I compiled this mix for the Aquarium Drunkard Sirius radioshow last week and now the tracks are in downloadable form as a two-part zip folder. Enjoy!
Jim Ford – Under Construction Doris Troy – What’cha Gunna Do About It Eddy Giles – Losin’ Boy Major Lance – Um, Um, Um, Um, Um, Um Joe Tex – I Believe I’m Gunna Make It Percy Mayfield – Louisiana Huey ‘Piano’ Smith – Free, Single and Disengaged Lee Dorsey – Little Baby Ernie K-doe – Here Come The Girls Toussaint McCall – I’m Undecided Rufus Jagneaux – Opelousas Sostan Johnnie Allan – You Got Me Whistlin’ Jessie Hill – I Studied Soul Johnny Adams – Georgia Morning Dew Ray Stinnett – Liberty Train Lonnie Mack- Florida Roger Miller – Meanwhile, Back In Abeline Garnet Mimms – My Baby The Drapels – Wondering Arthur Conley – Love Comes And Goes Bobby Bland – Today
Mable John – Shouldn’t I Love Him Five Easy Pieces Gene Clark – Life’s Greatest Fool John Phillips – Topanga Merle Haggard – I Take A Lot Of Pride In What I Am John Hartford – In Tall Buildings Linda Ronstadt – I Won’t Be Hangin’ ‘Round Johnny Cash & June Carter Cash – The Pine Tree Townes Van Zandt joke Townes Van Zandt – Gypsy Friday Michael Hurley – Hog Of The Forsaken Chris Darrow – Lovers Sleep Abed Tonight Dave Van Ronk – Dink’s Song Bob Dylan – You’re A Big Girl Now (’74 outtake) Bob Frank – Layin’ Around The Byrds – It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue Solomon Burke – Can’t Nobody Love You Ben E. King – It’s All Over Wilson Pickett – For Better Or Worse O.V. Wright – I Was Born All Over Spyder Turner – Stand By Me
“IN THE WORLD of early-20th-century African-American music and people obsessed by it, who can appear from one angle like a clique of pale and misanthropic scholar-gatherers and from another like a sizable chunk of the human population, there exist no ghosts more vexing than a couple of women identified on three ultrarare records made in 1930 and ’31 as Elvie Thomas and Geeshie Wiley. There are musicians as obscure as Wiley and Thomas, and musicians as great, but in none does the Venn diagram of greatness and lostness reveal such vast and bewildering co-extent. In the spring of 1930, in a damp and dimly lit studio, in a small Wisconsin village on the western shore of Lake Michigan, the duo recorded a batch of songs that for more than half a century have been numbered among the masterpieces of prewar American music, in particular two, Elvie’s “Motherless Child Blues” and Geeshie’s “Last Kind Words Blues,” twin Alps of their tiny oeuvre, inspiring essays and novels and films and cover versions, a classical arrangement.
Yet despite more than 50 years of researchers’ efforts to learn who the two women were or where they came from, we have remained ignorant of even their legal names. The sketchy memories of one or two ancient Mississippians, gathered many decades ago, seemed to point to the southern half of that state, yet none led to anything solid. A few people thought they heard hints of Louisiana or Texas in the guitar playing or in the pronunciation of a lyric. We know that the word “Geechee,” with a c, can refer to a person born into the heavily African-inflected Gullah culture centered on the coastal islands off Georgia and the Carolinas. But nothing turned up there either. Or anywhere. No grave site, no photograph. Forget that — no anecdotes.
This is what set Geeshie and Elvie apart even from the rest of an innermost group of phantom geniuses of the ’20s and ’30s. Their myth was they didn’t have anything you could so much as hang a myth on. The objects themselves — the fewer than 10 surviving copies, total, of their three known Paramount releases, a handful of heavy, black, scratch-riven shellac platters, all in private hands — these were the whole of the file on Geeshie and Elvie, and even these had come within a second thought of vanishing, within, say, a woman’s decision in cleaning her parents’ attic to go against some idle advice that she throw out a box of old records and instead to find out what the junk shop gives. When she decides otherwise, when the shop isn’t on the way home, there goes the music, there go the souls, ash flakes up the flue, to flutter about with the Edison cylinder of Buddy Bolden’s band and the phonautograph of Lincoln’s voice.”