Letter From America

Annie Raines talks about sharing the stage with John Sebastian. Originally published in Daydream Magazine, U.K.

What is it about Blues and Churches?

Upright churchgoing folk in this country refer to Blues as "the Devil's music," as if Satan himself is lurking in the buzz of a slide-touched guitar string, might dive out of a full-tilt boogie and make you move your hips and moan.

That may be true, but if the Devil is producing Blues music, then he must be in league with God. Lately I've seen more Gospel groups singing in roadhouse bars and more Blues musicians in the Lord's house than the other way around. Blues is "Gospel music for people who like to drink," a way to laugh at your troubles and leave them behind.

These were the thoughts going through my mind one December evening when John Sebastian, Paul Rishell and I played to a sold-out crowd at the First Unitarian Church in Littleton, Massachusetts

IN THE BEGINNING, a bluegrass band opened the show and warmed up the audience just right with a peppy, old-time sound and beautiful vocal harmonies. We usually worry when there's an opening act on the bill. John often gets the "nostalgia" treatment and is forced to follow an act whose music doesn't resonate with what he's doing now. He still plays some of his most popular songs from the '60s, but he has also dedicated himself to playing the music of the Blues and Jug Band legends that inspired several of his hits.

John can share a private laugh with many of his heroes, for they have also been called upon to play their hit songs. We may never hear the Backstreet Boys cover "My Baby Left Town and Left Me a Mule to Ride," but it was a huge seller for mandolinist Yank Rachell in the 1930s, and he was still being pestered to play it well into the '90s (and his eighties). "Jim Jackson's Kansas City Blues" sold so many copies that Jackson had to re-record the tune several times, as each master wore out from so many pressings.

Songwriting has always been a part of John's life, and he continues to turn out creative, clever, and distinctly American songs, such as "Just Don't Stop," and "My Passing Fantasy," a ballad that evokes the image of a lonely guy walking down a rain-soaked street.
His writing makes you think of what might happen if Chuck Berry and Jimmy Durante got together and decided to form a jug band.

We kicked off the show with "Mobile Line," a traditional two-step with some extra verses by John. Before launching into the next song, he recalled the old '60s refrain of "Don't trust anyone over 30," and noted that at that time, his heroes had had to be over 70, or, better yet, dead. We played "Just Don't Stop ('til You're All Worn Out)" as a tribute to all that is enduring in music and musicians. John played a verse from Gus Cannon's "Prison Wall Blues," explaining that, a week after he heard this song, he wrote "an entirely original piece of music," "Younger Girl Blues," which he played with warmth on an acoustic guitar

John then introduced Paul Rishell to the crowd for a terrifying Delta Blues, Fred MacDowell's "Drinking Water From a Hollow Log." Paul's voice, usually a warm baritone, was stretched to an unbelievable tension as it wove in and out of the moaning sound of his slide guitar. (This was the same song that led John to us when he heard us play it on an unlabeled tape almost seven years ago. At the time, he assumed that Paul must be: a) over 70, b) dead, or c) both. He was happy to find Paul somewhat younger and still respiring in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and he asked us to join the band.) This set the stage for John to play songs by Lightnin' Hopkins and Mississippi John Hurt, two musicians he shadowed closely in his early days on the Village scene. Hopkins was a Texan and a consummate performer who sang of his personal Blues with a steady, thumping bass and chord changes you could just never see coming. Hurt's style was gentler, and Hurt himself was more accessible. He would show Sebastian and other interested musicians how to play the alternating bass line he used in songs like "Frankie and Albert" and "Coffee Blues."
John's reverent rendition of "Coffee Blues," with its famous line about "that lovin' spoonful," had the audience smiling and relaxed.

It was time for a change of pace. John picked up two harmonicas, a regular D and a low D, and I did the same. We played a slow blues duet, trading solos on the high harps and supporting each other on the low ones. You can really express yourself on a slow blues. All the longing, anger, and fear that you hide from the world can be unleashed in a few aching tones and a wild flurry of notes.
Harmonica is the perfect instrument for this because you draw the notes across your throat and constrict it the same way you would for tears or laughter. A good song requires both.

John turned the stage over to me, and I sang "Got to Fly," an upbeat shuffle in which I dream of being a bird that can just fly away from its troubles whenever it pleases. The crowd sang along at the end, and we were all clapping our hands together in a gospel style, very appropriate to the surroundings. John took advantage of the sing-along energy to launch into "Daydream," and the audience exploded into cheers as he did. We brought the volume down on the third verse, and John whistled part of the melody to the crowd. They whistled right back at him in perfect tune.

The audience was on familiar ground now, and we decided to linger there for a moment with the Spoonful classics, "Loving You" and "Make up Your Mind," but we were on our way home. The time had come to pay tribute to James "Yank" Rachell. The mandolin master co-founded the "Three J's," a tight band that included Jab Jones on piano and Joe Williams on guitar. John told the audience about the first time he met Yank, who was 86 at the time and still gigging regularly in Indiana. John had organized a session with the J Band and Yank, and the musicians were playing and getting acquainted in the studio. Yank suggested they play "Tap That Thing," a Three J's standard from the '20s. The band was doing fine until they reached the vocal chorus. When Yank sang, "tap that thing," they dutifully echoed "tap that thing." Yank stopped playing and right away they knew there would be trouble. Yank said, "Y'all don't say, 'tap that thing.' I say, 'tap that thing.' Y'all say, 'Great God Amighty." Much better. We passed that valuable information on to the audience and they obliged us with a hearty chorus of "Great God Amighty." Good and raucous. Our final tune was a Memphis Jug Band favorite, "KC Moan." It's a very quiet song about listening for the train that will bring your baby back. We unplugged the instruments and walked up the aisles playing acoustically for the audience, finishing the song from the front pew.

The hardest thing about playing music is stopping. Fortunately, the audience was really wonderful and they "demanded" we play an encore. John asked Paul to lead us in a stirring rendition of Charley Patton's "Some These Days I'll Be Gone,” and it was good.