One Tough Murthafurcker

Halfz has been talking about T-Model Ford and his Fat Possum associates ever since he met the man at a show in Cambridge, Mass. Today, I finally caught my first glimpse of T-Model in Mandy Stein's film "You See Me Laughin'" (2002). And while all of the artists profiled therein are both talented musicians and interesting characters, it was immediately apparent why John has always emphasized ol' T-Model above the others.

In by far the most troubling sequence of the film, T-Model relates the story of catching a beating from his father so severe that it left him with one of his testicles hanging loose outside of its rightful place. Upsetting as his description is, he ends the tale by explaining, "That's about the only thing wrong with me."

Throughout the 75-minute documentary, the music of the bluesmen speaks for itself. Especially thrilling was the black and white footage of R.L. Burnside playing a juke joint in 1971, when he had a full head of teeth and had just begun playing. But I will leave the music criticism to Halfz; for me, the Delta blues really came alive through the stories -- and life philosophy -- of the artists.

T-Model, for instance, when asked by his producers when he had last visited a doctor, pointed out, "Sometimes you go in the hospital and come out, sometimes you don't. I'll take my chances." In a similar sequence, Burnside threatened to miss a scheduled appearance in Denver so he could sort out his disability payments with local authorities. When asked how much he was owed, he explained that he was being shortchanged on his monthly payment of $111 by $40. Faced with the fact that this amount paled in comparison to his earnings from tour appearances, he was unmoved. It was the principle of the thing that mattered to him.

There was plenty of compelling material along these lines, as well as hints of both T-Model and R.L.'s shadowy pasts (both were jailed for killing men, but neither served out his full sentence). But perhaps the most interesting issue of all has to do with the unpleasant subject of money, and specifically the general assumption among black musicians that a white-owned record label created to distribute their music was necessarily going to exploit them.

In this dimension, I was reminded of the story of the late Samuel Mockbee's early efforts with his Rural Studio Program (at Auburn U.), in Newbern, Alabama. When he approached the first of many dilapidated homes he found there and asked its elderly occupant if he would like the architect to build him a new one, the man replied, "No, I'm not taking one of those today," as though he were dismissing a door-to-door salesman. It took some convincing before Mockbee succeeded in getting the ball rolling. Even once the house had been rebuilt (free of charge), its owner told Mike Wallace that he was dismayed that his new digs were not wolf-proof (as Wallace looked on with great confusion, the man demonstrated how a wolf that had gained entry to the house could quickly corner him with no escape route).

In any case, there is a very fine line between charity and profit -- even Mockbee was, in a sense, exploiting the need for decent housing for the benefit of his students, much as Fat Possum "exploits" its artists for the benefit of the music-buying public. But either way, real lives are affected for the better. While it might not be the style of black men in the deep south to become overly grateful for their good fortune, when it comes, nor should it be expected of them by those who take an interest in somehow improving their lot.

And this is, in a peculiar way, the essence of the blues, at least as I see it. Without going overboard, I think it is fair to say that what links the efforts of the Rural Studio in architecture and Fat Possum Records in music is the seeming indifference -- but underlying joy -- of the people they touch. In either case, there is the threat that racial misconceptions will darken that joy, and that a genuine interest and desire to help will be seen as thinly veiled greed. But as dark as the blues can be, it is the undercurrent of joy that makes the music so compelling.

After all, when things have always been bad, but never apocalyptic, there is little sense in reacting too viscerally when things start to improve.