Just for Reference: Two Takes on the Same Theme

Some copywork that is a propos of this morning's work over @ the Blue Light.

Rob't Johnson, "I Beleive I'll Dust My Broom"

I'm goin' get up in the mornin', I believe I'll dust my broom
I'm goin' get up in the mornin', I believe I'll dust my broom
Girlfriend, the black man you been lovin', girlfriend, can get my room

I'm gon' write a letter, telephone every town I know
I'm gon' write a letter, telephone every town I know
If I can't find her in West Helena, she must be in East Monroe I know

I don't want no woman, wants every downtown man she meet
I don't want no woman, wants every downtown man she meet
She's a no good doney, they shouldn't allow her on the street

I believe, I believe I'll go back home
I believe, I believe I'll go back home
You can mistreat me here, babe, but you can't when I go home

And I'm gettin' up in the mornin', I believe I'll dust my broom
I'm gettin' up in the mornin', I believe I'll dust my broom
Girlfriend, the black man you been lovin', girlfriend, can get my room

I'm gonna call up Chiney, see is my good girl over there
I'm gonna call up China, see is my good girl over there
'F I can't find her on Philippine's island, she must be in Ethiopia somewhere

Kokomo Arnold, "Sissy Man Blues"

I believe, I believe I'll go back home.
I believe, I believe I'll go back home.
Only to acknowledge to my good gal, mama, lord, and I have done you wrong.

Now, I'm gonna ring up China, yeah, man, see if I find my good gal over there.
(Ride it, Kokomo, ride it.)

I'm gonna ring up China, see can I find my good gal over there.
Says the Good Book tella me that I got a good gal in this world somewhere.

Hollerin' the church bells is tonin', yeah, man, on one Sunday mornin'.
(Boys, that's old Kokomo.)

Hollerin' the ohurch bell is tonin' on one Sunday mornin'.
Hollerin' some old dirty deacon come and rung that bell, stole my gal and gone.
(Play it, Kokomo.)

Lord, I woke up this mornin' with my pork grindin' business in my hand.

Says I woke up this morning with my pork grindin' business in my hand.
Lord, if you can't send me no woman, please send me some sissy man.

I'm gonna sing these blues, mama, yeah, man, and I'm gonna lay 'em upon your shelf.
Now, I'm gonna slng these blues, mama, and I'm gonna lay 'em upon your shelf.
Lord, lf you wanna hear these blues again, mama, well you sure gonna sing them yourself.
(Now, play It, Mr Koke.)

Robert Johnson Toolkit

We loves the internets as much as the next fella. But we also have to breath out before we praise again, just because it is such a thorough mixup.

As the sun comes up this morning, we've been living our own version of "Phonograph Blues"* w/ Robert Johnson, and we're prompted to look about for tools to assist us in our persistently (failing) sensemaking. Thus, a few bullets:

• Lyrics and some sources. Delightfully free of popups and transparencies. Nothing special, but that's what we're looking for.
• Songlists and discography. The former stands on its simplicity. The latter is an apt representation of the ball of confusion we call the recording innustry.

Wikipedia's bio page is not worth citing because it's cluttered with foolish references to the young Keith Richards, and can't resolve the unresolveables at the crossroads with the elegance the episode deserves. But some wikipedier has invested a great deal of time in a couple of song pages, so let's also commend them.

• "Dust My Broom."
• "Sweet Home Chicago."
• "Hellhound on My Trail."
• "Kind Hearted Woman Blues."
• "Come on in My Kitchen."

We want these at our fingertips, want to return to them, because they remind us of the complex exchanges that make up the songs and the body of work.

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* We must observe, even before you read them, that these highlights are in our own context, appropriated from the song, and this is as it should be. Everything, after all, is autobiography.

Beatrice got a phonograph, and it won't say a lonesome word

And we played it on the sofa, and we played it side the wall
But boys, my needles have got rusty, and it will not play at all

Beatrice, I love my phonograph mmm, babe and I'm bound to lose my mind

Now Beatrice, won't you bring your clothes back home
I wanna wind your little phonograph, just to hear your little motor moan