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 On November 23, 1936, Robert Johnson (blues legend)  recorded “Sweet Home Chicago” in Room 414 of the Gunter Hotel in San Antonio, Texas.  It became his signature song, of sorts, even though other blues singers had put different lyrics to this exact same melody.  But that’s the common denominator of nearly every blues composition – you play the same three-chord progression over and over again, meanwhile inserting any words that come to mind as long as you repeat the same line at least twice in every verse.  The true beauty of the blues lies not in the lyrics.  It’s the soulful skill of the instrumental solos between the verses that defines the art of “the blues”.  I must admit, I do love to play piano behind a good blues guitarist.

Robert was born in Mississippi in 1911 and became interested in music at an early age.  His mastery of the harmonica was quite remarkable for a six-year-old and his talents on that instrument only increased as he got older.  What he didn’t have, no matter how hard he tried, was a talent for playing the guitar.  He was a traveling Blues player and guitar was imperative to his success, but he just couldn’t manage the finger dexterity or the ability to remember chords (even though there were only three of them).  His fortunes in the music business seemed bleak indeed.

Then one night, at a crossroad outside of town, Johnson encountered the Devil – yes, ol’ Scratch himself.  The two of them apparently struck a deal that Robert thought was worth his soul.  Satan took Robert’s guitar, tuned it (is that all it needed?), then handed it back to Robert, whose eyes reportedly then glowed like hell’s fire.  After that, there was no explaining his new guitar-playing talent that has rarely, if ever, been matched.  Today, such notables as Eric Clapton and Keith Richards proclaim Robert Johnson to be the greatest blues player who ever lived.  And if you don’t believe this story, remember that the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn’t exist.

Our hero died at the tender age of 27.  After being caught red-handed with a bartenders wife, she slipped him a bottle of whiskey which he eagerly guzzled down (that’s our boy).  Unfortunately, the whiskey was poisoned – by whom, we don’t know.  Could have been the irate husband, or the wife herself, or another woman angry at Robert’s philandering.  We don’t even know for sure where they buried the body.  Ah… a life fraught with mystery.

He only had a handful of recorded songs and “Sweet Home Chicago” is one of his best.  It’s on the Blues List if you want to perform some standard blues.  You can look up his lyrics, or make them up as you go.  Nobody cares… it’s the Blues, after all.