Lightnin' Hopkins_ His Life and Blues - Alan Govenar [2]
Most people thought Lightnin’ was making up the words to his songs as he went along, and that his lyrics were completely original. But he was actually doing something more amazing and subtle. He was instantly accessing hundreds of floating lyrics from his memory and inserting them when and where they seemed appropriate. Many blues singers did this to a certain extent, but Lightnin’s ability seemed to exceed all of his peers. His capacity for improvisation was uncanny, and regardless of the source of his lyrics, he was able to make each of his songs his own by performing them in his inimitable voice and his signature guitar style.
If there were a dominant theme in his blues, it was the ever-changing and often-tumultuous relationships between men and women. Lightnin’ could turn the simplest phrase into sexual innuendo, and, just as easily, express the pain of being mistreated and the despair of being betrayed. He often bragged about his exploits with women in his songs, but other than identifying some names, he said little about his actual relationships. While he sang in the first-person, remarkably little of his repertoire was truly autobiographical.
I saw Lightnin’ perform once at the Austin nightclub Castle Creek in 1974, and when he came on stage, I was drawn into his performance like everyone else. But he was so different from what I had expected from having listened to his records. Every gesture seemed so measured—the placement of the guitar, the positioning of his hat, the towel around his neck, the half pint of liquor that he pulled up to his lips, the big, gold-toothed grin, and the dark sunglasses that kept him a mystery. By the time the show was over, I wasn’t sure how to respond. Still, his presence was indelible, and in many ways my memory of that night, that image of Lightnin’ in the spotlight, made me want to know more. Lightnin’ was an enigma. He was both compelling and disturbing. To what extent did the white audience listening to him shape his performance, and how did it relate to his roots in East Texas? How would it have been different in a juke joint on a backcountry road or in a little dive in Houston?
Years later, in the mid-1980s, Chris Strachwitz and Les Blank, two giants in the field of American roots music, talked to me at length about Lightnin’s importance as a bluesman and his significance in each of their lives. Chris, after hearing Lightnin’ in Houston, decided to start Arhoolie Records and he has since released hundreds of recordings of blues and American roots music; Les, after seeing Lightnin’ at the Ash Grove in Los Angeles, was inspired to make his first full-length documentary film. And for both of them, Lightnin’s passing marked the end of an era. They recognized the need for a biography, but they weren’t going to do it themselves. Les offered me the use of his interviews and outtakes from his films The Blues According to Lightnin’ Hopkins and The Sun’s Gonna Shine. Chris made himself available for countless conversations, sharing what he remembered and introducing me to people he thought I should interview.
Initially I was reluctant to begin work on a biography. Dr. Cecil Harold, who was Lightnin’s manager for more than a decade, and Antoinette Charles, who was his long-time companion, refused to be interviewed. I called Dr. Harold on several