Tommy Johnson: The first blues star to sell his soul to the devil
Musical prowess and Satan’s supposed diabolical influence predate rock and roll by a long stretch.
While tales of the forbidden ‘Diabolus in musica’ chord indulged by rebellious composers of the Middle Ages are likely apocryphal, Italian violinist Niccolò Paganini centuries later was deemed so grippingly brilliant only a Faustian pact with dark powers could have granted the Genoese virtuoso such electrifying technique—one concert attendee in Vienna reporting to witness Lucifer himself guiding Paganini’s frenzied arm-bowing.
By the time popular music arrived, many rock stars knew the marketing capital to be had from winding up American pastors and cosying up to the Evil One, or at least expressing ambivalence to the Church.
While tongue-in-cheek, preacher knickers were nonetheless twisted when The Rolling Stones dared to offer sympathy for the devil on 1969’s Let It Bleed‘s sacrilegious opener, John Lennon’s “bigger than Jesus” quip resulted in mountains of The Beatles’ records and merchandise lit in flames across the States’ Bible Belt, and Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page was such a fan of the occult he bought the esoteric poet Aleister Crowley‘s old home in Scotland’s Loch Ness.
The devil’s deal that shaped Mississippi blues mythology
Before Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth‘s industrial ‘magick’ or even Black Sabbath’s bedevilled notations that birthed heavy metal, handshakes with Beelzebub were associated with the Delta blues musicians playing the juke joints and small clubs across Mississippi between the World Wars. Cemented into American lore is Robert Johnson, the Hazlehurst guitar player whose raw and urgent blues style was said to have been shaped by Old Nick at a midnight meeting, tuning the guitar himself with his black magic.
Yet this tale is lifted from another Delta blues pioneer who cultivated a similar devil deal mythos years previously, alleging to have sold his soul by the Dockery Plantation crossroads in exchange for his masterful blues technique. Crystal Springs’ Tommy Johnson – no relation to Robert – would further his eerie eccentricity by carrying a rabbit’s foot with him as a spooky talisman prop, and earned a reputation for volatile performances, including playing the guitar between his legs and tossing his instrument in the air.
Johnson would stand as one of the day’s most influential bluesmen if eclipsed by Robert Johnson’s captivating mystique. Taught by his older brother LeDell, Johnson’s sibling tutor would regale for years how the curious young blues enthusiast ran away from home for two years and returned with a God-given – or from some supernatural being – knack for blues guitar and effortless falsetto vocals. This legend would be told for years, becoming a key feature of the local cultural lore that surrounded the fascination with Johnson’s work.
Johnson spent the rest of his life in Crystal Springs, playing to popular acclaim throughout the 1940s and dying of a heart attack in 1956 just after playing a show, and was later buried in Warm Springs Methodist Church Cemetery.
Yet, the litany of primitive recordings Johnson cut would leave an indelible legacy, influencing everybody from Howlin’ Wolf to Houston Stackhouse in reaching for the old master’s spirit of raw and gripping blues showmanship wrested from the clutches of another world.
