Blind Willie Johnson
The Soul of a Man

Here is music that transmits something essential and precious to the soul, something so powerful and profound that one almost fears to use words.

In the face of certain expressions of art, one can only remain silent, as these expressions do their work, touching where they must touch, digging where they must dig, beyond words.

The problem is that I am a cackling hen tending towards delirium... and I talk, talk, talk... I talk even when I should stay silent.

And I think of Van Gogh...

Van Gogh was an excessive soul, one who felt too much, and feeling too much is never good, as those who feel too much usually meet a bad end.

For instance, our Blind Willie Johnson didn't fare too well. And, indeed, he always seemed to me like someone who felt too much too.

Anyway, Van Gogh came to mind because before he started painting, he was a preacher, meaning he was someone who praised the Lord.

Blind Willie Johnson had a hoarse, raspy, and angular voice. And even Van Gogh's painting was hoarse, raspy, and angular. Oh, well, maybe not angular, but it doesn't matter.

No, it doesn't matter...

Blind Willie Johnson had a voice that dwelled in his throat and seemed to emerge with difficulty due to the immense effort of the man of faith.

And when you heard it, besides making your hair stand on end, it reminded you that to praise the Lord, the voice of angels is not enough.

That, yes, the purpose of Blind Willie Johnson was precisely that, to praise the Lord. And doing it with that voice was his greatness.

Not just the voice, though, since there was also a knife blade scoring the strings of the guitar.

Van Gogh's voice, however, who knows what it was like... certainly his knife blade was the squeezed-out tube of paint.

Blind Willie Johnson was black, obviously, and as a little boy, a crazy stepmother threw laundry tub contents on him, water and bleach, blinding him.

He, as you've guessed, reacted with music and faith and over time developed a fabulous style where gospel met blues.

God and the devil then, heaven and life.

Imagine the upward thrust of sacred music entangled in the earthly whirlpool of that raspy voice, imagine something that is imprisoned and wants to break free.

Something that struggles to free itself without ever succeeding.

Imagine all this, and you will have the emotion. Like facing a Van Gogh painting or a work by those crazy painters who painted only because they had to paint and certainly not to make art.

That of Blind Willie Johnson is art, even if it has nothing to do with art. That art is almost always a bonus and here, instead, everything is essential.

Blind Willie Johnson was simply someone who had to play and praise the Lord... And, as a kind of busker/preacher who had the street as his pulpit, he played and praised all his life.

He died poor, a few days after his house had burned down, and having nowhere to go, he caught pneumonia.

I like to think, however, that with all that faith, he lived, in his own way, a happy life.

But we haven't said it all.

We haven't mentioned when his wife Angeline sang with him, we haven't spoken of that impressive emotional yin and yang made of rust voice and angel voice.

And we haven't said enough about that guitar...

Yes, of course, the slide technique, the knife blade, but how is it possible that that guitar doesn't seem like just one, how is it possible for that tumultuous, rattling, and zigzagging sound that digs inside you?

Because that sound, formidable even if left to itself, was the only possible one to accompany that voice that emitted sparks.

Sparks, yes... listen to this record and the sparks will invade your room and then enter inside you.

And your soul will twist, and your blood will boil.

Yes, your blood will boil...