Robert Johnson’s Suffrin’ Blues
Blues Myth meets Substack Lore
Late October - Rosedale, Mississippi - 1935
Robert Johnson awoke to the sunlight splintering his temples. Teeth clenched, the whisky from the night before still saturated his blood. He managed to pry open one eye to find his ex mother-in-law, Verlean Travis, staring daggers.
“Boy! Wake up…”
Robert groaned, “Oh Virginia…” making it clear to Verlean she was right. He was half-dead drunk.
“You can’t be passing’ out drunk here no mo’. Naahhhh boy. Now she gone… You gotta get gone.”
At that, Verlean beat Robert as hard as she could, swatting him with her broom as she would a opossum caught traipsing through the kitchen. And that’s exactly what he felt like. Unwelcome by day and unwanted by night. Crawling on all fours all the while hiding from the light.
Stumbling to his feet enough to run out of the door and down the stairs, he hit the ground running. He looked back just in time to see Verlean bust open the door and throw his guitar off the porch. It hit the ground with a violent clang.
“Y’all don’t come back. Evuh. Take yo’ guitars somewheres else. It hurt us ‘nuff here.”
Picking up his six-string, Robert started his slow walk away from the Travis cabin and into the swamp.
His mind was racing. Trying to think of anything but the night before and Virginia. But with each staggered step his face grew more grim.
He longed to hold her once again. And his baby boy. But his hope helped him nowhere. They were still just ghosts laid heavy on his shoulders. And no matter how much hurt he put into his songs, he couldn’t play worth a lick. And he knew it.
Why, that’s what got him so drunk. Before crashing the Travis house, he showed up to Lucy the jazz club, begging to play before Willie Brown and Son House. Or in between the two. It didn’t matter. He was drunk and determined to show the whole town he was a true music man. That he played the blues with the best of them. They told him no. Told him he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. He should have listened.
The two bluesmen took a break by the bar and Robert took his chance. But already a pint of whisky deep, his already-terrible skill had gone from bad to worse. He only made it through half a song when the crowd revolted. He was mobbed, beaten and thrown out into the street with his guitar in hand. Feeling he couldn’t fall any further, he pulled his flask from his boot and walked into the night, thinking about her.
“Oh Virginia.”
After walking for quite some time, Robert found himself closer to his house and decided to stop in on his old friend and neighbor, Ike Zimmerman.
Ike had tried to teach Robert how to play the guitar for going-on three years. And he tried everything. Mimicking note by note. Chord by chord, but no matter what he tried nothing stuck. Being a man of Hoodoo, Ike even tried having Robert play in the cemetery to conjure a spirit to help him along. But the night of their seance Ike said Robert played so bad that no spirit was willing to pass through the veil.
Robert walked quietly, trying to listen to Ike play. One step too close, Ike heard Robert walking and quit strumming. Without saying a word, Ike shook his head. Robert knew then Ike had already heard the story of the night before.
“What in the hell was you thinkin’ pullin’ that kinda thing on Son House? And my friend Willie! I ought not even be talking to you.”
“I got songs, Ike. I got songs livin’ in me and I gotta get ‘em out. And don’t believe what they says. It wun’t that bad. They was drunk.”
“They prolly was drunk but so was you. But you can’t afford no drink way you play. I hope you learnt something last night, boy. That’s the spirits trying to shut you down and you ought to listen. Give it up son.”
“I still got time to learn.”
“Stop, son. It ain’t stuck yet and it ain’t gon’ stick. You ain’t playing nothing without a miracle.”
Robert grabbed his guitar and started running away. Had it really come to this? The last person to try to help was telling him to quit. He couldn’t take it.
Ike called, “It gon’ have to be the devil or the Lord but ain’t nothing else gon’ help you now!”1
A stolen bottle of whisky in hand, running on no sleep, Robert found himself still walking. A slow run from the life he wished to drink away. Ike’s words still ringing in his ears, “Ain’t nothing else gon’ help you now!”
Under the light of October’s full moon, a frigid northern air slowed Robert to a crawl. A devil wind howled, rustling the autumn leaves loose from the live oaks. He gave up.
Robert looked around and found himself at a crossroads. Emptying his shoulders, he breathed a dreadful sigh to the ground before swinging his head to the moon. Drowning in his last sip of cheap corn liquor, he fell to his knees.
“Lord, have mercy. Save me. Please. Please, take me to my Virginia.”
His head bowed in silence, Robert brought her to his mind. Praying to see her again. And then the stillness died.
Clouds scattered the light of the moon as Robert felt the weight of observation rise from below. Now on his feet, starting into the black he heard it. A voice of gravel and tar slowly calling:
“Heaven help me, gotta come up for air Lord knows it’s a a devil may care”
The song2 continued and the faintest of steps unveiled a gruesome man. Robert was petrified. This man was no man at all. His arms were too long, legs too short and eyes too wide. As much as Robert wanted to run he was powerless to move.
“It’s rude to stare, ya know.”
Robert’s eyes were locked. Unflinching on the man from nowhere.
“I hope you were done prayin’ son. That won’t get you nothin’,” he said with a mischievous smirk.
Robert finally quivered, “The.. the devil!”
The gritty voice returned, “Oh no, Robert. Not him. But he is a friend of mine. We go way back. They call me the Suff. I followed man right out of the garden, that’s right. Ol’ Suff is as old as sin itself. Why, it’s your sufferin’ that’s brought me here to you now.”
“I don’t want nothin’ to do with you, hear?”
“You got no choice, son. You’re hurtin’ so much… It’s you who conjured me. And now you have to choose.”
“Whatchu mean choose?”
Suff’s voice lowering even more now, “I mean choose. Keep praying. Hoping God will take away your suffering, which he probably never will. Or choose me. Embrace the Suff. Shake my hand. Let me live in you and I can promise you a life made on suffering. And I mean the life of your dreams, boy. We’ll play guitar for the world and you’ll forget Virginia.”
“You gon’ teach me to play guitar?”
“No. I won’t need to teach you. It’ll be your voice and your body but you leave the playing to me.”
“How’s that?”
“You don’t get to know how it works. You just get to shake my hand. Yes or no? A life with Suff or with God? Where you go, I go and we change the world. Whudduya say?”
Suff extended his hand. Robert looked out, across the crossroads, thinking.
“They’ll know my name. And if I could forget her, I’d be free,” he thought.
“Free forever,” promised Suff.
Matching Suff’s mischievous grin, Robert took Suff’s hand.
Robert awoke to the sunlight splintering his temples. Teeth clenched, the whisky from the night before still saturated his blood. But this time he felt different.
He sat up and found himself still at the crossroads but felt an uncanny power coursing through his blood. He stood tall, walking in confidence back to Rosedale. He found Ike back out on his front porch as he approached his home.
“Here we go again. I hope you ‘bout to use that guitar for firewood. I’m tellin’ you man, give it up.”
Robert stopped as he passed in front of Ike. He turned slowly and met Ike’s eyes, “I’m gon’ show you, Ike. You gon’ see.”
Ike was frozen. Speechless. He couldn't move but knew something dark was behind Robert’s eyes.
Robert walked into his home and shut the door.
April, Rosedale, Mississippi, 1936
No one had seen Robert come or go from his house. The neighbors saw the occasional candle flicker through the windows so no one thought much about the goings on. And so on a quiet spring night, by the light of the full moon, the Suff used the cover of darkness to carry Robert and his guitar through town for the first time in six months. The Suff was taking him straight to Lucy’s.
Son House and Willie Brown were taking an intermission smoke when commotion broke out inside. Hootin’ and hollerin’, the crowd was losing their minds. As they walked in the back, Son and Willie soon figured out why. They could hear that a blues master had obviously taken the stage and was putting on the show of a lifetime. Willie nodded to Son, “Muddy must be in town.” But when they made it to the side of the stage, the sight before them left their jaws on the floor. On stage, with the crowd in the palm of his hand, sat Robert Johnson lighting up the guitar as if he’d been playing since the day he was born.
“I’m going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side I’m going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side You can still barrelhouse, baby, on the riverside”
Robert ended his song and exited the stage, with Son and Willie staring in shock. Walking past them both, Robert made for the backdoor, but just before he stepped out he turned back and said, “Looks like they won’t be throwin’ me out no more.”
Son looked at Willie, “Somethin’ wrong with that boy. His eyes ain’t right. But damn if he ain’t set that guitar on fire. Naw, somethin’ ain’t right.”
August, Greenwood, Mississippi, 1938
Still riding a wave of success from his legendary performance at Lucy’s, Robert had played gigs across the entire southeast, evening making stops in New York and Chicago. But the Suff was slowing him down, dragging him back to Mississippi. And trying as he might to forget, Robert found himself once again thinking about Virginia. But being asked to play a smaller gig with his new buddy Elmore James, he made his way closer to home.
Elmore sat next to Robert behind The Skull, a club just outside of Greenwood, Mississippi, getting ready for their set.
“Robert, it true you went out to Texas recordin’ them songs?”
Robert's voice cracked and dropped, “Das right. Laid down ‘bout 30 songs for them boys.”
“Man, you sick? Don’t sound good.”
In a movement that was more twitch than control, Robert locked eyes with Elmore. But they weren’t Robert’s eyes. They’d morphed into an infinite pool of night. Too black and too glassy to ignore.
Elmore gasped “Woah.. Robert…”
Standing to walk away, a gritty voice spoke back, “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be restin’ after tonight.”
Rorbert’s set at The Skull went as expected. The crowd begged for one more song as he made his way backstage.
Suff broke into Robert’s head.
“We’re going back out there, boy. We got one last song to play.”
For the first time, Robert fought back.
“I’m played out. I can’t take one more song. I played damn near all the songs we got. And you’s a liar. You know I’m still thinking about her.”
Suff fired back, “Of course you are. That’s what I am. I am suffering. And I’m here for you. We’re going back out there. It’s not up to you, son. I’m playing them a song. Somethin’ they will never forget.”
In compulsion, Robert walked back to the screaming crowd, reset his stool and guitar and played one last song.
“Been Down to the River I’ve been down on my knees I got birdshot in my belly I got hung up in the trees. Heaven help me, gotta come up for air Lord knows it’s a a devil may care Heaven help me, gonna burn like coal Lord knows I’m way down in the hole”
Inside, Robert was screaming. His mind harkened back to his night at the crossroads. The night he gave his life to the Suff.
“You gotta wade me in the water, Gonna stick it in the mud Brother roll me in the wagon Sister wipde away the blood There’s a train, a darken’d spirit Gonna take away our souls Gonna trap us in our sorrow Gotta have, he’s gotta hold Heaven help me, gotta come up for air Lord knows it’s a a devil may care Heaven help me, gonna burn like coal Lord knows I’m way down in the hole”
Robert tried to stop his hands, but he’d lost all control. While his mouth sang of the Suff, he could think of nothing but that first night.
“It’s you who conjured me. And now you have to choose.”
“Don’t wander by the tombstones Don’t pray upon my grave Cuz he’ll catch you like a rabbit Gonna rock you like a babe”
“A life with Suff or with God? Where you go, I go and we change the world. Give into Suff.”
“No begging-he won’t bargain Your tears are not enough When you feel hose hands come callin’ He’s a godless end, The Suff.”
At the last note, Robert’s body was taken to the air, levitating just above his stool arms falling limp by his side. A dark mist had overtaken the club and a man in rags manifested himself on stage under Robert.
His arms were too long, legs too short and eyes too wide. He lifted his arms and Robert went further and further up. The crowd shrieked at the sight and trashed The Skull as everyone stampeded the door.
Hand raised, in a voice of gravel and tar the Suff growled, “Sssssuuuuu.”
Windows and mirrors shattered.
“Suff… Suff.”
Lowering his arms, the Suff stepped forward to meet Robert’s face still hanging in the air.
Robert’s eyes were as wide as could be, welling with tears. He tried to scream but could only suffer in silence.
“You shook my hand and I gave you your dreams. But now my hands are callin’.”
Without speaking, the Suff entered Robert’s mind one last time.
“The wages of sin is death, son. And you chose me. You embraced the Suff. You chose to stop your praying. And now it’s your godless end.”
With all his might, Robert finally forced his voice, “Lord, have mercy on me. Take me to Virginia. Now, Lord.”
“You call on the Lord, but I’m the one here now. Embrace the Su…”
A brilliant light shattered the darkness of the club and a powerful force sent the crowd outside plummeting to the ground. When calm had returned and police arrived, officers found Robert Johnson dead, but body intact. In fact, it was reported he had a smile on his face. The search continued for the man in rags yet the only trace of his existence was a pure white linen found folded neatly to the side of the stage. Witnesses insisted they couldn’t be the same filthy rags.
Robert Johnson awoke to a pure light. Almost too bright to comprehend. He managed to pry open both eyes to find the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, Virginia Travis, smiling back at him.
Robert groaned, “Oh Virginia.”
Thank you for reading and I hope you’ve enjoyed my lengthy take on “the Suff.” Thanks to Maya at
for helping me to keep track of all things Suff. As soon as I began reading the stories, I thought of Robert Johnson and the myth that he sold his soul to the devil in exchange for world-class guitar skills. This is also my attempt to incorporate a small bit of fiction into Blue Wednesday, my weekly series in which I share the music I love. Let me know what you think in the comments and please share Narrowtives with your friends.A few notes in no particular order, added post email because the story was getting too long:
Virginia was indeed the name of Robert’s wife who actually did die during childbirth. The baby was also lost. The character “Verlean” is a product of my imagination as I couldn’t actually find the name of Virginia’s parents.
Ike Zimmerman was a real-life friend of Robert Johnson. While the myth surrounding Johnson’s miraculous transformation mostly involves Johnson selling his soul to the devil at the crossroads, the other story is that Ike, a believer in hoodoo, taught Robert to play guitar by summoning a spirit in a cemetery.
Rosedale, Mississippi is the reported location of the crossroads at which Johnson supposedly sold his soul to the devil.
Johnson did actually travel across much of the eastern U.S. after his musical transformation, including stops in Chicago and New York.
Willie Brown, Son House, Elmore James and Muddy Waters were actual contemporaries of Johnson. There is indeed an unconfirmed story that Johnson was thrown out of a club for his terrible playing and that it was Willie Brown and Son House who witnessed his return. The names of the clubs in this story are fiction.
Robert Johnson did actually die in August of 1938 in Greenwood, Mississippi. Theories of his cause of death include that he drank poison whisky given to him by a jealous bartender. Johnson was reportedly having an affair with the bartender’s girlfriend. The other story is that Johnson fell ill and died at a plantation due to complications of syphilis. He was 27-years-old.
Nice riff. *slideguitaratthecrossroadsemoji
Interesting take on that story, Derek. Once can hope that he might have had that "dying breath" conversion, so to speak.