![]() ![]() ![]() “Not studying the blues.” No, while seemingly everyone else came to Clarksdale for the blues, I was there to tell a different story-a story that, to my mind, was more timely and important than yet another commentary on Muddy Waters or Robert Johnson. I was sure of it-so sure that the more I lived and worked in Clarksdale, the more careful I was to remind myself that I was “not studying the blues.” I sent it in text messages to myself, typed it in my notes and research memos, scribbled it, usually in barely legible cursive, in the margins of notebooks and on the backs of business cards. Between the festivals, concerts, and open mic nights, there were something that rung hollow about the music that my dad had loved so much so I decided that I did not like it. But, after moving to Clarksdale, Mississippi to collect interviews for my doctoral dissertation, my opinion of the blues shifted. For the most part, I liked who he liked-folks like Bobby Bland and Johnnie Taylor. My daddy was a blues man, and, for a while I was too. ![]()
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