Keb’ Mo’
When talking about the state of the blues in the 21st century, few names read bigger under the bright marquee lights as the one who embodies the history, preservation and perpetuation of the genre itself — Keb’ Mo’.
At 67, the Grammy-winning singer/guitarist is a living bridge between the sacred past of the Delta blues and its contemporary counterparts. It’s a tone and attitude at the foundation of American music and all that has blossomed from the cold, cold ground that lies under the feet of the human condition.
Raised in a home filled with the sounds of blues and gospel, Keb’ Mo’ got his start in the early 1970s from legendary violinist Papa John Creach. The personal friendship and professional collaboration became a rabbit hole by which the young, hungry musician rubbed shoulders with icons of the blues and rock-n-roll — many already on the backside of their careers, many he called friends until their passing.
Meandering through the career of Keb’ Mo’ you can’t help but describe him as a “common denominator” of American music, where names like Albert Collins, Big Joe Turner, Buddy Guy, Jackson Browne, Rosanne Cash, Taj Mahal, Joe Walsh, Bonnie Raitt and Dr. John all appear on the long list of his associations.
With Keb’ Mo’, his body of work is a road map of this country and its people, each album and performance a stop on the way to some higher, more perceptive truth, one that remains elusive in the never-ending pursuit of what it means to be a human being in the grand scheme of things.
Smoky Mountain Living: It’s the 20th anniversary since you portrayed Robert Johnson in the film “Can’t You Hear the Wind Howl?” What did you take away from that experience and immersing yourself in one of the most iconic and mysterious characters in American music?
Keb’ Mo’: Well, I learned that no one knows anything about Robert Johnson. [Laughs]. The person I talked to that knew the most about Robert Johnson was the late Robert Lockwood Jr., because he actually spent time with him. He said Robert was a selfish guy and there wasn’t any crossroads. [Laughs]. He said he was a really good singer and guitar player, better guitar player than most people know that he was. It was eerie, because in a sense I had to become Robert Johnson, feel his spirit, and I think he came to the set, hanging around, especially in the death scene. I think I actually virtual poisoned myself in that scene, on the floor I got really nauseous—it was really weird.
When you were 21, Papa John Creach hired you. How did that interaction come about, and what do you remember most about him?
How it happened, we were playing in this band called Zulu. And we would go to this rehearsal studio on Adams Boulevard [in Culver City, California]. We’d go there every day and rehearse, now and then get a gig, working on original material. Broke as hell. There was this soul food restaurant next to the studio, and Papa John and his producer walked by, heard us rehearsing, came in and hired us. [Papa John] came up in the blues scene, he came up in the jazz scene. He was already playing with Jefferson Airplane, soon to be re-conjured into Jefferson Starship. All of a sudden, I’m hanging with Jorma Kaukonen, Big Joe Turner, Fats [Domino] and Lermon Horton. I was stunned. I started out in the blues, but I didn’t know I started out in the blues, because I was trying to be something else. But, the blues kind of caught me.
It always comes back to the notion of “stay close to the source”…
Yes. You stay close to it because that’s the fountain by which all things spring from. When you look at the blues and American music—blues, gospel, country, bluegrass—the source is where you go from. You may not sound like the source, but that’s where you get everything from. That’s where you bust off from. And that informs you. It tells you whether you’re on or off, because that’s the barometer of authenticity that you’re connected to. It’s always going. People may take their eyes off of it, but it never stops.
The irony of the blues is that the music is so heart-wrenching, but it brings so much happiness to people…
Yeah. Well, it’s just like a comedian. The blues is a musical comedian. The comedian tells the truth and everybody goes, “Yeah, that’s right.” It’s always about telling it like it is, it’s funny and you feel better. You’re not alone when you hear the blues. You hear the truths. And a lot of truths get pushed down in the ground, where people are walking around not knowing that everyone is having a very similar experience to what you’re having.