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Two Sides of Skip
James
Side A: Devil Got My Oscella
Yeah, I got’m, had’m for a while. He come along
when I was sixteen, taught me a few things before I taught’m
back. And we had some good times early on. Set up a place
in Bentonia and had some good times. This when he was runnin’
a still for Mister Whitehead on Woodbine, 1928. We put on
some frolics at that place, him and Stuckey playin’ while
I made up the fish fry. But after a while Mister Whitehead
couldn’t keep the revenue man outta there, always bustin’
into my kitchen sniffin’ around for whiskey. So Skip
and me, with _____, the three of us packed up and went off
to Texas.
Skippy joined up with that Whistling Joe’s
Kazoo Band once we was in Dallas. He was always playin’
then, couldn’t get that damn guitar outta his hands.
Wasn’t never at home, out there playin’ all the
time. And I got tired of not havin’ no hands around.
Found me some other’s hands. But _____ wasn’t no
good friend of Skip’s like he said later. Only came along
‘cause he had some travelin’ money, but later Skip’d
go on about how this man was a good friend of his that he’d
entrust very much with his companion. That’s bullshit.
And then he’s goin’ on about how he just step aside.
Let the two of us go our own way. He said how he couldn’t
prohibit me unless’n it was gonna cause some trouble.
How I wasn’t worth it and he wasn’t either. But
all you got to do is listen to his song
to know that ain’t true. He was broke, broke right in
two, not that he wasn’t already. I never met a man so
conflicted and split in two. Quiet as night one minute, tellin’
me how he gonna kill me the next. But after I set up with
_____, Skip run back to Bentonia. And I heard he was thinkin’
on killin’ hisself. Like he ain’t already done enough
killin’.
So he give that song that title, he call
it Devil Got My Woman, but he ain’t got me, so
he got that title wrong. Them words is right though, he
the devil. But he a weak devil, ain’t got no balls. And
later on he ain’t got no dick neither. I ain’t got
no sympathy for that man, none. He got what he had comin’,
even if he don’t think so. You ask Stuckey, you ask anybody,
he done me wrong, not the other way around. By the
time he go to make them records
he’s a broken man.
Side B: Arthur Laibly
When he stepped off the train all he had with him was thirteen
dollars and a guitar, both of which Henry [Speir] had given
him in Jackson. He was exhausted and disoriented, and not
a little irritable when he arrived at six that morning, and
he seemed quite unsure of me when I called to him. We quickly
grabbed the connecting train to Grafton, where our studio
was, and although the trip was only twenty miles, I was rather
unnerved by the fact that he didn’t say a single word.
He simply sat looking out the window. Not that I minded all
that much. Some of the musicians Henry sent me refused to
ever stop talking, incessantly asking questions about relatives
I couldn’t possibly have known. But James’ silence
was almost as uncomfortable, perhaps more so.
In Grafton I dropped him at the hotel, where I suggested he
get some rest before we started the recording session that
afternoon. I’d asked him how many songs he thought he
could muster, and with a marked lack of enthusiasm he simply
replied “As many as you want.” It was at that moment
that I was sure we had something promising. Both his apathy
and his arrogance were ideal. They added up to the perfect
opportunity: a musician who knew how to play, but knew too
little else to ask any questions.
When I called for him later that morning, I explained we could
either pay him a flat fee for making records over the next
two years, or a deferred royalty once the recordings were
released. He was so sure his songs would sell, he grabbed
at the latter proposal without my having to sell it. It was
almost too easy.
At the studio — actually it was a factory
we used to use as a furniture assembly plant, but, in any
case — once we arrived James took a shine to my assistant,
a negro woman whom I’d been told was quite attractive.
He also appeared to be impressed by the equipment and instruments
we’d assembled, and for some time he stood surveying
the room as though uncertain where to start. I asked him if
he preferred to begin recording on guitar or piano but he
replied laconically that it made no difference to him. Encouraged
by his indifference and yet aware of his apparent nervous
uncertainty, I handed him a rather expensive twelve-string
guitar that he took up as though it was made of gold. He looked,
despite his somber front, like a child trying to hide its
enthusiasm, while I, as well, attempted to mask my apparent
good fortune.
I’d found in the past that a few drinks usually expedited
the process with these musicians, so I had my assistant bring
him a glass of whiskey. He also asked for mint drops, which
he said helped to “scrape out” his throat. Then,
after a sound check, we invited him into the booth to hear
his voice on record; this practice never failed to upend a
new recruit’s defenses, inspiring in them a new sense
of vanity that precluded any reasonable concern for the details
of contract negotiations.
I must admit, however, that his first song
caught me slightly off guard. His Hard
Times Killing Floor Blues, a song concerned
with the effects of the depression, had me a little worried,
since the song might inadvertently remind him of his own circumstances
and thereby of the financial side of our arrangement. A little
flattery, however, always seems to do the trick, and after
complimenting his dexterity on the guitar he perked up and
seemed back on the right track.
The next day we continued the session, this
time with James on piano, and as he finished his third number
my engineer asked if James had a “gun song.” Roosevelt
Sykes’ .44
Blues had been a hit a few years earlier, and James
quickly said he could come up with something. First he suggested
the .38 Special, but I informed him that had already been
done, just as there was already a number of songs about .45s,
James’ next suggestion. Finally I suggested a twenty-two,
“How about .22-20? You ever hear of that?” Of course
there isn’t such a caliber, but we were running short
on time, and within five minutes James had come up with a
song.
We were caught off guard however, when, midsong, James began
stomping his feet so loud my engineer jumped to lower the
microphone level. He’d gotten so carried away with the
murderous rampage of that song that we thought he’d kick
right through the floorboards. But we also knew we had a hit.
The more violent, the better. Once we adjusted the levels,
the song turned out well, and James, again like a child, seemed
quite pleased with his impromptu creation.
Next day, as a sort of test, I accompanied James back to the
station, where I handed him ten dollars for travel expenses,
assuring him his records would sell wonderfully, and that
it was only a matter of weeks before his royalties would begin
arriving at his door. You could almost see the confusion as
he looked at the ten dollar bill still sitting on his open
hand. His eyes moved down to his hand and back again to me.
And then, as the train pulled in, I simply tapped him on the
shoulder, smiled, and prompted him not to miss his ride. And
off he went, as quietly as he came. If I was a sweet tooth,
like James for his mints, I’d say it was like taking
candy from a baby, but, really, to tell the truth, it was
considerably simpler and far more rewarding than that.
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