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  Cannon’s Jug Stompers (from left to right): Gus Cannon, Ashley Thompson, and Noah Lewis

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  1 THE FIRST TIME AMERICA HEARD HERSELF

  2 I’LL GET A BREAK SOMEDAY: WILL SHADE AND THE MEMPHIS JUG BAND

  3 IN THE SHADOW OF CLINCH MOUNTAIN: THE CARTER FAMILY

  4 MY HEART KEEPS SINGING: ELDER J. E. BURCH

  5 GONNA DIE WITH MY HAMMER IN MY HAND: DICK JUSTICE AND THE WILLIAMSON BROTHERS

  6 DOWN THE DIRT ROAD: CHARLEY PATTON AND THE MISSISSIPPI DELTA BLUES

  7 CHANT OF THE SNAKE DANCE: THE HOPI INDIAN CHANTERS

  8 BIRD OF PARADISE: JOSEPH KEKUKU

  9 MAL HOMBRE: LYDIA MENDOZA

  10 ALLONS À LAFAYETTE: THE BREAUX FAMILY

  11 AVALON BLUES: MISSISSIPPI JOHN HURT

  12 THE AMERICAN EPIC SESSIONS

  TRAVEL AND THE CREW

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SOURCES

  PHOTO CREDITS

  TO DUKE ERIKSON, WITHOUT WHOM AMERICAN EPIC WOULD NOT EXIST

  TEN YEARS AGO, WE SET OUT ON A JOURNEY TO EXPLORE THE VAST RANGE OF ETHNIC, RURAL, AND REGIONAL MUSIC RECORDED IN THE UNITED STATES DURING THE LATE 1920S. THAT WAS AN AMAZING PERIOD—THE FIRST TIME AMERICANS HEARD EACH OTHER IN ALL THEIR RICHNESS AND VARIETY—AND IT RESHAPED THE WHOLE CONCEPT OF POPULAR MUSIC. ALMOST A CENTURY LATER, WE WANTED TO SEE IF WE COULD STILL EXPERIENCE THAT MUSIC DIRECTLY, AMONG THE PEOPLE WHO MADE IT, IN THE PLACES IT WAS PLAYED, FEELING THE THRILL OF THE MOMENT WHEN IT WAS CAPTURED ON RECORDS.

  WE STARTED BY CHOOSING SOME ARTISTS AND RECORDINGS THAT WE FOUND PARTICULARLY MOVING, THEN SET OUT TO TRACE THEM THROUGH SPACE AND TIME. AT TIMES IT SEEMED A QUIXOTIC QUEST, BUT AS WE TRAVELED, WE KEPT BEING STARTLED BY THE OVERLAPS OF OLD AND NEW, THE WAYS IN WHICH THE MUSIC OF THE PAST CONTINUED TO RESONATE AND REFLECT THE PRESENT. WE HAD LEFT OUR HOME IN TWENTY-FIRST-CENTURY BRITAIN TO TRAVEL ACROSS A FOREIGN COUNTRY AND DEEP INTO THE PAST, BUT OVER AND OVER AGAIN, THE PEOPLE WE MET AND THE PLACES WE VISITED FELT VERY FAMILIAR AND VERY MUCH IN THE PRESENT.

  “WE WANTED TO PRESERVE THE WORDS OF THE PEOPLE WE MET AND GIVE READERS A CHANCE TO VISIT WITH THEM AND HEAR THEIR STORIES . . .”

  Bernard MacMahon

  The film crew

  New York

  Louisiana

  Bernard filming in Cheraw, South Carolina

  Allison McGourty in Sony Archives

  That journey became the American Epic project: a series of films, a series of albums, and this book. We wanted to preserve the words of the people we met and give readers a chance to visit with them and hear their stories, and to share the hundreds of photographs, advertisements, postcards, and other material we found along the way.

  As we traveled, we were always conscious of following well-beaten paths: we were retracing the commercial expeditions of the record company scouts who fanned out across America in the 1920s in search of new styles of music, and also the voyages of the many musicians who left homes and loved ones in hopes of having their voices and instruments preserved on fragile shellac discs. We wanted to bring those experiences to life: to escape the museum atmosphere of history books and reissue albums by going to the places where the musicians lived and the recordings were made, walking the streets and breathing the air these people breathed, meeting their families, and immersing ourselves in their worlds.

  We prepared ourselves by reading the histories, combing the archives, and talking with the experts, and also went on a technological journey that involved re-creating a studio of the period, with a 1920s-era Western Electric amplifier and weight-driven Scully lathe to do our own recording sessions. We were seeking simultaneously to understand how music was created and preserved in the past and to experience that music as directly as possible in the present. We first fell in love with the rural and ethnic recordings of the 1920s because they touched and moved us as modern listeners, and we wanted to extend and explore that direct emotional connection.

  There is a unique freshness and vitality to those early recordings, made by people who in many cases had never imagined they would be heard or appreciated beyond their own communities. That first, experimental period was dauntingly brief: the Depression hit in 1929, and record companies went out of business or fell back on reliable sales formulas. But for a few years they were taking chances and recorded an astonishing range of styles, and those recordings forever changed the scope and meaning of popular music: instead of urban theater, concert, and cabaret performers singing the compositions of professional composers and lyricists, they captured the voices, rhythms, and melodies of regular working people, the music that evolved into country and western, rhythm and blues, and beyond—rock ’n’ roll, funk, punk, rap, tejano, reggae, and myriad other styles around the world.

  We have spent our whole lives surrounded by those later styles, and when we discovered these first, formative records, we were startled to find that many of them—the ones that matter to us—were every bit as thrilling and relevant as the newer records we also loved. Their age added a level of mystery, an exotic frisson: they seemed to come from somewhere different and magical, and we spun fantasies of the times, places, and people connected to those sounds.

  Over the years, those records became close friends, accompanying us as we grew and changed, through all our hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows. American Epic was a chance to travel home with them, to see where they came from and meet their families and neighbors. It was a way of bringing them closer, giving them new life, understanding them better, and knowing them more deeply.

  That process wasn’t all sunshine and smiles—we traveled to beautiful places and met some of the most wonderful people we have ever known, but we also heard stories of poverty and discrimination, of hard times and troubled lives. The power of the music comes in a large part from its role as a comfort and release for people trapped in difficult situations. But the journey was always rewarding, not despite but because of those connections. As we traveled, the songs became less and less connected to old discs and vanished eras, and more and more to living people and communities.

  We first heard this music thousands of miles from its birthplace and across an ocean. Growing up in Scotland and London, we had romantic notions of America, a place seen in films and on television, with cowboys and Indians, sweeping prairies and towering skyscrapers. American music was part of that, but also apart from it, especially when we listened to older artists like the Carter Family, the Memphis Jug Band, Mississippi John Hurt, and Lydia Mendoza. They spoke to us with a directness that seemed more human and intimate, and more earthy and real than the cinematic fantasies.

  We set out to explore why particular recordings gave us particular feelings and touched particular emotions, and found that an important part of that was the way they reflected particular communities, and the particular geography of the places where those people lived. The more we traveled, the more we became convinced that sounds and styles arise from specific environments, and you can only truly understand them when you go where they came from. Of course, you can enjoy music without hearing it in its native setting, but we kept finding that we had never fully experienced a rec
ording or felt it to the depth of our souls until we listened to it in its home.

  Bernard directing the Triumph Church shoot

  The Triumph Church choir

  We eventually coined the term “geographonics” to express that idea: that some sounds seem to trace the contours and take their flavor from the soil of specific places. From the hills of West Virginia to the streets of Memphis, the deserts of Arizona, the Louisiana bayous, or the beaches of Hawai‘i, the rhythms and melodies are inextricably entwined with the landscape and echo the sounds of the wind and waves, the birds and crickets, the trains and traffic.

  That is the unique magic of the recordings that set us on this journey: before the 1920s, virtually all recorded music came from a world of professional performance, intentionally designed to be acceptable to a mass audience. From the majesty of Beethoven to the buffoonery of the minstrel ditties, and from sentimental parlor ballads to the jerky rhythms of ragtime, records were intended to appeal to universal tastes and reach the broadest possible range of listeners.

  With the arrival of radio, many of those listeners had a simpler, cheaper way of hearing those mass-market styles. Records were expensive for a lot of people, and each disc could hold only three or four minutes of music on either side. Radio provided urban listeners with everything from symphony concerts to the latest hits, in a constant stream of music, and cost nothing beyond the purchase price of the basic set. By the mid-1920s, record sales were plummeting, and record companies responded by seeking out new markets: regional and ethnic groups whose favored styles were not being broadcast, and rural listeners who had no electricity but could listen to records on windup phonographs. At the same time, the new technology of electrical recording made it possible to record a much wider range of sounds and to send portable field units around the country rather than bringing all the artists to centers like New York and Chicago.

  The result was that, for the first time, a vast range of rural and working-class Americans were recorded, could hear people who sounded like them on records, and became aware of one another’s music. Record company scouts and producers acted to some extent as gatekeepers, but in those first years they were largely groping in the dark and willing to take a chance on almost anything that was interesting and different. When Ralph Peer recorded Fiddlin’ John Carson during a trip to Atlanta in 1923, it was only because a local store owner had promised to buy the entire initial pressing—Peer thought Carson’s initial recording sounded terrible, and was astounded when the store owner called him a week later, shouting, “This is a riot! I gotta get ten thousand records down here right now!”

  Peer is recalled as a pioneer and visionary, and his experience with Carson is often framed as the eureka moment of the rural recording boom. But the next chapter tends to be left out of that story: as Carson’s records took off across the South, Peer began to get letters from other rural musicians who thought they should also be recorded, and when he failed to respond promptly, a harmonica player named Henry Whitter made the trek from southern Virginia to his New York office. Both Carson and Whitter made dozens of records in the next few years, and as other scouts headed out into the hinterlands and thousands of other rural artists were preserved on discs, the journeys were always in both directions.

  As we traveled across America, we often felt like we were retracing the paths of the old record scouts, but we were also consciously following the trails of the artists themselves: the Carter Family traveling to Texas for a radio career, the Hopi Indian Chanters bringing their ancient ceremonies to New York and Washington, and Joseph Kekuku leaving Hawai‘i for the mainland, London, and the capitals of Europe. Looking back from the twenty-first century, it is easy to think of those early recordings as historical curiosities, but the people who made them were modern human beings, recording with modern technologies and having modern experiences, and that is one of the reasons their music still speaks to us so directly. Romantic as it may be to think of Mississippi John Hurt as a poor sharecropper living in the remote Delta hamlet of Avalon, he was also someone who traveled to New York in December 1928 for a pair of recording sessions, blazing the trail he would follow thirty-five years later to make a sensational appearance at the Newport Folk Festival.

  Along with our geographical journeys, we also made a technological journey, and it was likewise an attempt both to understand the past and to make it live in the present. With the engineer and audio archaeologist Nick Bergh, we rebuilt a 1920s recording studio, and one of the most exciting parts of our project was reliving the experience of recording direct to discs, with one microphone and a weight-driven lathe. It was a loving exercise in historical re-creation—but the artists we recorded included not only revivalist musicians like Jerron Paxton and Pokey LaFarge and rural icons like Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard, but also modern, urban stars like Jack White, Nas, Alabama Shakes, and Elton John. It was another way to bring past and present together, and the experience of recording with that equipment gave us new insights into the ways it captured and transformed sound—which in turn allowed us to hear the old records with new ears, and to produce albums of our favorite 1920s recordings that took advantage of our new knowledge, bringing out subtle vocal inflections, instrumental textures, and even the sound of the rooms where the sessions were held.

  Our hope with this project is to carry on the work that those first record producers and musicians began almost a century ago. Music connects people on more than an intellectual level: as we listen, we learn about other people and their worlds. We share their emotions, their thoughts and dreams, the rhythms of their bodies and their environments. In the 1920s, listeners all over America heard new sounds on recordings and were inspired to send their own music out in response. Our goal is to extend that web of connections across space and time.

  The first chapter of this book traces the journeys and experiments of the “record men” in the 1920s, setting the scene by exploring where the music came from and how it came to us. Then we set off across America, tracing ten of our most treasured artists back to their homes, meeting their families, looking through their photo albums, and listening to their stories. Finally, we bring the story full circle by inviting the musical descendants of those artists to relive the experience of recording under the conditions of the 1920s.

  Our American epic started with the records—messages from a distant past that spoke to us of strange lives and magical places. Today those records sound better than ever, and mean more to us, but they no longer feel so distant or ancient. Going in search of old friends, we found new ones, and when we listen today, we are reminded both of a treasured past and of people and cultures that are very much alive in the present and looking toward the future. Much as it would have surprised the record men and musicians of the 1920s, the music they preserved has proved to be truly timeless.

  Art Satherley, circa 1935

  BERNARD: The late 1920s was a golden age of American record making. In part, that was due to radical new technology: the advent of electrical recording made it possible to record a much wider range of sounds and to put together portable studios and record in varied locations. But it was also a matter of necessity: radio was supplanting phonograph records as the main way pop music got into people’s homes, so the record companies were forced to seek out alternative markets.

  ART SATHERLEY (record producer for Paramount, QRS, ARC, and Columbia): Those were tough days, mister. Especially when radio started to come in. And you can put this on record for all times: the thing that saved the record industry of the great America was what is now commonly known as the rhythm and blues and the country and western. That’s what saved the industry, and that is it.

  Blind Lemon Jefferson, king of the Texas blues

  BERNARD: To a great extent, it was a purely economic, entrepreneurial impulse. A good example is the Wisconsin Chair Company: they were making furniture, and that included phonograph cabinets, and they wanted to expand the market for phonographs—so they formed Paramount Records
in 1917, with Art Satherley at the helm. In 1921 they began issuing discs of African American music, because they were a relatively small, new label, so they were looking for a new audience in that community. And since they knew very little about that community, they took out advertisements in African American newspapers, looking for people who wanted to sell records, and sometimes those agents would also recommend musicians—for example, in 1926 a store clerk in Dallas wrote to Paramount suggesting that they should record a local street singer named Blind Lemon Jefferson, so they did, and his records sold so well that dozens of other black singer-guitarists were soon being recorded all across the South.

  ART SATHERLEY: Anybody could become an agent. All they did was to take ten records and send us four dollars and fifty cents, plus the postage: forty-five cents apiece, [and they sold them for] seventy-five cents, or what they could get—from what I understand, some of them could get three, four bucks apiece. It was so new for the people of America, both black and white, to be able to buy what they understood and what they wanted. . . . [The record company owners] had no idea of what a Negro in those days was singing and what he was talking about, and what country folk or people from Mississippi, Louisiana were singing. They thought it was a bunch of—let’s not mention it.

  RALPH PEER (record producer for Columbia, OKeh, and Victor): I believe that except for the First World War both the Negro and the hillbilly [music] would have been buried. . . . You had the thing of many Negroes going north to work in factories, many white people going north to work in any factory, ’cause they could make more money. That caused an intermixing, and then after the war ended, it was found that labor was much cheaper in the South, so this movement took place of opening cotton mills in Charlotte and Atlanta and what have you. So the standard of living of all these people was raised, and then they could buy phonographs, they could buy records.