A stream-of-consciousness passage where Dig meditates on the work of Delta Blues musician Son House:
Opening track “Death Letter,” the steel-bodied national busting in with its soul-soaked twang, the chords so filled with Mississippi mud it seemed a wonder the deck could keep running.
I got a letter this morning . . . said your love is dead . . .
Half-waltz, half-roll. The skin of a dead monarchal gator animated with riverboat grease dancing on the surface of an ocean of sweat and blood and runoff and atop it the man and his slide guitar, the high notes tear inducing and saliva coaxing in the same amorous breath. High chords on Track 2 “Pearline” like a loving slap from the vengeful, interspersed with melody. Blastchord-tune-blastchord-tune-blastchord-deltadawn wetness flooding runoff swamp dust cotton choke cotton choke. The old blackman and his semi-blindness coaxed from retirement in 1963 to palliate the resurgent thirst of a generation hungry for the purported purity of all things traditional. A studio and a river inside it. Oh, Pearline.
Opening track “Death Letter,” the steel-bodied national busting in with its soul-soaked twang, the chords so filled with Mississippi mud it seemed a wonder the deck could keep running.
I got a letter this morning . . . said your love is dead . . .
Half-waltz, half-roll. The skin of a dead monarchal gator animated with riverboat grease dancing on the surface of an ocean of sweat and blood and runoff and atop it the man and his slide guitar, the high notes tear inducing and saliva coaxing in the same amorous breath. High chords on Track 2 “Pearline” like a loving slap from the vengeful, interspersed with melody. Blastchord-tune-blastchord-tune-blastchord-deltadawn wetness flooding runoff swamp dust cotton choke cotton choke. The old blackman and his semi-blindness coaxed from retirement in 1963 to palliate the resurgent thirst of a generation hungry for the purported purity of all things traditional. A studio and a river inside it. Oh, Pearline.
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