The Sun of Our Lives
Rev. Gary Davis. recorded 1955-1957
The first name usually encountered when exploring the Country Blues is Robert Johnson, a tragic figure who suddenly emerged, surpassed his elder peers in the Mississippi Delta (especially Son House, and those whose records he imitated) only to be murdered soon after. Endowed with a fluent virtuosity, Johnson sounds aloof and constrained by the blues, more suited to develop some urban blues-jazz form which he failed to realize as death came before artistic maturity or experience brought him outside his community. Myths such as having sold his soul to the Devil for musical prowess are perpetuated by fans, belittling his accomplishments, stemming more from his admirers' limited understanding than Johnson's development amidst social conditions which led to a tragic end. He has been lionized by Eric Clapton, the Rolling Stones and other influential forces in Rock, enthroned as the archetypal rural bluesman, a gifted mysterious being linked to cryptic forces in an art of profound sorrow and catharsis.
Blues records proliferated from 1926 until the Second World War; regional styles and genres were preserved, capturing many artists in their prime, such as Charley Patton, Son House, Mississippi John Hurt, Skip James, Blind Willie McTell, Blind Blake, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Leadbelly (the closest to Davis in scope), Big Bill Broonzy, and others such as Willie Walker, Robert Wilkins, William Harris, Tommy Johnson, Bo Carter, and Peg Leg Howell who comprise a secondary tier as their art is bound to a time and place, yet of significance. All belonging to this microcosm, from Robert Johnson to the gospel singer Blind Willie Johnson, offer a specific instrumental style and regional identity, a confine wherein masterpieces arose, inimitably sung. While their role as entertainers attracted entrepeneurs, many possessed a musicality transcending popular appeal, leaving one to wonder over what remained overlooked by the recording industry (artists discovered and rediscovered years later such as John Hurt, Mance Lipscomb, and Fred McDowell left a comprehensive musical legacy).
Their range suddenly alters when encountering Reverend Gary Davis (1896-1972), whose art comprised Medicine Show tunes, white ballads, military marches, country instrumentals, the emergent ragtime piano, a virtuosic Piedmont (Carolina) blues guitar style, old church hymns, revival meeting and Gospel songs, popular tunes, original compositions based on all the above, an archaic harmonica style rarely heard elsewhere, proficiency on the banjo, rudimentary ability to play hymns on the piano, understanding of chord grammar and elements of music theory, and a knack for evoking those he admired, such as Blind Blake. Davis was one of the few to explore minor keys, creating works of deep pathos such as Death Don't Have No Mercy, Children of Zion, and I Heard the Angels Singing. He once described Children of Zion as dating back hundreds of years yet I Belong to the Band is in an 1830's church songbook, a rather ancient member within an ever-changing oral tradition.
Beyond this social panorama comes the Word: Davis' imagery evoked chiaroscuro visions: "I wrapped and I wrapped at the mercy of the door, till my head got wet with the midnight dew." In contrast, most traditional blues artists shared and recycled standard lyrics, arbitrarily using them as filler "the blue light was my blues, the red light was my mind"- sung by Blind Lemon Jefferson, Robert Johnson, and many others, pleasing the public yet straying from a specific narrative. Davis maintained a text's integrity in the manner of a chronicler (griot), or created his own. His imagery is cloaked in metaphysics, a reality veering to the divine perspective ("Tell me, which a way you're travelling? Amen." "One morning soon, I heard the angels singing.") as Davis presents a historic-sonic portrait of a new continent's spiritual breath into untapped spheres, its archetypes rapidly arising and evaporating. Later pilgrimages for elemental experience amidst increasing standardization surfaced in Kerouac's On the Road and the texts of Bob Dylan. Davis overlaps tenses of time within references clear to him yet archaic to us (or to him, in older material), stepping closer to vanished sources of legends.
Davis' musical world parallels the richness of the nature, social milieus, characters and flow inhabiting Mark Twain, a sonic Huckleberry Finn, evoking deception, seduction, gamblers, dance halls, bordellos, cocaine, sexual repartee masked in double entendres, bucolic country pastimes, evangelism, self-realization, agonizing over one's fate, biblical themes, yearning for the divine presence, life's evanescence, timely events recast as morality plays, and so much more. His repertoire of over 300 compositions remains a marvel and historic repository, supported by a high musical level imparted to every work he performed, bearing an imprimatur of uniqueness and identity recreated on each occasion, a living expression outside any limits of time and style. Through uncanny rhythmic precision, sensitivity to nuance, an articulated tone both commanding and sensual, his voice roaring as an instrument, one sensed that each work was a fragment drawn from a larger constellation which he alone had access to and kindly offered. Most bluesmen would maintain an accompaniment interspersed with solo breaks or devise instrumentals based on patterns, whereas in Davis we encounter a complete musician, a composer aware of all musical details, exploring new possibilities. Davis has not been acclaimed as Robert Johnson, yet he alone brought many traditions to culmination through an artistry which surpassed nearly all others during his lifetime. Davis' legacy is furthered in the guitar playing of his pupils Blind Boy Fuller, Brownie McGhee, Larry Johnson, John Cohen, Bob Weir, Stefan Grossman, David Bromberg, Dave van Ronk, Woody Mann, Roy Bookbinder, the authors Alex Shoumatoff and John Nichols, and his influence on Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul & Mary, the Grateful Dead, and Jorma Kaukonen (Hot Tuna).
The grand blues, ragtime, and gospel traditions have drifted into every style imaginable, its protagonists nearly all gone (except for Gospel, which thrives due to its social context). In evaluating these American art forms, one may regard Davis as their most profound, accomplished and comprehensive master.
In remembrance of Rev. Davis' blindness, we are donating a portion of the profits to the Lighthouse, a New York charity assisting the blind, publishing Braille books and spoken recordings of literature: we urge listeners to contribute likewise.
1. Fast Blues in A: A solo never heard before from Davis, based
on 'Mountain Jack', imitating yells and calls in the high register.
An example of his musical community, lower bass runs comment as
the main character (the soprano) carries most of the conversation
with occasional asides from a middle voice.
2. Slow Blues in E: Davis rarely played blues in the key of E.
Here are long sustained phrases starting at times in the high
voice, descending into the bass, which receives a lively bass
solo. Some of his bent high notes recall Lonnie Johnson. Based
on traditional blues harmonies, the interplay between registers
touching on early Jazz.
3. West Coast Blues: Blind Blake's classic composition: whereas
Blake picked with three fingers, Davis used two, resulting in
a simplification and slower tempo. He actively rolls the bass
syncopations with his thumb to capture Blake's piano-style. Davis
strikes the final A flat chord without Blake's open A string as
its bass, yet uses similar dissonance in his own compositions
in the key of F.
4. Rag in A minor: A unique work, based on some forgotten air
or an improvisation in A minor, reminiscent of his Italian Rag.
5. Quick Step: A simple dance or march-like gospel hymn becomes
a rhythmic tour de force, its tension created by the highest register
pitted against a shuffling bass. There are no other known versions
of Davis playing a work sounding like a relic from Mark Twain's
world.
6. Horse Thief Blues: Davis leisurely offers a bucolic portrait
of a petty country criminal; another piece with an odd bent in
F was his Devil's Dream. Davis spices it with dissonant bass notes,
a brief bass solo and expanded lyrical passages on the dominant
chord. Note how he unpredictably alters the bar lengths of the
F chord sections, singing out the melody in a soft, understated
way. Again this is the only known version of the work.
7. Candy Man: A brisk Candy Man (in C), sung in mocking falsetto
with Tiny Robinson. (A similar example exists of Davis sqeaking
out Cocaine). The text is enlivened with "run get the pitcher,
get the baby some beer." Far from a blues piece, its purling
flow is redolent of white country music which Davis ornaments
with counter-rhythms, embellishments and melodic flourishes. Two
right-hand fingers shape three parts: the thumb being responsible
for the bass and middle voices, the index articulating the middle
voice and high melodic notes. Davis also played it as a duet,
having a student apply a capo, transposing it to F as Davis would
interweave bass and soprano lines above a steady accompaniment,
similar to his barely audible flourishes on several of Blind Boy
Fuller's 1935 recordings (Rag Mama Rag, etc.)
8. cigarette break . . . (Born and raised in Carolina tobacco
country, Davis was a cigar aficionado. Most of his solo playing
had a silent partner, an everpresent dangling cigar. Davis and
his guitar exhort Tiny Robinson, his muse who organzied these
informal sessions, for a smoke.)
9. Hills and Valleys: Davis would improvise at home and during
lessons, favoring the key of C. There are touches of the early
Big Bill Broonzy, Blind Blake, Lonnie Johnson and possibly others
who never recorded. A slow tempo supports runs which ignore bar
lines while landing on the downbeat just in time, similar to an
Indian tabla solo.
10. Seven Sisters: An enigmatic work in the key of A, wavering
from major and minor through its characteristic bent notes. Seven
Sisters vanished from his repertoire in the early 1960s and by
1971 he no longer recalled it. Irregular phrases and a bass which
interjects bent-note melodies make it demanding, as an inner logic
guides its melodic shape, possibly referring to a source lost
to us or obscured by time.
11. Crucifixion: Here is one of Davis' musical triumphs: a vocal
line and guitar part dovetailing to unite as a two-part-melody
which cannot be reduced to a single part, creating a musical perspective,
an innovation akin to Giotto's frescoes, the volume and colors
of the early Siennese masters (Simone Martini and the Lorenzettis),
whose religious imagery is coupled with elements from daily life
and the emotions. In recounting the Passion, Davis couples a historic
narrative with the personal (Pontius Pilate requesting a wash
basin), similar to the facial expressions and physical gestures
in Giotto's Padua frescoes revealing grief and angst.
A narrative ballad in the key of G, Davis weaves his complex accompaniment
beneath a 'talking blues' style. Using both first person and narrator,
the text relates the events preceeding the Last Supper yet ends
before the Entombment and Resurrection. Why did he abridge it?
Davis' duality as creator and preserver heightens the aura surrounding
his epic: Did he adapt someone else's work or was it his own inspiration?
One regrets not approaching him as a composer to pose such questions:
now it's too late to ever know.
12. I Decided to Go Down: The music Davis played in F often became
spicy, modal. The left thumb was active on the low E string to
fret up to G while four fingers employed wide stretches and bending
to form arabesques which differed from his sung melody. An occasional
major/minor ambiguity unfolds amidst harsh dissonances (melodic
A flat supported by A natural on the open string!). Unlike many
blues and gospel guitarists who formed patterns for the two or
three keys they played in, Davis achieved a notable variety of
melody and ornaments within A minor and major, C major, D major,
E major and minor, F, and G: his pieces in F (Blow Gabriel, The
Angel's Message to Me, Devil's Dream, etc.) dwell in a craggy
harmonic landscape.
13. Sun Is Going Down (You Better Get Right): A work in E major.
Davis layers asymmetries between the guitar's and song's phrasing,
its accompaniment veering downwards from the highest register
towards dancing bass rhythms. Two recordings exist: a live performance
(on Shanachie) in which Davis simplifies the rhythms as he tended
to while playing in public. The version on his final session (Biograph,
1971, on a Bozo 12 string guitar) is played in a slow tempo with
inaccuracies due to age, yet allows close-ups of details. An unpublished
take (for Prestige) in the early 1960s remains in Fantasy's vaults,
hopefully to be released. The version heard here, recorded at
home by Tiny Robinson, finds Davis at his best, fully employing
his rhythmic prowess and projecting it as a heralding call by
an Old Testament prophet to place one's life and priorities in
order. He once explained the title as "the sun of our life,
not the meridian sun that shines by day."
14. My Heart is Fixed: An extended performance of a song recorded
only once, c. 1957. Its outward simplicity masks a most difficult
and subtle playing, as the sacred pieces in C have soft tones
clinging to the melody, without which a skeletal approximation
would result.
15. Hold to God's Unchanging Hand: A rare document of a church
service at which Rev. Davis was guest minister. The program began
with a member of the congregation singing from the piano, exhorting
the others to follow.
16. Davis speaks: Davis offers a greeting and prayer to sanctify
the proceedings.
17. My Home is on High: Davis announces a song which came to him
(usually in his dreams), beginning in the key as the previous
song, demonstrating his perfect pitch and practicality by remaining
in the same key the pianist had played in.
18. Sermon: As the full sermon spanned an hour, we offer a segment
in which Davis dwelled on the tale of Jonah and themes stated
earlier and repeated later. One congregant audibly reacts to all
(the pianist?) while a nearby Sister ups the spiritual voltage
by singing softly, spurring Davis to a plateau of ecstatic song-like
preaching (often in the same key as her humming).
Were his sermons prepared? A hazy shard of memory recalls his
wife Annie mentioning after one Friday lesson: "B. [Brother]
Davis has to get his Sunday sermon ready." Luckily, Tiny
Robinson confirms: "Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't."
19. Coco Blues: After Davis' impassioned sermon, we conclude this
cross-section of his art with his sublime transformation of a
trite popular song into an instrumental masterpiece, as profoundly
stated as any of his Gospel songs. In Cocaine (or Coco), Davis
anchored his thumb on the low E string's third fret (G) as a pedal
point. It is worthwhile to try his fingering and shape the melody
with four fingers.
Long ago in 1971, radio creatively opened new musical worlds and expanded one's cultural realm. A gulf existed between stations dominated by playlists and listener-supported or college networks. One New York station, WABC-FM (now WPLJ) featured a Saturday morning show hosted by either Howard Smith or Alex Bennett, who often invited John Lennon to come by and play records he had brought, passing the hours in talk, taking calls from listeners. Other stations aired authentic global sounds; court gamelan of Java, Balinese Monkey Chant, African and Bulgarian rhythms. Lengthy musical experiences, such as round-the clock week-long broadcasts of the recently deceased John Coltrane and Albert Ayler affirmed radio's cultural potential, astronomically remote from the constraints of format and directives issued by the powers which now shackle radio, even public radio, into a medium based on advertising, rife with puerile 'human interest' items which must first be justified by their ratings system to fill in a gulf created by avoiding any music of profundity or substance.
WKCR (Columbia University's radio station) had a Saturday morning blues program on which the late Nick Perls, founder of Yazoo Records and collector of 78rpm blues discs, often arrived with rarities, lost artists whose discs existed in quantities of one or two known copies. Perls' refined taste guided one not only through individual and regional styles, but provided a context. His reissues of blues from the 1920s and 1930s were well-transferred and annotated, graphically compelling (commissioning R. Crumb for covers was another masterly stroke), a model for us all, as the Jazz and Classical fields failed to reach Perls' level. Perls had restored and produced an LP with all of Rev. Gary Davis' first recordings from 1935 and on a program in March 1971, WKCR aired his disc. Turning fifteen at the time, I was taken aback by his playing and haunting voice. The announcer mentioned that the Reverend would be giving a concert at Manhattan's 23rd Street YMCA the following week; regrettably it wasn't possible to attend. Their next program included Davis performing Buck Dance and Twelve Sticks (the latter on 12-string guitar, both recorded at the 1966 Newport Folk Festival, published by Vanguard), revealing an instrumental and musical mastery venturing ever further. The announcer also noted that some listeners who attended the 'Y' concert spoke of it as having been his farewell performance.
A listing soon appeared in the Village Voice: Davis would play
at Brooklyn College on March 19th. A long subway trek to the edge
of Flatbush ended at a sizeable campus cafeteria revamped as a
coffee house. Davis rose from a lunch table and was led onto the
makeshift stage, carrying a Bozo twelve-string guitar. Nearby
'experts' noted his total shunning of the blues as he had become
more fervently religious, curiously overlooking the ragtime solos
and risque songs he was playing before them, as fans can be more
concerned with their ideals than with observing reality. His playing
was compromised by the space, lessening the intimacy, blurring
the words. Davis was nearly seventy-five and seemed fit yet subdued.
He played:
I Heard the Angels Singing
Samson and Delilah
She's Just Funny That Way
She Wouldn't Say Quit
Maple Leaf Rag (with vocal flourishes)
At intermission, Davis returned to his table, mobbed by well-wishers
and the curious. Someone asked where he lived. Davis gave his
address Jamaica, Queens, an hour by bus from where I then
lived. Did he give lessons? "Yes. . . I charge only five
dollars a lesson. A cow can't give more milk than what it's worth."
He offered his phone number (AX1-7609). The lights dimmed and
all returned to their seats. I approached his student and chauffeur
Larry Breezer, asking if I might lead the Reverend on stage for
the second half. Taking his arm, I asked if he would play "I
Belong to the Band", among the most moving of his 1935 recordings.
The second half of the evening consisted of:
Death Don't Have No Mercy
Pure Religion
Oh Glory How Happy I Am
Who's Gonna Reign Over Heaven (on a 6-string Gibson)
I Belong to the Band (Gibson)
Crucifixion of Christ (Gibson)
Heaven Keeps Raining (on harmonica)
The following evening promised another epiphany: Bukka White was
appearing at the Village Gaslight. White used open tunings, playing
with a 'bottleneck', a steel ring on his left-hand pinky. (Davis
had but one song, Whistlin' Blues in this genre, which he condescended
to as 'knife-guitar'). White's right hand evoked African polyrhythmic
dance and drumming, whereas Davis's articulated three-part style
derived from kora-playing griots, the singing historians at West
African courts.
White sat alone at a stage-side table, projecting a sadness
unrelieved by his pastel green shirt, a chain and amulet resting
on his chest. He patiently answered inquiries about his songs,
where he lived (Memphis), if he taught ("Come by and visit,"
he smiled, jotting his address on a scrap of paper.) A few listeners
arrived along with Reverend Davis and Larry Breezer accompanied
by two beautiful women in their 20s, who sat at the table. When
White retreated backstage after greeting them, Davis engaged in
heavy flirting with one of the ladies: as it happened on other
occasions, he had an infallible ability to detect the most beautiful
and sensual woman in any group.
White's playing had grown uniform since his ebullient 1940 recordings,
the guitar's role a repetitive accompaniment in an open-E tuning.
Aberdeen, Mississippi (again my request) found him slapping the
neck a-la Hendrix in a train rhythm, this older work overshadowing
his recent songs, an example of how difficult it is to survive
and surpass one's early triumphs.
Disbelief in having heard the Reverend, leading him on stage and
witnessing him socially on two successive days only deepened the
desire to learn his music. One weekday morning, a cloudless sky
brought despair in having to face another banal school day. I
had turned sixteen and realized wonders lay about. Six dollars
had been saved up. . .
I grabbed the phone and dialed Rev. Davis's number. A high-pitched voice asked in rapid fire who I was and what did I want. Was the Reverend free to give a lesson today? "Yes he is, come on over, we'll be out at the barber until 1 p.m. so you can come on by then, do you know how to get here?, you just take any bus to the Jamaica terminal and change for the number 42 and make sure you ask the driver to let you off on Brinckerhoff Avenue and then just walk down the block and turn the corner right and you'll see our house, we're at 109-42 174th Street, we'll see you then, good-bye."
It was thrilling to be the only truant on the St. Albans bus, riding off below the Jamaica hills on a plain stretching into Long Island. Most of the wooden multi-story homes dated from 50 years earlier; newer one-story attached brick houses popped up between them, their quiet yards sheltering vintage cars. Nearby, a corner candy store languished. The neighborhood was sleepy, with everyone at work or indoors washing up after lunch, doing chores, their children still in school, lithe willow branches gently brushing their shadows over sidewalks and driveways. A white Ford sedan was parked in front. Mrs. Annie Davis opened the door: "You must be the boy who called earlier. What did you say your name was? Allin? Here's the Reverend." Right of the door sat an old overstuffed armchair, a high footstool, their spinet piano nearby opposite a couch. Rev. Davis was embraced by the chair's soft padding, sitting without glasses. His eyes were overgrown with white tissue and seemed to be slightly pointed rather than smoothly oval. He had sight as a child but was given a medicine show cure which destroyed his vision. He offered a smooth youthful hand, like that of a seated stone pharaoh, asking what I wished to learn. Mrs. Davis opened a back closet filled with guitar cases, bringing out at his beckoning the "baby" Martin, a small-sized model he recently had tried in a Manhattan guitar shop and bought out of amusement with its size.
Seated on his footstool, I offered an approximation of Buck
Dance, expecting only minor corrections. Davis broke into a warm
grin: "Heh, heh..., now. . . watch my fingers. . . this is
how it goes. . . and if you see something you don't understand.
. . you just stop me and I'll explain it to you." He spoke
slowly, spacing his words, often silent for awhile after a question,
leading you to wonder if he had heard you, yet sometimes he responded
at once. As he played my amazement grew. Not only were most of
my chords wrong but I had overlooked a wealth of details which
gave the piece its meaning. His nesting right hand seemed to brush
or stroke against the strings, rarely moving. Two fingers picked
as the others anchored his hand onto the body slightly below the
sound hole. He wore a plastic thumb pick and one metal pick on
his index finger ("it saves your fingertips", although
his left hand calluses were quite developed, for he preferred
thick strings which felt like phone cables.) "Why don't you
use the middle finger too?" I wondered. "You don't need
more than two." His left hand's shaping of the chords on
the neck was sculpted elegance, a choreography of abstract poses
dissolving through lithe movements into successive formations,
moving hieroglyphics derived from a body language of economy and
holding the instrument's neck at a 45 degree angle to his torso,
allowing him to lift his left hand vertically to comfortably play
such chords with. A horizontally-placed guitar would strain the
wrist and tendons. Liner notes mentioned that his wrist had set
at an odd angle after a youthful injury, allowing him to grasp
his chords with ease. When I asked if the break in his youth changed
his technique, he clarified: "No, I was playing the same
way before it happened."
The blur of his right hand movements made it clear that the ear
alone would have to decode his finger picking. It was the language
of his left hand which opened up the music, its positions allowing
for the melodic and neighboring notes to reveal themselves. Slowly,
patiently, he explained the chords making up the work. "What
is that you're doing after the F chord?" I asked. "You
have an A-flat, followed by. . . an F-sharp diminished seven",
which seemed like a tarantula stretching after a nap as the thumb
scaled the neck. After a few tries I played the chords in rhythm.
He begin again from the opening phrase, asking me to play along.
The support of his rhythm added to the thrill of playing his own
piece, not an approximation with some imposed repetitive beat
but accurately, with each detail speaking for itself. The music
became inwardly absorbed through playing together, his nuances
imprinted onto your playing. As soon as a phrase became comfortable
he sprung syncopated rhythmic traps to throw you off, his laughter
implying that more learning always lay ahead.
In Buck Dance's middle section, he stopped me repeatedly: "No, that's not right!" he insisted. "I'm playing the exact notes as you." "Yes, the notes are right but you played that 'E' on the second string [at the fifth fret]. I take it on the open string." This detail indicated a sensitivity to timbre, allowing him to identify a position on the guitar by its color. (Incidentally, Davis tuned the low E string flat: those playing his music with a correct tuning will sound off.) What if similar listening would identify the chords on his recordings (for I wished to learn many works)? Then one may prepare them in advance by decoding the hand positions so that the following lesson might be spent on those details which seemed to defy capture, making it possible to cover a great deal of music in a short time. After finishing Buck Dance came Make Believe Stunt, Slow Drag, Devil's Dream and other songs. Four hours quickly passed and it seemed inconsiderate to further impose on his time. With a mock serious tone, he reminded that a substantial payment awaited him, then warmly bade me goodbye.
What made the experience profoundly moving was how a musician of his stature could patiently offer such kindness and encouragement to a near-beginner, leaving the impression that you were becoming his favorite pupil, a gentle way of introducing himself into your life as a musical mentor ready to assist you, inspiring you to do your utmost at all times, rewarding you with a smile when you played correctly along with the privilege of playing along with him, joining on his improvisatory flights as you now accompanied him.
A lesson was arranged immediately after returning from a music camp in late August (studying classical flute), given this time in the basement, which led to the small back yard where Mrs. Davis made barbecues. There were a few chairs about and a bed propped up with large pillows, used as a guest room for the friends, students, and religious pilgrims whose journeying led to the Davis home. Anxious to tell of my pathetic search for delights, I shyly poured out my woes to Davis as a naive kid to his experienced older brother. After an account of a failed romance with a curvaceous singer who knew she could do better and canoeing with two sisters onto a lake to sip appalling wine, I sighed, "So, Reverend, these are my big adventures at fifteen. What did you do when you were my age to have fun?" After a little laugh he paused, as he always did:
"One time there was a widower living nearby and us boys saw that every night he would get on his knees before the fireplace and pray to God for a wife who could be a mother to his children. So we went off and killed a sheep, you understand, and cut off its head and put it on a rope. Then when he was praying we climbed up on his roof and lowered that head down the chimney, so when he was there prayin' his heart out he saw that head in the fireplace, and he ran for a gun and started shooting up the house!!
"Then there was a time I was playing at a party, wearing a white suit when a fight broke out, people hittin' and stabbin' each other, using knives and pistols you understand, so I reached for a pie and hid up a chimney near by. When I got out, the fightin' was done, everybody was gone, my pie eaten, and my white suit black!"
Two young women arrived later and joined us downstairs, one a former pupil, the other an active folk singer. To greet his old student, Davis asked that his best guitar, Miss Gibson, be brought from the living room closet. The folk singer began to belt out some of Davis's songs. Davis' head gently rested on his left hand, the right ear seen by the singer while a left-hand finger stopped his other ear.
A few weeks later Rev. Davis suffered a stroke. When he was able to have visitors at home, I arrived with a friend, Mary, to be greeted at the door by a dour lady in her fifties wearing a gray hooded cassock, barefoot, carrying a seven-foot high shepherd's crook. "Praise the Lord and welcome" she thundered. "What are your names?" 'Mary' startled her: "You who bear the name of the Lord's mother are wearing pants [blue jeans]. A woman must only wear a dress!" Prophet 'Shoeshine' in person. She strode into a back room as Mrs. Davis answered phone calls, cooked, and tended to her husband, at whose bedside we sat only for a few minutes.
Davis soon recovered and Mrs. Davis thought that he could teach again. His full tone and its projection came from a rich dynamic range in which his notes spoke, their phrases a speech with each sound a syllable, a word, unlike guitarists in most fields who flatten their tones into even sounds. His accents were also regulated by the right palm's occasional muting of the low strings in the way a pianist pedals to sustain or dampen a sound, often overlooked by guitarists who keep a high wrist and finger position, allowing all the notes to ring out evenly, erasing hierarchies and layers of accentuation.