Bluesman - Harry Chapin

The kid heard the word up in Brooklyn

It was his second year of medical school

He went and stashed some jeans into his guitar case

His father said, «You're a fool»

But the boy jumped on board a Greyhound bus

It took him two days to get to Mobile

And though it took two weeks to track the old man down

He never doubted that the rumor was real

But there the old man stood by the store front

With his white cane hanging from his belt

And he was bending the steel of his guitar strings

So it seemed like the metal had to melt

He was the last of the street corner singers

Paying his final years of dues

The voice in his throat was like a bullfrog croak

Yes it’s he who invented the blues

«To play the blues, boy, you got to live 'em

Got your dues, boy, you know you got to give 'em

Got to start sweet like a slow blues rhythm

Like a heartbeat you’ll always be with 'em

When you’re married to the blues, boy

Your guitar is your wife

It’s like that fine old woman

Who you’re faithful to for life.»

Well the kid walked up as the blind man finished

And was bent to put his guitar away

The old man heard him and said, «Who are you?»

«I'm the kid you’re gonna teach to play.»

The old man laughed but the kid kept talking 'bout

How he’d help him get around

That’s when the old man said

«I don’t need no fool to get me where in the hell I’m bound»

The kid nods his head with a great big grin and says

«When do we begin?»

That’s when the old man said

«If You’re staying with me

This is how it’s got to be…»

«To play the blues, boy, you got to live 'em

Got your dues, boy, you know you got to give 'em

Got to start sweet like a slow blues rhythm

Like a heartbeat you’ll always be with 'em

When you’re married to the blues, boy

Your guitar is your wife

It’s like that fine old woman

Who you’re faithful to for life.»

«You know I ain’t no guru

I’m just a blind black preacher man

My guitar is my gospel, boy

And I preach with my picking hand

And I preach with my picking hand

I ain’t gonna be your wet nurse

Or black father to an albino son.»

«That's O.K.,» the kid up and say

«I just wanna pick like a son of a gun!»

«Whoa, boy, that ain’t no damn typewriter you’re playing, now

You’ve got to caress it like a woman, slow and easy»

«Like this, old man?»

«No!

A fool plays the blues like Machine Gun Kelly

Five hundred notes to the bar

And if you’re going to stick with me

You’ve got to learn what the blues really are

You learn to pick with me and you can stick with me

But it’s time to blow this town

We gots a gig to preach in a gaming house

We’re Alabama bound»

So the kid took the hand of the old blues man

To lead him all around the south

Now it’s the old man’s turn to make the white boy learn

«You don’t play guitar with your mouth»

To play the blues, boy, you got to live 'em

Got your dues, boy, you know you got to give 'em

Got to start sweet like a slow blues rhythm

Like a heartbeat you’ll always be with 'em

When you’re married to the blues, boy

Your guitar is your wife

It’s like that fine old woman

Who you’re faithful to for life

All right, son, let’s hear some guitar

I want you to play it funky like your uncle’s carbuncle

That’s right, son, play it sassy like your sweet mama’s pajamas

That sounds pretty good for a New York boy!

Oh, son that sounds so sweet