by Daniel V. Garcia
Daily Lobo
A few weeks ago, I stumbled onto a DVD that featured snippets from 100 years of blues music performed by living legends at Radio City Music Hall.
It is called "Lightning in a Bottle," and among the many great musicians on it is one fellow who plays old-style acoustic blues. His name is David "Honeyboy" Edwards, and he was 91 at the time the film was made. I was devastated by his performance. His prowess, vocally and instrumentally, was completely intact, and his spidery fingers bore no trace of arthritis as they plucked the strings in time with his haunting tenor.
This past weekend, I had the chance to see Edwards at the Thirsty Ear Festival. I went as close to the stage as possible and explored his visage as he sang. It was fixed in permanent sadness by the weight of years, yet his presence transcended that. He was defeated and resplendent - a living oxymoron. If he had begun to levitate, I wouldn't have been surprised. Surely, the wellspring from which his vitality flows must be a supernatural one.
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I asked him after the show what he attributed his longevity to. He didn't give me a direct answer but instead chose to tell me about his musical history. It was the perfect response. I asked myself how one with his life experience conveys to one, such as me, the truth of the situation. As Buddha raised the lotus flower and smiled, he was trying to make me figure it out, and I still am.
A clue comes with the documentary "You See Me Laughin' - The Last of the Hill Country Bluesmen." Part of it features Cedell Davis. His is the most amazing story of a blues musician I've ever heard. He played the guitar at a young age until he contracted polio when he was 10. His right hand was rendered to little more than a claw, so he spent three years figuring out how to play. He flipped the guitar upside down and used his left hand to pluck the strings, and with the aid of a butter knife in his right, he found his niche. Later, he was trampled underfoot by a rioting crowd at a bar, and his legs were so severely broken that he had to use a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
He never stopped playing music. When this man plays and sings in the film, all of that pain comes to a poignant head that is as jarring as a needle to the eye. He is a musician in the truest sense, for he has chosen to play in spite of the fact that it severely hurts him every time he does it.
I realized this is what Edwards does as well. The heart of these bluesmen is to do or die for the art, and it makes their performances riveting. If you appreciate this archetypal form of music, I highly recommend the aforementioned films.
