Countless communities frown on one of their boys and girls “running away to the circus.” (Especially during the twentieth century, when taking up an established profession was an accepted norm: doctor, teacher, priest, post carrier, etc.)
Although my clan on both my mother and father’s sides were a bit more diverse in their choice of career paths, there was no doubt at least one aunt, two siblings and definitely my cousin from New Zealand squawked out various moments of “Really now… What did he do that for?”
Surely, my matronly cousin Meg, in particular, would never imagine the sweat, tears, if not blood, I shed, sitting on a hot and cracked foam cushion in an ancient “Metrovan,” sitting under spreading elms of the Capitol Mall. ‘Twas a sultry afternoon, just prior to the Fourth of July in 1975.
“Boy, that’s s’posed to be a damn ninth chord! G ninth, boy! You got stupid fingers, show me again- Mo’ better, if you love this music like you say you do.”
The sound came from the pursed lips of Robert Lockwood, Robert Junior to those who knew him well. This steamy chunk of a syrupy summer found him on the festival circuit with a grizzled grey-eyed hippie, Dave Griggs, who hailed from Robert’s adopted hometown of Cleveland.
Lockwood’s eyes were predominantly in a distant gaze, for he constantly harked back to Mississippi red-dirt crossroads, where Robert “ran” with his step-father, who was young enough to be an older brother: Robert Johnson. Johnson was the blues legend who died at 27 in 1998 and left a lifelong impression upon Lockwood, as well as contemporaries Johnny Sh and Houston Stackhouse, fellow Delta balladeers and guitarists.
So, here I am, at best a would-be bluesman and guitar slinger, rapt at the feet of Mr. Lockwood Junior, who, despite his flawless pedigree, was cranky due to humid D.C. slough and stale sandwiches and little or no ice, courtesy of overtaxed Smithsonian Folklife volunteers.
The latter included moi, for I had abdicated my duties as a part-time guide for the guest artists. Lockwood perceived my obsessive nature and waved me into the magical, skylit interior of the faded lilac colored van, decorated with crude, freaky-style, forget-me-nots that garlanded the block lettered message, “DAVE GRIGGS BLUES BAND.”
At the end of our session, he passed along “Rambling on my mind” to me.
