The Boy Who Cried Freebird Read Free Page B

slightest thing about the phantom Robert Johnson song. The lyrics and the melody were lost in my memory like a drunken dream. The song was hiding somewhere in my subconscious, but I was unable to summon it into my thoughts.
    On top of that, my friend Jim stopped talking to me. Then, he moved out of town.
    After more research, I determined that there were a few Johnson compositions that (supposedly) had never been recorded by the bluesman himself. Could the song have been “Little Boy Blue” or “Take a Little Walk with Me,” both alleged Johnson compositions recorded by Robert Jr. Lockwood, a surrogate stepson to the legendary blues singer? No clue. The late Johnny Shines sang Johnson’s little-known “Tell Me Mama” back in 1972, but the Shines version didn’t jog my memory in the least.
    There was only one answer: I had to hear that song again.
    Desperate, I found a high-priced broker whose specialty was locating hard-to-find blues and jazz recordings. “Listen,” I told him. “I’m looking for a double-CD box set called Robert Johnson: The Complete Recordings on Sony. I’m only looking for new copies but I’ll pay top dollar for as many as you can find.”
    The broker laughed and said, “Kid, you’re out of your league here and let me tell you why. I already have a standing order direct from Eric Clapton’s business manager for every copy of The Complete Recordings that I can get my hands on. You don’t even want to know how much he’s paying; it would make you sick . Now, I don’t know what it is about these Johnson discs that you guys are so hyped upabout and the more I hear, the less I want to know. I can tell you that I’m not the only one who’s been contacted by people like Clapton—all of the guys in my business have had similar requests for two years running. Every once in a while somebody comes across a few of these box sets and makes enough money to buy a new house. My advice is to just scour the record bins and leave the high-end dealing to folks who can afford it.”
    In the following months, I spent my time calling vintage record stores and noted blues historians. I even located an old Robert Johnson crony in Chicago, bluesman David “Honeyboy” Edwards. Edwards was nice enough, but as soon as I asked him about the chance recording of a thirtieth Robert Johnson song, he hung up the phone.
    Music authorities like Greil Marcus and Peter Guralnick ignored my queries, perhaps unwilling to share such forbidding information with a stranger. I found one copy of The Complete Recordings in a suburban CD shop, but it had already been played and there were some strange markings carved onto the cover.
    Then, one night, after spending hours looking through Internet auctions and other online music sites, I turned off my computer in a state of complete exhaustion. It was late, nearly midnight, and a wave of discouragement swept over me.
    â€œDamn,” I said out loud. “I’d do anything for another listen to that song.”
    Immediately, there was a knock at my front door. Startled, I went to see who could be stopping by at such a late hour. As I approached the doorway, I felt an extreme heat coming from the outer hall. The smell of sulfur filled the air.
    At that exact moment, I realized that I had made a big mistake.

NUGGETS
    The year is 1968 and it’s a quiet Tuesday afternoon in Cleveland, Ohio. Sid Garfinkle is on the phone with one of his more friendly business associates. Sid’s office is a mess. Stacks of papers are everywhere, remnants of Chinese takeout litter the room, and the ashtrays are all filled with half-smoked butts. The shades are drawn and Sid is doodling on a yellowed invoice for an entire season’s worth of secretarial services.
    â€œI don’t know, Manny,” Sid groans into the phone. “It was a hell of a lot easier when I was promoting comedians like Morey