Jimi Muddys the Waters

The Horror, the Horror (Part 2)

In honor of all the horror films that I don’t watch, I present a sequel. In my last ’Stack I spoke of Muddy Waters, Jimi Hendrix, and the power of the blues. I haven’t yet stopped thinking about the links between all three.

It’s basically pointless to isolate the stylistic connections between Waters and Hendrix. The plainly conspicuous instrumental, vocal, and compositional influences that Hendrix absorbed from his older predecessor (one who outlived the ill-fated Hendrix by 13 years) —not to mention the occasional direct homages in recorded repertoire — were worn by Hendrix on his sleeve. He loved Waters and wasn’t shy about proclaiming it. What I want to examine is something below the surface, something that reaches into the heart of the art of the blues, which both men shared.

The problem is that I can’t explain magic. There’s such a deep sense of mystery to Waters’s music. It’s both hypnotic and convulsive. He’s not just making music; he’s invoking energy and inspiration that’s beyond our basic understanding.

When I listen to Waters at his most impassioned, I’m also struck by his commitment to drama. I’m talking unembarrassed, watch-me-shake-the-earth-drama. You can hear it on “Still a Fool,” the performance I singled out last time, as well as dozens of other Waters gems from his five-decade career. (And we haven’t even dealt with his stinging slide guitar yet.)

Anyone familiar with his appearance in The Last Waltz, where he turns his performance of “Mannish Boy” into an unsettling testimonial of assertive virility, knows that Waters wasn’t afraid of spectacle. He was out to terrify you, to make you shake in your seat and ponder what forces in the universe he was connecting with that you weren’t.

At their most volatile, Waters’s blues were expansive and engulfing, and that’s what Hendrix grabbed on to. You can best hear this when Hendrix took on a slow blues, as he invariably did in live performances. By the spring of 1968 Hendrix was performing his own “Hear My Train A Comin’” regularly onstage, alternating it on occasion with his “Red House,” a fan favorite. (“Hear My Train A Comin’” was never released, either on a live or studio track, in Hendrix’s lifetime.) A slow blues seemed to center Hendrix, connecting him with his roots and allowing him to show his audience where his music came from, but also where, in all its sonic majesty, he was about to take it.

Whenever I hear any of the consistently mesmerizing versions of “Hear My Train A Comin’,” I immediately think of Muddy Waters and how Hendrix was aiming for that same immersive force—that same sense of drama. I love Hendrix’s singing, but in truth he’s no match for Waters in the vocal department. His unearthly guitar playing more than makes up for any deficiencies.

This stunning version is from the first set of the two-night, four-set 1969-1970 New Year’s performances that were culled for the epochal Band of Gypsys album. The only time it was played during that run, this rendition of “Hear My Train A Comin’” exhibits his extraordinary passion and whiplash virtuosity.

Like Waters, Hendrix can make you feel as if the music, in all its wild energy, is getting away from him. No chance. These men owned the blues.