatstraw is generally considered one of the first bluesmen to make use of the tale, but if he wasn’t, Tommy Johnson might be a good candidate for that tag.

Beginning as a married troubadour, subsequent to the death of his first wife, which is discussed in Johnson’s song “Maggie Campbell Blues,” the guitarist and singer set out on the road to ramble and drink as much as he could. And while that particular approach to life was adapted by more than just a few players, it may have not only cut short his life, but also disallowed Johnson from recording more than he did. Apparently, after signing a contract of some variety while intoxicated, Johnson was under the impression that the deal he had struck removed his ability to record further dates. That wasn’t actually the case.

Regardless of how sad that particular part of Johnson’s life was, he was a remarkably talented singer and musician. Occasionally accompanied by other players – usually another guitarist – Johnson was able to weave his tales of death, drinking and desperation into the jaunty guitar playing that was his trademark. Informed by the buoyancy of ragtime and coupling that with traditional field hollers and early blues – although there wasn’t too much before his time – Johnson was able to encompass a good deal of black music. But more importantly, his ghostly moan, which he only used on occasion, was a tie to not only Skip James a few years later, but also to that of the hillbilly tunes that eventually yielded the blue yodel.

Johnson’s song book, as much as his performance style – which included feats of showmanship unmatched today – has been plundered to a similar extent that the catalog of Robert Johnson has been re-imagined. The boogie band Canned Heat not only took their name from a Johnson song, but also covered some of his work. But even if that had not been the case, it seems pretty likely that the scant work that this player set down would have made it through to the following generation.

Songs like “Big Fat Mamma Blues” and an assortment of others comment upon the nature of Johnsons’ poor luck. There seems to be an endless string of situations that beg for the performer to lament some goings on. Of course, this is the blues, but over the course of a year or so, for a single performer to relive this litany of bad luck seems perverse. Of course, he was a performer. So one might then wonder how much of this was Johnson’s luck and how much of it was contrived.