Last week, several of my former students dropped by unannonced to shoot the breeze. After about an hour of chit-chat, the topic turned to ghost hunting. We talked about various alleged haunted places around the area and about different amateur expeditions we've all taken. One student--let's call her Belle--told us about a time recently when she and another friend (who wasn't at my house) went out in the woods to investigate an old house in which someone had recently--within the past three years--been murdered. Once Belle told us exactly which house she and her friend tried to investigate* some small bit of tension arose in the room.
See, to various degrees, we all knew the victim and the culprits of that murder. The unease we all felt was based upon the turn of the tone. No longer was Belle's ghost-hunting an exciting and fun and titillating adventure; now, it encroached upon matters earnest and grave. These people weren't legendary: these people were real. These ghosts were real. Belle's tale was no longer thrilling; it was harrowing. It was as if we had switched from the fourth chapter of The Haunting of Hill House to the fifth chapter of In Cold Blood without the benefit of Capote's prosidy to ease the way.
Contemporary bluesman Otis Taylor's "Saint Martha's Blues" (from his stunning and bracing album White African, one of the best albums of this decade) tells a similar supernatural tale, one in which the switch from haunting atmosphere to stark tragedy and terror is troubling. The record begins with a creepy synth drone. On top of it, Taylor lays a riff that rings and shudders with the use of the echoey chorus effect. Whooh, buddy! Now we're in Spookville. "My great-grandfather," Taylor speaks and pauses, and let's the guitar line fill the space. Yup. This is an ol' fashioned haint story. Taylor continues: "back in Lake Providence, Louisiana,"--okay, then, we know now the sound Taylor's replicating with his guitar: the bayous. Heck, we may even have another "Legend of Wooly Swamp" on our hands. Taylor pauses in his speech again, plays the second half of the guitar riff, and we've eased up in our seats, eager to hear and ready to be frightened. Taylor comes back with, "...he was lynched."
The air leaves our chest, and our breath our throats. The carnival has shut down for the night, folks, and the spook show is over. Go home to your family, 'cause this ain't the type of fun you're here for. This is serious business. You wanna stay? You sure? I'm a turn out the lights, now, and you ain't gon' hear nothing but my voice and my guitar. That drone? You don't want to know what that is. I'm here to tell you the truth, and it sure ain't pretty. It's gon' rock you to your soul. It's gonna still you, and it's gonna hurt, but it ain't nothin' compared to the hurt they had, my great-grandfather and his wife, Martha Jones. You gon' remember this one for the rest of your days, 'cause I ain't gon' let you forget it. I'm only have to tell it once, and it won't never leave yo' mind. You ready? Remember, now, this ain't no creepshow. This is the real deal. Cryin' won't help you; prayin' won't do you no good. It sure didn't Martha. It still doesn't. This type of hurt, it don't never go 'way. Never.
*NOTES*Tried being the key word in that phrase, as Belle and her friend never quite made it to the porch before chick...uh...deciding to postpone their investigation and return to their automobile.
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