Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Pucker Up Buttercup
They fall. Sometimes they are honored and revered. Sometimes they disappear, a mere footnote in history, musical history. Sometimes memory fades. This world stinks of death and forgetting.
Paul "Wine" Jones died the other day. Don't know if you know him or not. If you've ever caught a Fat Possum caravan, you've seen him....usually playing second or first on a loaded bill. He was the youngest of the Fat Possum core stable...the blues men. He had this...energy, playing standing up, guitar in hand, and a fullass band behind him, working a southern pimp hat. He moved. I've probably seen Paul Jones live more than any other musician. Every goddamn time 'Possum sent out a tour, he seemed to be on it. In the shadows, though. Folks wanted to see the legends...the R.L.'s, the T-Model Fords. But it was Jones who shook their asses, made them want to dance. He was a fantastic singer, shaking off the tradition of Mississippi hill blues to incorporate a little Chicago in the mix. His voice ...red wine in a paper bag. Raw and sweet, with a high kick.
At 59, surrounded by gods, he never had a chance to develop the legacy his labelmates had. Not enough time, and who was listening?
I don't know who's going to remember. A few short obits here and there, a blogger shooting off in space, in the dark. Then gone. Joining a funeral parade of ghosts we forgot we had.
Paul "Wine" Jones: My Baby Got Drunk (mp3)
Paul "Wine" Jones: Diggin' Mama's Taters (mp3)