Virginia bluesman Luke Jordan
It's when your soul starts melting inside and slides out of your eyes and ears and nose like spoonfuls of hot oil. It's when your heart starts beating a mournful epitaph in 12/8 time. It's when your saliva becomes a harsh gin, burning your throat and shooting out between your lips while you howl and wail the same bitter line over and over and your fingers pluck the guitar strings till the blood's pounding at their tips.
Or it's a playful beat crushed into wood floors with quick-tappin' feet. It's spit-shine salutes to the underground minstrels who puff on the top of moonshine jugs. It's an 80-year-old mama who uses the grey hairs on her head to count her chores and whistles to her rough-kneed kids.
True blues music has passed, but that doesn't mean the left-over proof of that period of strained heartstrings can't be enjoyed these days. Sometimes, when my mind's hurting and my head just feels so heavy it might drop onto the floor and roll away, or even when I feel like a rugged, southern farm girl who justs wants to put her feet up and close her eyes to the tune of pure enjoyment (which happens more than you'd think), I'll listen to those recordings and the only action you'll see me perform is the slow nod of my toasty head as the strums and grumbles send me soaring.
My blues pick of late-
"Cocaine Blues" by Luke Jordan
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