The Robert Johnson myth is a well-known, well-worn one. Within that familiarity, I find it amusing that between this and The Ballad of Robert Johnson, I see two spins on the same ball. The Eric Clapton who sings Crossroads is acting out a showboating, still solvent version of Robert. The famous Clapton solos which animate the song tell the same tale. Standing at the crossroads in the middle of the night, Johnson still has a way out. The hell-hounds are kept at bay somehow, and the tight curves are finessed so that his life might continue. In my Ballad, no such luck. What I am narrating is Robert at the end of his road, at which time too many lines have been crossed and there is no way out. The jury is out, and others will have to answer for us, what it is and is not worth when white artists work with black materials. But, to the extent that the two deeds are done, the two Roberts, the one still dancing and the one about to drop, form a whole about an individual, and a myth, which still has the power to startle, intrigue, and frighten those who know it. The Ballad is heavy on form; as are the Crossroads solos, if you listen to them carefully. The form of Johnson's own songs is mysterious, whether or not he made a deal with the Devil to unearth them. The whole thing feels right to me in the mid-Twenties, while, as could be taken as ominous or not, some are still dancing, finessing tight curves, some really have come to the end of their road. Peace.
