Capturing the charm and sporadic magic of two gigs at Joe's Pub

Composer-pianist Allen Toussaint invented New Orleans rhythm-and-blues as much as anyone on the planet with his homespun songwriting, arranging and overall studio wizardry from the late 1950s onward — and true to the spirit of his Crescent City, it was expertise laced with amiability. Flooded out from his home by Hurricane Katrina, Toussaint relocated to New York City and began a regular gig at Joe’s Pub, which is where Songbook was recorded over two nights in 2009. The album captures the charm and sporadic magic of this odd interlude; Toussaint at 71 playing a well-honed nightclub show in a bare-bones setting, a transplanted producer with just his voice, his piano and his long and durable catalog of tunes.

Toussaint’s dignified yet unpretentious personal style extends to his music. Crooning, melisma and smooth shifts in rhythm are deployed sparingly but to maximum effect in his vocals, so that even the quasi-novelty tunes he turned into hits with Lee Dorsey nearly 50 years ago (“Holy Cow,” “Working In A Coal Mine”) don’t clash with his versions of poignant ballads he minted for Irma Thomas (“It’s Raining”), Etta James (“With You In Mind”) and Esther Phillips (“Sweet Touch of Love”). And his piano work — a silkier variation on Professor Longhair’s second-line style — epitomizes New Orleans funk-and-roll, especially on a glorious medley of “Certain Girl,” “Mother-in-Law,” “Fortune Teller” and “Working in a Coal Mine,” and his instrumental take on the classic “St. James Infirmary.”

Perhaps the best thing about Songbook is that it reminds us of the breadth of Toussaint’s talented contributions while also revealing new facets of his artistry. Few would think to list “Freedom for the Stallion” among his top handful of songs, and yet this riveting protest anthem disguised as a psalm, which inspired Bob Dylan, deserves to be exalted. And it is easy to forget that a song like “Yes We Can,” a sassy hit for the Pointer Sisters, came from Toussaint’s pen. Then there is the bonus of Songbook, which is Toussaint cast as intimate singer-songwriter, climaxed by his wonderful boyhood reveries enclosed in the heart of his 13-minute rendition of “Southern Nights” to close the disc. Toussaint is now back in New Orleans, where he belongs. But Songbook documents that he turned his unfortunate need to vacate his beloved city into an artistic tonic.

An audacious and confident debut that radiates smart energy

Few modern jazz debuts have been as audacious and confident as 23-year-old singer Cécile McLorin Salvant’s WomanChild. The climactic “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” builds, recedes and then builds some more, heading for the most dramatic high-note finish since Sir Richard Harris’s “MacArthur Park.” There are moments when it sounds like there are four or five singers trapped inside, fighting to come out at once. It’s thrilling, and a little over the top. It’d be too much if she couldn’t be subtle too, as on “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.” McLorin Salvant slides around the beat, shading her timbre all sorts of ways: veiled one moment, barrel-chested the next, cool Jeanne Lee morphing into diva Sarah Vaughan. Her taste in material is offbeat too; the most recent non-original is Fats Waller’s 1942 “Jitterbug Waltz,” where the singer plays piano with some that old Harlem-rhythm feel; it speaks to her love of odd corners of jazz history. The oldest of several oldies is the man-versus-machine ballad “John Henry,” where her usual pianist Aaron Diehl (fronting a crack trio) turns percussive prepared-piano effects into John Henry’s hammers. The program is deep and wide, and good humored — WomanChild radiates smart energy.

Another platform for the couple to successfully showcase their respective skills

An 11-piece troupe, co-founded by guitarist Derek Trucks and his wife singer-guitarist Susan Tedeschi, and fleshed out by a steely horn section, backup singers and a pair of percussionists, Tedeschi Trucks Band bills itself as a multi-part roots-rock collective. Like their supple, stellar 2011 debut, Revelator, Made Up Mind is still largely a platform for Trucks and Tedeschi to showcase their respective skills. The Dixie-funk that defined the band’s debut remains ever-present: Tedeschi lets her moan throw bricks upon the swampy, slinky grooves of “Misunderstood” and the barroom burner “Whiskey Legs.” But it’s Trucks’s Duane Allman-channeling ax prowess upon which this project stays centered: extended slide-guitar dirges on the title track and a gruff whiplash fretboard frenzy during “The Storm” are inspired, if occasionally indulgent. Variety is not necessarily part of the recipe. But when Tedeschi lets trombonist Saunders Sermons share vocal duties on “Part of Me,” one of the most collaborative and inspiring charms this go-round, the band feels more like members and less hired guns.

Full-on homage to the funk and soul bands of the 1970s

Dumpstaphunk started 10 years ago backing local hero and keyboard player Ivan Neville at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage festival, caught a breeze and never stopped. Though boasting two members of New Orleans first family (Art Neville’s son and Ivan’s cousin Ian plays guitar), Dirty Word has little in common with the elastic sound of the Neville family brand. It’s full-on homage to the funk and soul bands of the 1970s, the big bold bass lines and wily chants of arena acts like Parliament-Funkadelic, the Ohio Players, Cameo, and the “Brick House” Commodores. The two covers — Betty Mabry Davis’s overlooked “If I’m In Luck, I Might Get Picked Up” and Graham Central Station’s highlight “Water” prove the durability of that ’70s pocket.

The new angle is the two-bass hit of Tony Hall and Nick Daniels III, creating, with drummer Nikki Gillespie, a booming bottom that in isolation could be compared to the sound of IMAX theaters showing Transformer movies. Guest appearances dot the landscape — Ani DiFranco, Skerik, Flea — but it’s the visiting horn sections that are necessary, because in the great ’70s funk bands, the bass was the body but the brass was the head. Consider the finale “Raise the House,” in which the Rebirth Brass Band and Trombone Shorty not only tear the roof off, they turn it into kindling and light a bonfire.

Hart has, in recent months, released both Bang Bang Boom Boom, her eighth solo album, and Seesaw, her second collaboration with blues-guitar wunderkind Joe Bonamassa. The former presents her as a sort of modern cabaret or nightclub singer, performing her own songs with a fair amount of blues and gospel in her phrasing; on the latter, she revives soul and related songs from the past.

She’d begun singing in high school, on the South Central L.A. club circuit, where blues and soul prevailed. Following her national victory on Star Search, the American Idol/The Voice forerunner that provided Ed McMahon pocket cash when he wasn’t fronting for Johnny Carson, she released Immortal, her 1996 debut album, on an Atlantic Records imprint. That was followed three years later by Screamin’ for My Supper, which yielded the Adult Contemporary Top 5 hit “L.A. Song (Out of This Town).” About that time, she disappeared in a mountain of drugs and an ocean of booze that scotched her major-label deal. Since cleaning up, she’s released half a dozen albums, some only overseas, some on various American labels; she also played Janis Joplin in the off-Broadway musical Love, Janis, based on that tumultuous singer’s letters home to her family in Port Arthur, Texas, during her ’70s heyday. (Hart is constantly compared to Joplin as a singer, of course.) But she started gaining real traction in America in 2011, when she and Bonamassa, who’d crossed paths on European tours, released Don’t Explain, their first collection of soul remakes that hit No. 2 on Billboard’s blues charts.

Actually, the Bonamassa collaborations seem to showcase Hart much better than her solo work. There’s a few reasons for this: For starters, her solo work remains more pop than blues or soul, and the new one is a mixed bag of songs. The opening “Baddest Blues” is probably the bluesiest thing on the disc, but it’s closer to a stylized, Billie Holiday pop song personalized into bluesy territory. Hart shows restraint as she builds the song in a way that emphasizes the depth of the song and her feeling. The title song that follows might be the best thing on the album, a seeming throwaway with a casually devastating matter-of-factness about her attraction to a dangerous lover.

But after those first two, the entire album seems to fade into a hazy, nebulous collection of fairly pedestrian songs. Hart is better off digging up and singing obscure blues and soul songs that her audience wouldn’t recognize but that would still express her outlook. Seesaw certainly seconds that emotion. Take “I Love you More Than You’ll Ever Know,” a song Al Kooper wrote for the first Blood, Sweat and Tears album (1968) that Donny Hathaway turned into a soul hit in 1972. The lyrics are constructed to be declaimed, spoken and sung, with all kinds of room in the song for seemingly spontaneous soul interjections; in short, it’s almost impossible to oversing, and this version is indeed gorgeous.

The opening “Them There Eyes” (one of two songs associated with Billie Holiday) provides another explanation for why Hart sounds so much better here than on her own album. The tune kicks in with some madly swinging wham-bam horn parts, and she fits herself right into the pocket instead of walking all over it as she often does with her own band. Indeed, the only oversung moment comes with Ike and Tina Turner’s “Nutbush City Limits,” and even that seems passable given how badly Tina oversang the original. Most impressively of all, she humbly acquits herself with empathy and anguish on “Strange Fruit,” the Holiday gem that I’d previously thought no white woman should ever try to sing.

The American version of Bang Bang Boom Boom contains the live track of Hart and Jeff Beck performing her heroine Etta James’s “I’d Rather Go Blind” as part of the tribute to Buddy Guy at last year’s Kennedy Center Honors presentations. Beck has scads of tricks and licks he can haul out to play off her dominating voice, and she knows it. Rather than running astray, she exercises complete control over her vocal, making her point without clubbing anyone over the head with it. The end result is stunning.

Plush R&B that draws from classic jazz as much as it does from contemporary pop

Can’t get enough of this year’s instant soft-soul classic, Rhye’s Woman? Before there was Rhye, there was the 2009 debut of Quadron, the similarly sultry Danish duo of singer Coco O and multi-instrumentalist Robin Hannibal, the latter also half of Rhye. Having charmed Jay-Z, Coco O recently appeared on the Great Gasby soundtrack, and now the cognoscenti-approved pair returns with their major-label debut. Avalanche offers more of what makes Woman so sublime — plush R&B that draws from classic jazz as much as it does from contemporary pop — but with Coco’s feistier, more diverse delivery.

Like Rhye’s Mike Milosh, Coco sounds as if she spent her tender years wailing along to nothing but Mary J. Blige, Erykah Badu and Billie Holiday. And like Milosh, she’s not purely imitative: A growly throatiness, combined with far more idiomatic phrasing than most ESL vocalists can usually pull off, adds subtle twists that set Coco apart from less distinctive students. And her lyrics are similarly uncommon, full of playful quirks: “If for one day I could be any bug/ I’d let him kill me for a taste of his blood,” she sings of the man she’s love-stalking in “Crush.”

Hannibal, as her producer cohort, once again proves himself a superlative studio rat. Producing, arranging, engineering and also playing all the instruments he hasn’t shrewdly assigned elsewhere, Hannibal creates some of the loveliest textures to grace R&B this millennium. Like ’70s Stevie Wonder, he combines technology with a broad palate of real strings, horns, woodwinds, guitars, and percussion. Alternating synthetic rhythm sections with live bass and drums but generally favoring acoustic instrumentation over electronics, he switches the combinations subtly while staying closer to chamber music than grandiose orchestrations. Always he supports rather than obscures Coco, and although each hold their own, their collaboration on swelling, rainbow-hued cuts like “LFT” and “Neverland” is sweetly symbiotic. This Avalanche feels like one long leisurely embrace.

They clearly know the blues masters well, but their most obvious inspiration is the Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band that in 1972 released Spotlight Kid and Clear Spot, the two “accessible” albums that preceded Beefheart’s hapless attempt to “go commercial” with Unconditionally Guaranteed. But despite some of the sprung rhythms, clanking guitar and singer Joe Doerr’s voice, this band doesn’t really sound that much like Beefheart; the biggest thing they took from him is the understanding that the only way most white kids can play blues credibly and keep ‘em sounding fresh is by using blues only as a taking-off point — and that having done that, you’d damn well better have something to say or you’re just wanking in the wind. Doerr was a founding member of Austin’s Leroi Brothers, a harder-than-hard-edged roots band that played every song like it was trying to stay one step ahead of the police. Churchwood has much the same approach: You can practically feel the sweat pouring out of your speakers, except it’s much thicker — swampier — than real sweat. Doerr rides it like some weird water-park attraction. His voice has Beefheart’s power and gruffness, with a little Tom Waits mixed in there too, and when he breaks into one of his versions of Howlin Wolf’s nonverbal semi-yodeling articulations he is without affectation. He sounds really cool.

Doerr quit music in the ’80s for nearly two decades to go back to college, ultimately winning his doctorate from Notre Dame and then returning to Austin to teach writing and literature at a local private college. The lyrics he writes for Churchwood are a sort of gutter poetry in which French symbolism meets American beats’ free verse, stirred up by a bit of a Screaming Jay Hawkins gross-out. He is not the type who wakes up in the morning and looks around for his shoes because he has those mean ol’ blues. On “Keels Be Damned,” he bellows, “I’m coughing bullshit through my fists/ Crossing fables off my list.” Those lines are more like the bellows of Muddy Waters in “Mannish Boy” and “Seventh Son,” Bo Diddley in “Who Do You Love.” Plus, they’ve got terrific rhythm. Don’t always rhyme, but that’s okay.

Slide guitarist Billysteve Korpi is perhaps better known for his work with the Crack Pipes, arguably Austin’s top garage band. Guitarist Bill Anderson first made his name with the local post-punk roots band Poison 13. There’s no apparent reason why they should sound as stirring as they do, because they don’t really play off each other the way you’d expect; usually it’s more like they’re both soloing at the same time but both soloes work together sublimely. Check out this interplay on the likes of the swampy “Weedeye” or the vehement “Fake This One.”

The other thing the band does to keep things interesting is change tempo several times in one song. The rhythm section doesn’t lay down a blues groove in the conventional sense; they maraud through three or so grooves in one song. That can’t help but keep things from becoming too predictable in that white blooz way. You’re never quite sure what’s coming next, but you know it’s worth sticking around to find out. Until he joined Churchwood, drummer Julien Peterson had been a bass player. But he had the notion that the drummer of this band had to be able to play just behind the behind. Not coincidentally, that’s where you’ll find all the great blues band rhythm sections, and it allows the other players to slide in and out of the groove like Chuck Berry’s cool breeze. In the case of Churchwood, it gives the other players the opening they need to take the sound wherever they wish to while still remaining anchored. And that’s what they do on this album, much more than on their first. This one marks a significant growth over their debut, while leaving plenty of room for further growth on (what will presumably be) Churchwood 3.

Nothing will ever replace the great old bluesmen, and nothing should try. Because this band in fact doesn’t try, it sounds and feels pretty good alongside them. Similar, but different, it occupies its own little niche. Most listeners will describe them as a rock band rather than a blues band, but there’s nothing saying you have to believe that.

Those three blues artists are the Mississippi Sheiks, Blind Willie McTell and Charley Patton. The first two have a lighter, simpler and more melodic approach than Patton, but all three are exemplary entertainers. Across the whole spectrum of blues, which is much more diverse than it’s ever given credit for, some artists are just like that, no matter how harsh the sound of their music — Robert Johnson, for example, put out deeply emotional music with an undeniably rough sound, but he also wrote irresistible hooks and formalized the verse-chorus pattern of American popular music in the blues. He went that distance to make his music, however searing, more accessible to more people; that’s (along with mystique) a big part of the reason he’s by far the most popular early artist of the blues revival that been off and on since the 1950s. With that in mind, let’s look at the three new Third Man reissues.

The Mississippi Sheiks: The Complete Recorded Works Presented in Chronological Order, Volume 1 documents the Delta string band built around members of the Chatmon Family, most prominently Armenter Chatmon, known professionally as Bo Carter. Drawing on white as well as black rural traditions including blues, pop, hokum, country and folk, their guitar-fiddle sound made them one of the most popular acts of the 1930s, even though they only recorded for the first half of that decade. The interplay between Carter’s oily voice and Lonnie Chatmon’s scratchy fiddle is as otherworldly when sweet as when severe. Their 1930 “Sitting on Top of the World,” written by Sheiks guitarist Lonnie Chatmon the morning after a triumphant gig at a white dance, was a crossover even back then — it’s since been revived by Bob Wills, Bill Monroe, Ray Charles, Howlin’ Wolf, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Bob Dylan, Les Paul, White and countless others — and the group’s influence on American music is everywhere. You can hear it in the stateliness of “The Sheik Waltz,” the skittering heat of “The Jazz Fiddler,” the carefree country of “We Are Both Feeling Good Right Now,” the hoodoo of “Stop and Listen Blues,” the down-and-out moan of “Winter Time Blues” or the wit of “Grinding Old Fool.”

As an Atlanta bluesman, Blind Willie McTell also made music lighter, bouncier and less dark than the most tortured Delta blues; this ragtimey sound is usually called Piedmont blues and McTell was perhaps its greatest master, picking his 12-string guitar with both agility and elegance. His nasal warble had a touch of country in it, and his repertoire included blues and ragtime, spirituals, ballads, pop, folk, hillbilly and story-songs that sometimes had vaudeville and/or medicine show overtones. Like the Sheiks, Willie cut his calling-card number, the brilliantly-constructed “Statesboro Blues,” which the Allman Brothers popularized more than four decades later, at his first sessions (in ’27). But he never ran out of melodies, licks or ideas. Listen on his Volume 1 to the way his guitar fills alternate between high and low strings on “Mamma ‘Taint Long Fo’ Day,” or his carousing slide on “Three Women Blues,” for a display of his nimbleness as a picker; it’s as if there were two different guitarists on these songs. Or to the stunning lyrics of “Dark Night Blues” (“Drink so much whiskey/ I’m stagger when I sleep/ My brains are dark and cloudy/ My mind’s gone to my feet”). Or the happy-go-lucky way he acts out “Atlanta Strut” with his guitar and the percussive effects he gets from it on “Drive Away Blues.” McTell’s reach was arguably the broadest of anyone of his era who called himself a bluesman, and he presumably seduced a wide range of listeners on the street corners where he did most of his singing.

You might think the whole entertainer analogy among these three breaks down with Charley Patton. After all, his growling, gravelly voice is forceful enough to unnerve a Howlin’ Wolf fan, and his layered, impossibly intricate rhythms effortlessly conjure up West Africa. It’s the kind of stuff people are talking about when they refer to “authentic” blues. Yet “intricate” shouldn’t be confused with “driving” or “aggressive.” On “Screamin’ and Hollerin’ the Blues,” his playing exploits hesitations, shifting accents and rhythmic variations to garrote what is generally a laid-back piece with relaxed vocals. On the astonishing “Down the Dirt Road Blues,” he gets three rhythms going simultaneously — one with his voice, one with his guitar lines and one by tapping his guitar.

So yes, Charley Patton was a ferocious Delta bluesman, perhaps the form’s true father. But only about half his 50-plus sides are even blues; as the oldest Delta bluesman to record, he worked in all the other forms that his audience would expect of a pre-blues rural entertainer. His Volume 1 embraces religious songs (“Lord I’m Discouraged”) and folk ballads (“Mississippi Boweavil Blues”), ragtime novelties (“Shake It and Break It”) and familiar slide guitar standards (“Spoonful”), even “composed folk” topical songs like “Tom Rushen Blues” (or his opus “High Water Everywhere” about the 1927 Mississippi River flood, which will appear on a subsequent album). So when Patton turns out something like “Pony Blues,” doubtless his most influential blues, he’s showing just a fraction of what he can do. Plus, live he was unabashedly show biz, playing guitar behind his head or between his legs, peppering songs with vaudevillian asides and the like. Fellow Delta bluesmen who only saw him live considered him a clown; they were then shocked to hear his records in all their fierceness and complexity.

Ultimately, the “performer” designation unites these three artists when their sounds are so different. At a segregated time when record companies confined “race music” to a particular market these guys worked hard to get around the limitations being imposed on them. Today, they face a different kind of segregation, that imposed by the “purist.” But they all, each in his own way, rise above it…again.

Now, with the release of Robert Randolph Presents The Slide Brothers, co-produced by Randolph and John McDermott and featuring steel players Calvin Cooke, Aubrey Ghent and Chuck and Darick Campbell, the style gets its best shot yet at a wider audience. The album’s made up mostly of pop and rock songs with a spiritual bent (George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord”) and spirituals with established crossover appeal (“Wade in the Water”), but also includes secular tunes (The Allman Brothers’ “Don’t Keep Me Wonderin’”). The musicians — unfortunately, not a single track features all five — show off their funk, blues, country, rock, pop and jazz licks while staying true to their faith. “It’s always sorta been my vision to get everybody together and do this the right way, in a good studio, using songs non-church people could relate to,” Randolph says.

There’s a price for taking their music outside the House of God. After that first wave of Arhoolie albums, the Campbells began playing occasional festivals and venues (like coffeehouses) where alcohol wasn’t served. Although they still performed only religious material, they were banned from playing in the church. Randolph left the church by hitting the road to play his secular material, and never tried to return; Cooke, the patriarch of current musicians after playing services for 57 years, was dismissed for touring with Randolph. Ghent likewise was banished from his Florida church after doing sacred material at secular gigs, but was taken in at a Nashville House of God; because he’s now its pastor, he participates here only on songs that have a spiritual grounding. Most of them still worship in the House of God; they just don’t play services anymore, and they’re okay with the tradeout. “I enjoy exploring my music more,” Cooke explains. “I wanted to venture out.”

This music differs from their church music in more than one way. In 1999, I joined Ghent one Sunday at his church in Fort Pierce, Florida. He played nonstop through the entire service — improvising behind the pastor as she built her sermon to a climax, at which point she’d ease off as he either burned his improv to a crescendo or broke into a recognizable song the congregation began singing; then he laid back and she retook control. They passed the lead back and forth between music and preaching, amping it up and then softening it, congregation members speaking in tongues or shaking and writhing in the pews and aisles, for about three straight hours. Ghent played lines that emulated the tones and cadences of the preacher’s voice with a seemingly calm intensity that left his face and suit soaked in sweat. Even the best sacred steel albums, great as several of them are, can’t duplicate that — and similarly, The Slide Brothers can’t match those CDs.

In short, it’s likely to disappoint those who’ve heard any of the sacred albums. “Basically,” Ghent admits, “Here we simply play the songs. In church it’s different: We’re helping the preacher.” Still, there’s much here to love, especially if you’ve never heard any sacred steel. That’s apparent from the opening track, the Allmans’ “Don’t Keep Me Wonderin’,” with Chuck Campbell’s sharp, knifing pedal steel and Darick’s fat lap steel swirling out sheets of sound while bro Phil lays down jagged funk and rock lines on guitar. Factor in Cooke’s equally driving vocals and the fiery outro jam and it’s a thrilling cut by any standards. Fronted by different guest vocalists, the Campbells likewise recast “My Sweet Lord,” Fatboy Slim’s “Praise You” and the churning, traditional “Motherless Children,” while starting their instrumental “Wade in the Water” with shimmers and ending it with screams. Cooke brings deep, urgent empathy with both voice and lap steel to his revivals of slide guitar blues king Elmore James’s “The Sky Is Crying” and “It Hurts Me Too,” effectively obliterating distinctions between blues and gospel, and also contributes his original, secular/sacred “Help Me Make It Through.” Ghent, who I hadn’t remembered as much of a singer, proves me wrong on Mylon Lefevre’s “Sunday School Blues” and concludes the album with a bit of levity on “No Cheap Seats in Heaven.”

All five steel men are adamant that despite House of God’s rigorous insularity, the sound has a strong future both inside and outside the church. Cooke notes that there are more teenagers within the HoG taking up the instrument than ever before, while Randolph adds that Jack White, Kid Rock, Luther Dickinson and current and former Black Crowes Chris Robinson and Jeff Cease are now playing gospel-based lap steel styles; Chuck Campbell has a Finnish student. “It’s an ongoing thing that everyone wants to do, now that they’re getting to understand the story behind the music,” Randolph insists. I just hope they do it right.

Like: He’s an electric guitar pioneer, and had one of the first electric blues bands in the Mississippi Delta and in Chicago. Many said the Broomdusters rocked harder than Muddy’s or Wolf’s bands. A radio repairman by trade, James tinkered with his pickups, wiring and amps to become the first set-’em-on-11 electric guitarist; his explosive sound, screaming with sustained tones, was feral, distorted and densely textured. Near the end, he’d slam his fretboard with his hand, and wrestle what came to be called power chords, out of his instrument. Whether they knew it or not, “heavy” guitarists right up to contemporaries like Dimebag Darrell are as indebted to James as are Hound Dog Taylor, Homesick James, J.B. Hutto and other Chicago slide guitarists who rode the wave he created, as well as non-Chicago bluesmen like B.B. King. A parade of blues-rockers including Eric Clapton, Peter Green and Jeremy Spencer of early Fleetwood Mac, Brian Jones of the Stones, Duane Allman, Canned Heat, Johnny Winter, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Mike Bloomfield with Paul Butterfield, George Thorogood, Jimi Hendrix and others revived James’s songs and did their best to emulate his lick. His voice was nearly as earth-shaking as his guitar, loud and anguished and pushing at the edges of his upper range until it threatened to break up like a radio signal lost in the ether; the original, old-school dictionary definition of “funk” was the noun “panic,” and that’s what Elmore’s voice sounded like. And James was also no slouch as a songwriter, from the simple eloquence of his overhaul of Tampa Red’s “It Hurts Me Too” to the raw imagery of “Bleeding Heart” to the carnal knowledge of “Shake Your Moneymaker.”

Born near Richland, Mississippi, in 1918, Elmore was a youthful running buddy of both Robert Johnson and Sonny Boy Williamson II. By the late ’30s, he already had a band, including drummer, working Delta jook joints; only Robert Lockwood Jr. could make the same claim. Around 1940, Elmore took up electric guitar, and by the time he began recording — with Williamson II, in 1952 — his version of “Dust My Broom” was notorious across the Delta. When James finally cut it with Sonny Boy II blowing harp, the electrified slide created a sensation. Elmore quickly signed with the Bihari Brothers’ family of L.A. labels — most releases were on Flair, though they’re known today as his Modern sides, after the parent company — and moved to Chicago to form the Broomdusters. The band featured piano pounder Johnny Jones and the braying tones of tenor sax man J.T. Brown (the chief soloist besides James), as well as bassist Homesick James (who sometimes added a second guitar) and drummer Odie Payne. The Biharis milked the “Dust My Broom” lick for all it was worth, but all through the ’50s there was apparently a huge gap between the Broomdusters live — reckless but tight, verging on rock — and the singles James cut. Still, it’s hard to argue with diverse and devastating fare like the breakneck “Hawaiian Boogie,” the swamp-tinged “Sho ‘Nuff I Do,” the scorching “Please Find My Baby,” the bopping “Strange Kinda Feeling,” or the slow blues “Sunny Land,” among the most memorable Modern tracks gathered on albums like Let’s Cut It: The Very Best of Elmore James, Best of the Modern Years and Blues Kingpins.

James recorded irregularly during most of the ’50s, largely because his heart condition led him to periodically flee Chicago and the music business for the more restful life back in Mississippi. The seven sides he cut for Chief and the nine for Chess don’t all appear on eMusic, though highlights are scattered across various compilations. These include the mellow, Dixielandish “Madison Blues” on Up Jumped Elmore, the jumping “Cry for Me Baby” on The Blues of Elmore James and “Country Boogie (Tool Bag Boogie)” and “Whose Muddy Shoes” on Elmore James Sings the Blues. But Elmore’s finest body of work is the 50 sides cut over five sessions between 1959-63 for New York entrepreneur Bobby Robinson’s Fire/Fury/Enjoy, which are scattered across Shake Your Moneymaker, The Sky Is Crying, Standing at the Crossroads and others.

Robinson was the only real producer James ever had, and together they reached back for new versions of old favorites — both their muscular versions of “Dust My Broom” make the original sound positively quaint — while also fashioning some of the most hellacious postwar blues ever. Robinson cut James with the Broomdusters, in quartets, and with studio bands containing full horn sections; Elmore played slide on some and ultra-modern lead on others. The very first session yielded “The Sky is Crying,” which quickly joined “Dust My Broom” and “It Hurts Me Too” as EJ calling cards. If “Something Inside Me” isn’t his most gut-wrenching slow blues ever, then “I Need You” is. “Done Somebody Wrong” rides jackhammer riffing, while the off-kilter “Bobby’s Rock” floats on Duane Eddyish guitar. “One Way Out” is frantic. The remake of Robert Johnson’s “Rollin’ and Tumblin’” manages to sound simultaneously archaic and right up to date. But at his best, Elmore James, whose heart ailments killed him three months after his final Robinson sessions, always sounded both archaic and right up to date. He wore his Delta roots on his sleeve, and he was forever trying to wrench new sounds out of his guitar.

A blues set that's more than just a curiosity

Yeah, that Doc Pomus, the one who wrote such ’50s and ’60s rock ‘n’ roll standards as “Save the Last Dance for Me” for the Drifters, “Teenager in Love” for Dion and the Belmonts and “Little Sister” for Elvis. Inspired by the powerhouse voice of Big Joe Turner, Doc entered the record biz as a jazzy, jump blues shouter. He turned to writing after realizing he’d never make it as a performer, especially as a white blues singer. But you know what? He sang with real feeling for the blues, making this set more than just a curiosity. He swings on “Too Much Boogie,” rocks on three versions of “Bye Baby Bye,” belts on “Pomus Blues,” makes with the double entendre on “Pool Playing Baby” and croons something suspiciously like a rock ‘n’ roll ballad in the title song. He also had access to the better New York sessions cats, so his records usually sound good, if not quite good enough that he really could have been a blues star. In other words, Doc made the right move.

Though he emerged in an era when singers dominated blues, he and his acolytes made electric guitar the instrument that mattered most. The consummate artist, he’s worked just as hard to become the consummate entertainer. Playing gutbucket music born and raised in juke joints, he and his horn-heavy bands have always been the nattiest lookers on the block. Today, with the real blues closer to extinction than ever, even as mutant fragments remain at the core of most American music, most true rock and roll fans have heard the name “B.B. King.” He has in many ways transcended the idiom.

And yet he’s never left it, either. And except for the manner in which age changes all musicians — hell, all humans — King hasn’t changed his music much in order to get it heard by ever-widening audiences. Instead, he’s moved into the mainstream through the inherent power and the force of his own humble, gracious personality. His style developed and matured fairly quickly; since then, he’s constantly honed it, paring it down to its absolute essence. And what could be more essential than B.B. King’s brand of blues?

What would you say is the relationship of your music to blues now?

Blues is the foundation of everything I do. When I started playing I was going to blues bars, blues jams, around Austin. Learning about Stevie Ray Vaughan, Elmore James, Robert Johnson…that’s how I learned to play, starting with the Texas guys like Freddie King, T-Bone Walker and Mance Lipscomb. But I grew up on soul music — Stevie Wonder, the Jacksons, Marvin Gaye. Growing up in the ’80s and ’90s, there was all kinds of sounds happening, so that’s what I knew. When I was in my teens I met [Austin blues impresario] Clifford Antone and he put everything on me. Next thing I knew I was onstage playing with Albert Collins, Jimmie Vaughan, Hubert Sumlin.

After Honeydripper, you seemed to lay out a bit, and you weren’t playing much at all. What was going on during that time?

I’d spent a lot of time mimicking other people. I’d played lots of blues covers in sets instead of originals. I needed to try to find my own voice. I spent days at a time in one little room, without ever leaving it, trying to find myself musically. I taught myself drums, horns, began playing keyboards; I played drums in some local bands. I was trying to figure out how all those instruments worked, and how I could use them. I experimented with my guitar tone, trying to figure out what worked for me. The rest of the time I was hanging out with friends and catching up, something I hadn’t done that much as a kid. The songs I wrote then were blues songs but kinda fonky, hip-hoppy, with jazz even, and I’d thought I could never play that in clubs because all they wanted from me was blues. I drove myself crazy holding all that other music back, so I put all my influences into one bag rather than keeping them separate. That’s when I wrote “Bright Lights,” which was raw and somewhat psychedelic. It was also exactly what I wanted to do, and since then I’ve been able to put all those different kinds of music into my own music.

It seems to be working fine; what happened this last year that all of a sudden, after all this time, you were able to make such a splash?

I’ve been fortunate enough to play music festivals, not just blues festivals. Rather than being off with one kind of music I’m playing my music for all kinds of people. So really, I think it’s just a combination of having Warner Brothers on my team and then getting out and playing these festivals, spreading the word. Now, it’s a whole new ballgame. The cool thing is, people at these festivals are really open and receptive to whatever we do. We’ll play a smooth, falsetto soul thing and they like that; then we’ll play something raw and funky and they’re equally receptive to that. The audience and the band both, they show up and want to be in the moment, to share what is.

Then what do you see happening next, short-term and long-term?

Short-term, I’m happy right where I am now. Long- term my goal is mainly to get out and see more places, to grow as an artist and a human. And to see the crowds grow. I see the music going everywhere; that’s the fun of it. Someone like B.B. King, he’s really diverse and his music goes in all directions but it’s still blues. That’s the kind of thing I want to happen with my own music. Right now I’m listening to a lot of Robert Johnson, so we’ll see where that takes me.

File under: Music of the Deep South — blues and field recordings

For fans of: Mirel Wagner, Florence + The Machine, Adele, Odetta, Mahalia Jackson

From: London, U.K., via Canada

Personae: Al Spx (vocals, guitar), Tom Havelock (cello), Thomas Greene (piano), Chris Cundy (baritone sax/tenor sax/bass clarinet), Terry Edwards (trumpet/fugal horn/baritone sax/ tenor sax), Rob Ellis (drums)

[Of all of the records that came out this year, none captured our hearts as much as I Predict a Graceful Expulsion, the stirring, evocative debut from Al Spx, who records as Cold Specks. From the moment we heard it, we knew it was something truly special. Spx mastered the art of "sense language," writing words with no clear literal meaning, but with whole volumes of conveyed feeling. It is a poem of hope for the lost and endurance for the broken. eMusic's Elisa Bray talked with Spx about the album in June. You can read their conversation below.]

“It’s a pseudonym,” says Cold Specks musician Al Spx of her adopted name. “I just don’t feel comfortable having my real name out there.” The 24-year-old Canadian always thought she’d be a lawyer or a teacher — anything but a musician. At least that’s what her parents wanted. Growing up in a large, devout family, the fifth of seven siblings, in Etobicoke, a suburb of Toronto, being a musician wasn’t really an option. But hidden away in the basement and in the bedroom — “wherever I could find some space” — Spx started honing a voice that recalls Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Mahalia Jackson, and began writing evocative blues songs steeped in the musical traditions of the American Deep South.

Fortuitously, her demos landed in the hands of producer Jim Anderson, who persuaded the young musician to make a record, and she moved to London, U.K., in 2010, taking her band name from a line in James Joyce’s Ulysses: “Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights shining in the darkness.”

On her teenage love of indie-rock bands and starting to write:

When I was 15 I started writing songs. My mum bought me a guitar. I wanted to be a guitarist in a rock band like the Strokes. I was really into the Strokes and Interpol when I was about 14. I played in my bedroom, the basement, wherever I could find some space. I didn’t want anyone to hear because I guess I was a little bit shy. But I realized I couldn’t play guitar very well — I ended up realizing I could sing, so I stuck with that. I picked up the guitar again and I’ve been playing it since.

On writing her first song, “Lay Me Down”:

I was a morbid teenager and it was a result of that. Like any other teenager I’d go through ridiculous periods. It was a product of boredom; I was moving round from town to town and I didn’t know too many people. I had this old keyboard and wrote some songs.

On making the transition from solo artist to having a band:

It was very difficult at first. I was used to being in complete control. I didn’t understand musical structures. I had never played with a drummer before. It was all very new and overwhelming. But as with anything, it just took time. Now, I only play solo if I really have to.

I was completely self-taught, so my tuning was not a conventional tuning and the rhythms were all off-kilter, because I didn’t know what I was doing essentially. But I had all of these ideas and incomplete songs and had to, without any musical knowledge, find a way to translate those ideas to the band members and I think that’s why it took so long, and that’s why we spent two years on the record, because I needed that time to grow and learn and figure out how to translate all of my mad ideas.

On her musical transformation during the making of the album:

The songs changed completely. They started as acoustic songs on an acoustic guitar and my voice then we added band members and horns and cello, loads of instrumentation. I think I grew as a songwriter and a singer — I wasn’t very focused before I came to Britain and during that time, recording the album, I grew a lot.

On giving her music the term “doom soul”:

It started out as a joke! Last June, I created a Facebook page for the band. As a joke, I listed “doom soul” as our genre and it has just stuck. It is obviously a ridiculous description, but it seems to make sense to people. There are dark elements to the songs as well as soulful ones.

On writing blues songs:

I didn’t intend to. I have a husky voice. The songs are miserable and I was very limited with regards to instrumentation. I was also listening to a handful of American blues singers when I first began writing songs. I suppose all of those things helped to create a bluesy sound.

Someone sent me a collection called Southern Journey, and it really struck me. People in their own homes singing for the love of it, not ever thinking they’d make a career out of it, and you can just hear the love in their voices, a love for singing in their voices, and I was really attracted to that. When I first started recording it was always on my own. Because I was writing songs in my bedroom and basement I didn’t think anyone would ever hear it, so [they were] brutally honest songs. The songs on the album are quite personal. I think a lot of that was influenced by the Lomax stuff.

On spirituality playing a role in her music:

I think the songs started out as me questioning faith and trying to come to terms with some kind of form of spirituality. The songs are a result of that.

On Tom Waits, her greatest influence:

He’s a great songwriter, and he’s got one of the best voices I’ve ever heard. There’s a song on Orphans called “Home I’ll Never Be”; it’s a cover of a Jack Kerouac poem/song. There are two Waits versions and the one that I love is a poorly recorded version with Tom on the piano. I believe it was recorded at Allen Ginsberg’s memorial. It’s one of the most powerful recordings I have ever come across. I find his music to be completely consuming. [My biggest ambition is] a duet with Tom Waits!

On James Carr:

I love him! That voice stops me every time. As far as I’m concerned, he was the best of that era. Better than Sam Cooke. Better than Otis. It’s a shame he didn’t get as much recognition. He was it.

On inspiring literature:

I have been reading the selected letters, memoirs and essays of some of my favorite writers recently — Moments of Being by Virginia Woolf, James Joyce’s erotic letters, and Arthur Rimbaud’s selected letters. I guess I am currently obsessed with the memories of other people.

The best parts of '90s R&B mixed with current trends in UK dance

In the video for breakout single “Wildest Moments,” UK singer Jessie Ware appears, dressed in white, in front of a blank white backdrop and begins to sing. And that is pretty much all that happens. But the thing is, not much more needs to happen: The song itself is potent, big, “Paper Plane”-style bass drums and Ware’s smoky alto preaching the gospel of two-way love as a path to self-actualization. It’s like that throughout Devotion, Ware’s sneakily seductive debut that fuses the best parts of ’90s R&B with current trends in UK dance. Throughout, the music is deliciously underplayed: cool blankets of synths, percussion that percolates like an 8-bit coffeepot and the occasional filigree of guitar. It makes for a new kind of high-tech lover’s rock, cruising sleek and quiet as a sports car on a city street in the hours just before the sun comes up. Like all the best crushes, it sneaks up on you unexpectedly, and takes a firm, unwavering hold.

That’s the question Bob Riesman tackles in his biography I Feel So Good: The Life and Times of Big Bill Broonzy, just published in paperback. He mainly discovers there’s no wholly satisfactory answer, but he unravels a complicated and revealing story along the way. And it’s one that needed to be told, because perhaps this book’s greatest revelation is that Big Bill’s own autobiography Big Bill Blues, William Broonzy’s Story, long billed as the first blues memoir, is in fact almost entirely made up, a grandiose job of self-mythologizing that makes the young Bob Dylan seem like an innocuous little tale-teller. Riesman goes to great lengths to show how, in doing so, Broonzy was consciously playing a sort of black Everyman, using his own stature to consolidate stories that told what life was like for African Americans of that time and place. Given Broonzy’s own propensity for writing songs either covertly or overtly about racial injustice, it’s a hard explanation to shoot down, but it may still leave you wondering.

After arriving in Chicago in the early ’20s, the man born Bradley Lee Conley in Arkansas dabbled in other work before committing to music. Working himself into the Melrose operations by 1929, he eventually became a Willie Dixon figure well before Willie Dixon did. Big Bill helped Melrose distinguish the real talent in Chicago, while writing witty and often ironic songs for those artists and serving as a session guitarist (though he was originally a fiddler) and more or less producing the records. He’d first appeared on disc (“Big Bill Blues” b/w “House Rent Stomp”) in 1928, and as the music evolved, he proved adaptable. He cut definitive hokum records with Tampa Red, Georgia Tom (Dorsey), Jazz Gillum and Washboard Sam (his half-brother). His first records under his own name (mistakenly printed as Broomsley) came out in 1930; his “I Can’t Be Satisfied” gave him his first hit. The so-called “Bluebird beat” (named after the RCA blues subsidiary label) adding trap drums and stand-up bass to blues guitar and/or piano was largely Broonzy’s creation. He worked with the kind of jazzy blues ensembles then developing in the cities, and when piano-guitar duets a la Leroy Carr-Scrapper Blackwell came into vogue, he picked up on those, too. His original, ragtimey guitar evolved into a more assertive, rawer, flat-picking style while retaining the pulsating bounce that had always propelled it. His vocals, notable for their clarity and smoothness, grew more anguished. Though most of his work for Melrose was released on Bluebird, his own records came out on ARC. And once the effects of the Depression had fully lifted, his solo career soared.

From 1934-42, he was one of the most popular country-rooted bluesmen in the nation. When John Hammond, planning his historic, 1938 Spirituals to Swing concert at Carnegie Hall, learned that Robert Johnson (the Delta bluesman he wanted) had recently died, he turned to Big Bill, who jolted the audience with his sardonic “Just a Dream” (“Dreamed I was in the White House/ Sittin’ in the president’s chair/ Dreamed he’s shakin’ my hand and said/ ‘Bill, I’m so glad you’re here.’”) He scored with traditional material like “C.C. Rider” and he wrote brilliant new stuff like the dirge “Key to the Highway” and the raunchy “I Feel So Good.” He became a sort of blues ambassador; when Muddy Waters first hit town, it was Broonzy who took him in and showed him the ropes, and Muddy later reciprocated with the tribute album Muddy Waters Sings Big Bill. And Broonzy kept on keeping up with the times. His 1945 “Where the Blues Began” and “Martha Blues” (with Big Maceo and Memphis Slim, respectively, on piano) provided a bridge to the postwar Chicago blues combo style.

In 1946, while still cutting records aimed at black fans, Broonzy began playing more for white audiences, and soon fell in with Win Stracke and Studs Terkel, who were creating the postwar Chicago folk movement. Taking a breather from Chicago and the blues circuit in 1950, Big Bill worked as a janitor at Iowa State, where he also performed to students so skillfully that in 1951 a white friend was able to land him his first European tour. While overseas he finally was able to record “Black, Brown and White,” his most enraged song about race relations; he’d been performing it for years but no American label would touch it. Back in the States later that year, he cut perhaps his final straight-up blues gem, the delightful “Hey, Hey.”

He returned to Europe several times, becoming a huge influence on the ’60s wave of British guitarists (Eric Clapton has cut a pair of Broonzy tunes and Ron Wood still swears by Bill’s “Guitar Shuffle,” while Pete Townsend, who wrote an appreciation for the Riesman book, and Ray Davies are among the others who sing his praises). In the USA, he was perhaps the only blues fixture on the folk circuit who didn’t have to be rediscovered. But his relevance to, and influence on, the black audience was waning just as Chicago blues was peaking. To the mass blues audience that followed in the ’60s, Big Bill Broonzy got lost in the shuffle – but there’s no reason he has to stay that way.

Giving his blues-rock contemporaries something to think about

True guitar heroes don’t come along often. So when one threatens to break into the pantheon, it tends to get some notice. Gary Clark Jr. grew up in his native Austin steeped in the blues; he started playing the local bar circuit at 15 (this was back in 1999), befriending Stevie Ray Vaughan’s older brother Jimmie and gradually making a name for himself as a kid with a brash, ballsy sound and a soulful singing voice to back it up. When Eric Clapton extended Clark a personal invitation to perform at the Crossroads Guitar Festival in 2010, the grapevine buzzed expectantly.

Now 28, Clark carries with him all the charisma and mystique of a young “savior of the blues,” as he’s been touted, but his musical vision is much more complex. For every reference to Elmore James or T-Bone Walker (especially on the rootsy, all-acoustic “Next Door Neighbor Blues”), he can unleash a snakebite wah-wah solo that recalls Jimi Hendrix (“When My Train Pulls In”) or dial it back to croon like D’Angelo on the title song, which undulates with hip-hop and G-funk thanks to producer/bassist Mike Elizondo. He can play straight Berry-meets-Beatles rock ‘n’ roll (“Travis County”), bang out a horn-fueled soul revue (“Ain’t Messin’ Around”) or fearlessly update his own heroes (Hendrix’s “Third Stone from the Sun,” a song that Clark and his touring band usually fold into the blues-stomping standard “If You Love Me Like You Say,” as he does here). Whatever the direction, Clark provides the glue that makes it all work.

As the current trend in rock and soul revivalism dictates, it’s one thing to cop a sound, and another to sound original doing it. Clark might wear his influences on his sleeve, but he’s paid dues to get to where he is. You can hear it in “Numb,” the album’s sludge-rock centerpiece. “Well, I’m numb/ Heck woman, I can’t feel a thing!” he shouts, world-weary enough for a bluesman twice his age. He punctuates the sentiment with a ferocious, paint-peeling guitar solo. Whether or not Clark will stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Hendrix, Clapton, Vaughan or Van Halen is up to history, but for now, he’s giving his contemporaries – Jack White and the Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach among them – something serious to think about.

The diddley bow (also known sometimes as a jitterbug) is a one-string guitar once commonly played by Delta children; more formally, ethnomusicologists call it a “monochord zither.” Its origins are probably in central Africa, though West Coast African cultures also used one-string fiddles or lutes. The leaf stalk of the raffia palm was stretched over a hole in the ground, a tub or a pot; then, a sliver of its fiber was raised slightly on two bridges, but still attached to the stalk at both ends. One child would rhythmically tap this “string” with two sticks as a second slid a cup or something similar along it to alter the pitch and create percussive effects. As the instrument persevered among African Americans in the United States into the 20th century, it became a one-person instrument, usually made from broom or baling wire with bottles serving as bridges at either end. The child played with a stick or his finger, using another bottle or similar object as the slide. If the child played very well, he usually switched to the more complicated six-string guitar as he aged, often using a pocketknife instead of a glass bottle as his slide. The diddley bow thus had a significant effect on the shape and style of the blues; even when no slide is involved and the artist is playing a six-string guitar, the menacing one-string runs of John Lee Hooker (whose “Boogie Chillun” is performed by Pitchford here) or the dazzling one-string solos of B.B. King make that clear. Elmore James is just one major bluesman who professed to have first learned music on a diddley bow as a child.

But almost certainly because the diddley bow was a children’s instrument, the recording industry ignored it even in the 1930s, when folklorists first began noting its use in the South. Though nearly all diddley-bow recordings available on eMusic are by tradition-minded musicians prominent on the latter-day folk and festival circuits, there are exceptions. In 1956, one Willie Joe Duncan, listed as Willie Joe and His Unitar, accompanied Bob “Froggy” Landers on the Specialty single “Cherokee Dance.” The unitar, an electric one-string that judging from photos was about twice as big as Duncan, provided explosive, distorted contrast to Landers’s croaking voice on the dance novelty; the flip side, credited solely to Willie Joe and His Unitar, was a spare instrumental called “Unitar Rock” on which the ax sounded at times more like a Jew’s harp. (Duncan later re-cut a more ornate version of the song with guitarist Rene Hall’s Orchestra under the title “Twitchy.”) But alas, these attempts to make the unitar a “commercial” instrument fell on deaf (or weirded-out) ears. Also in 1956, Detroit street musician One-String Sam (Wilson) recorded “I Need a Hundred Dollars” and “My Baby Ooo” in a Hastings Street record store. Sam used a baby-food jar as his slide, holding it so close to his vocal mike that he created his own echo chamber, which made his sproinging (augmented by scraping) country blues sound even stranger.

More recently, Jesse Mae Hemphill, Compton Jones, Glen Faulkner, Napoleon Jones, Super Chikan, Watermelon Slim and others have recorded with diddley bow (while the Reverend KM Williams features the closely-related cigar-box guitar on his two eMusic albums). Hemphill, whose 1983 stroke ended her playing days, showcases the delicate picking of Jones on “Little Rooster Reel” and the sizzling stylings of Faulkner on “Get Right Church,” but no tracks of her playing a one-string are available here. Faulkner’s banjo-like “One-String Blues” appears on Africa and the Blues, as does Strickland’s droning “Key to the Blues (Jitterbug Version).” But the most hair-raising use of diddley bow in recent years is “Diddley-Bo Jam,” from Okiessippi Blues by Watermelon Slim and Super Chikan. For nearly eight minutes, the two men have it like a pair of fighting cocks, jabbing, dodging and twisting around each other, or one providing a steady backdrop as the other gets further and further gone. You gotta hear it.

And just because I know you’re wondering, Bo Diddley never recorded with a diddley bow. A notoriously wily interview subject, the late Ellas Otha Bates (aka Ellas McDaniel) gave several explanations for the origins of his stage name, and none of them mentioned the one-string guitar. But judging from the design of his own box-shaped guitar as well as his raucous, African-derived single-string excursions, I think it is safe to say that Bo Diddley definitely knew the diddley bow.

Telegraph Avenue casts a wide net, encompassing cultural and generational shifts, the blurry line between urban renewal and gentrification, the politics of home birthing and the struggles of new (and not-so-new) fatherhood, so our musical choices are equally diverse.