Ghost stories and murder ballads

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Despite being some of the most unsettling songs you’ll ever hear, I like a good murder ballad. The best ones sound like an invocation to the murdered ghost, an invitation to share their grief and exact vengeance. There’s no random killing in murder ballads, it’s always someone the victim loved. The dead is usually a woman, though not always. A woman who gives her heart and her trust to the wrong man is a woman not long for this world in the landscape of the murder ballad.

Johnny Cash’s voice haunted me so in his version of Delia’s Gone, I named a character after poor dead Delia. This song and Pretty Polly by Dock Boggs are both story songs that have mutated over the years, like a game of telephone across time. The lineage of Delia’s Gone can be traced to a true crime in Savannah, Georgia, in 1900, though that true story bears very little resemblance to the tale told by Cash. Pretty Polly is one of the great Appalachian murder ballads. Polly allows her lover to lead her deep into the woods, where they eventually come upon the grave he has dug for her. The song’s genealogy is traced to a similar ballad from England in the 1700s, in which the murdered girl is also pregnant. The Gosport Tragedy allows for revenge by the two ghosts and although there is nothing inherently supernatural about the lyrics of Pretty Polly, the version by Dock Boggs recorded in the 1920s sounds very much to me like his banjo is conjuring up the dead.

Where the Wild Roses Grow by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue is a modern ballad, though it fits in musically and lyrically with older songs in the tradition. Two things strike me about this song. One is the fact that it’s a duet, so we hear from both the murderer and the murdered. The blending of two such disparate voices as Cave and Minogue is perfect to tell this story. The other thing that strikes me is the murdered girl’s refrain: “They call me The Wild Rose / But my name was Elisa Day / Why they call me it I do not know / For my name was Elisa Day.” Murder is the ultimate act of destruction, killers don’t even see their victims as people. Elisa Day could not comprehend why her lover, and possibly others, did not see her as a person, as a woman with a heart and a soul and life of her own to live. That simple insistence – “my name was Elisa Day” – feels like a quiet demand that she not be denied her identity, her humanity. Surely emotion that strong would mark the land and haunt the place she died.

Furnace Room Lullaby by Neko Case – just put this one on repeat and see how long it takes you to get twitchy. If I had any skill with editing mash-ups I would pair Neko’s voice with Dock’s banjo and probably never sleep again. Such a pairing would bring forth every bloody ghost between the Delta and Appalachia, floating past my vision on their way to whatever vengeance they could find.

So much of music seems like conjure work to me, calling up energy, filling it with intention, then casting it loose to do its work. I don’t pretend to know what work murder ballads do. Calling them Southern gothic memorials to domestic violence feels too flippant. They are musical ghost stories, and I like a good ghost story. Sometimes when I’m up long past midnight and I can’t sleep, a good ghost story is just what I need.

Author’s note: this post originally appeared on my old, now defunct blog. I liked it, so I’m bringing it over here to live with the new music posts. 

Rumble

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1958. Television was ruled by westerns. South Pacific was the biggest movie of the year. Breakfast At Tiffany’s and Our Man In Havana were published. The biggest song of the year was Tom Dooley, a murder ballad by The Kingston Trio that kicked off the folk music boom. The charts were full of The Everly Brothers, Ricky Nelson, Frankie Avalon, Andy Williams, Connie Francis, with a smattering of Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Duane Eddy. Elvis Presley was the King of Rock and Roll, but in March of 1958, he was inducted into the U.S. Army. While that haircut may not have taken his crown, except for a few shining moments Elvis was never quite the same.

But that didn’t mean rock and roll was done.

In April of 1958, the only instrumental song to ever be banned from the airwaves was released. Rumble by Link Wray was like nothing anyone had ever heard. It clanged and snarled, it stalked you with its menace, it blew kid’s minds and scared the hell out of their parents. In Rumble, Wray elevated distortion to an art, crowned fuzz as the dirtiest guitar sound in rock, and gave screaming birth to the power chord. Wray and Rumble were the link between the blues and metal, a towering inspiration for punk, thrash, and other hard-charging subgenres of rock. Link is beloved by countless titans of music, but not very well known outside the business. Certainly not as well known and loved as he should be. I mean, after all, we’re talking about the guy who invented the power chord here.

I first heard Rumble in the 90s when it was featured in the movie Pulp Fiction. After that, I knew who Link Wray was, but I didn’t really know anything about him. For instance, I didn’t know we owe the power chord to him. And I didn’t know he was part Shawnee.

Rumble: The Indians Who Rocked The World is a great award-winning documentary now on PBS. I watched it last week and got my mind blown by how many artists were of Native ancestry. I knew of some, like Jimi Hendrix and Charley Patton, but there were a lot I didn’t know about. And their influence! The influence of Native musicians is really amazing to learn about. One of my favorite clips in the film is about Patton, the undisputed grandfather of the blues, and the Choctaw influence on his sound. Then there’s jazz singer Mildred Bailey, originally from the Coeur d’Alene Reservation, who was a tremendous influence on both Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra. The list goes on: Robbie Robertson of The Band, drummer Randy Castillo who was a member of Ozzy Osbourne’s band, guitarist Jesse Ed Davis who played with countless artists, folk pioneer Buffy Sainte-Marie, rock group Redbone, and many more.

This terrific documentary fills in a lot of gaps in the history of American music, and is well worth the time of any music fan. You can watch it on the PBS website, but it will only be available until February 5, so jump on it, and play it loud.