by Don Barbera, Ó1999
Let me play the blues for you, that Chicago urban blues, that good
old down-home, gutbucket, ass kicking, foot-stomping, guitar riffing,
rat-a-tat-tat shuffling blues. I mean the “My woman done left me,” Birmingham
backbeat, Memphis boiling, smooth walking bass playing, back in the alley
blues. Now, that’s just about one mile down the road from heaven.
It can put your emotions in the air. It can take life’s frustrations,
loses and put them into words easy to understand. The blues is an emotional
translator. It makes sense of the confusion we feel, but can’t express. It
stretches into the depths of our soul and drains the pool.
The blues are alive and live in the darkest closets of our souls,
away from the light of day and prying eyes. The blues are a mirage, never
appearing as they are. It disguises itself in cloaks of anger, aggressive
behavior and reckless exploits. Often, the blues appear under the cover of
kindness, loving attention and religious fervor.
No one particular thing sparks the blues. It might be the loss of a
job, losing your man or woman, or just the daily pressure of fickle society make
the blues come alive. It’s like having a personal storm cloud hanging over your
head all day—it may never rain, but you can’t break free from the feeling that
something is going to happen sooner or later and, whatever it is, it’s not
going to be good.
The blues is no respecter of person, gender or station. The blues
is your life. At some point in our lives, we all experience the blues.
Psychiatrists and regular folk call it depression, but no matter what name you
hang on it—it’s still the blues.
