Hellhound 18: Me an' the Devil

((The fifth section begins here--the last act in this extended look at the harsh life of a Thirties bluesman. We begin, still in Dallas...))

DAY--INTERIOR OFFICE

This is the unused office which the record company ARC has converted for its schedule of "field" recording in Dallas. Two white women are seated on a moth-eaten couch talking listlessly. The sound of string band music comes from within the closed recording portion. Johnson enters, dressed in clean clothes. He is cold sober and now, unexpectedly on the morning after the previous scene, a stronger, more confident man, even quietly dignified. The women look at him with some distaste or dismissal, but he ignores them, standing quietly off to one side.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The closed recording room door opens, and Dawson escorts out the four-man string band in their Western clothing. The women rise to stand with their men.

DAWSON: Thanks, boys. A fine session. I think we'll all do well...

The players insist on each man shaking Dawson's hand as a goodbye. Then all exit, passing now on both sides of Johnson and giving him the onceover. Dawson nods at him coolly.

DAWSON: Well, Johnson, you ready now to work? I got you a replacement guitar.

The bluesman walks over to him, subdued and somehow a different man.

JOHNSON: Yes. I am.

Dawson looks at him in surprise. The change really is apparent. Guitar music begins on the track...

INTERIOR--RECORDING AREA

The set-up is different this time. Johnson at the mic is separated from Harry the engineer and Dawson by a glass office partition. They work the equipment and watch as he finishes his outspoken sexual blues called "Traveling Riverside":

Now you can squeeze my lemon till the juice run down my leg
Till the juice run down my leg, baby... (spoken) You know what I'm talkin' about...
(and so on, to the end)

The song finishes, and Johnson relaxes in his chair, not bothering to turn and look at the white men.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Dawson speaks via the rigged-up intercom.

DAWSON: Whew! I said sexy, Robert--not pornographic. What do you call that, anyway?

HARRY (muttering again, but audible): Most disgusting thing I ever heard. Animals, that's what they are...

ANGLE ON ROBERT

Now he turns to stare at the engineer through the glass. His answer is cold and proud.

JOHNSON: Call it "Mammyjammer Blues." In honor to you' frien' there.

ANGLE ON ENGINEER AND PRODUCER

Harry half-rises, not quite sure whether to be angry or "honored."

HARRY: What's that supposed to mean?

DAWSON: Shut up, Harry. You brought it on yourself.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As he points at Harry.

JOHNSON: If you is got any mo' discs, Miste' Engineer, I got two mo' songs...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Dawson signals his okay, proceed.

DAWSON: We're fine. Go ahead when you're ready.

Robert turns back to the mic, adjusts the bottleneck on his finger, and mutters to himself.

JOHNSON: Try this one on, white folks...

Then he plays/sings the haunted and paranoid (or guilty) blues--the film's title song--"Hellhound on My Trail," the awkward beginnings of which we saw early in the film.

I got to keep movin', got to keep movin', blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail,
Umm, blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail,
An' the day keeps on 'mindin' me there's a hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail...

Etc. The song plays through completely, the camera watching Johnson from a variety of angles, but always medium shots; intercut with these are the folllowing inserts:

INSERT--HARRY

The engineer is listening intently, but mechanically, doing his sound job, frowning.

INSERT--DAWSON

The producer is surprised by the intensity of this song and performance.

INSERT--HARRY

He turns to fiddle with various knobs, adjusting the recording levels.

INSERT--DAWSON

He has risen to his feet, unconsciously holding his breath, at pains to keep silent and not disturb the moment.

ANGLE ON JOHNSON

As he finishes in a final burst of of guitar notes. Dawson is visible, standing beyond the partition. Johnson turns to signal something as Dawson speaks.

DAWSON: Good God, man! Where did...

JOHNSON (interrupting): Keep rollin' it--I got 'nother one...

He turns back to the mic and launches immediately into his most chilling and evil blues of all, "Me and the Devil," all anger and despair:

Early this mornin' when you knocked upon my door (repeat)
I said, "Hello, Satan, I b'lieve it's time to go."
Me an' the devil was walkin' side by side (repeat)
I'm goin' to beat my woman till I get satisfied...
You may bury my body down by the highway side
(spoken interjection:) Babe, I don' care where you bury my body when I'm dead an' gone
So my ol' evil spirit can get a Greyhoun' bus and ride.

This time the camera concentrates on Johnson only--moving fluidly all around him, in tight on his face, tight on his hands on the guitar, angled down on his body and the mic (from above), etc. The bluesman's face shows all the intensity and searing pain of the song (and of his soul). Dawson can be seen in the background once or twice, pressed against the glass, intent and staring. By the last verse, tears are streaming down from Johnson's eyes as he looks deep into the abyss of his erratic life. He ends, slumped over, head bowed over the mic.

ANGLE ON JOHNSON AND CONTROL ROOM

All are momentarily frozen, unwilling to break the silence. Then the engineer's voice sounds over the intercom.

HARRY: Goddam cylinders... useless as this nigger music...

Dawson turns to glare at Harry silently. Robert brushes the tears from his cheeks, then rises.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson turns to face the control booth.

JOHNSON: Gimme my money, boss--time to shake the Dallas dust off'n my shoes...

Hellhound 16: Deep Ellum Blues

DAY--INTERIOR DALLAS TRAIN STATION

Waiting beside a newly arrived train are Dawson, nervously pacing, and Harry, as ornery as ever. The train is emptying, people disembarking, milling around, but no sign of Johnson. Finally, from a far-back car comes Robert--he is dressed in better clothes now but these are wrinkled and dirty too. He is also already drunk, staggering badly; the wound near his eye has healed, leaving a small scar. (In the scenes that follow, Johnson is sullen and careless--not arrogant exactly, just not caring what happens, and careless of black-white relationship rules.) Dawson hurries to meet him.

DAWSON: Robert! Good to see you.

He hold out his hand to shake with Johnson.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Johnson interprets this as an offer of assistance--so he hands his flimsy suitcase to Dawson instead. (His guitar is slung over his back.)

JOHNSON: Yeah.

Dawson is surprised, but he quickly passes the suitcase over to surly and reluctant Harry, who handles it as though it might bite.

DAWSON: Welcome to Dallas. How was the trip?

Johnson looks at him stupidly for a beat, then mumbles...

JOHNSON: Fine, fine... better'n ridin' the blin's, I 'spect. (pause) What now, white folks?

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

Dawson is anxious to get moving, so he sort of half-steers Johnson into walking. Harry is left to carry the suitcase; his disgust is evident.

DAWSON: First thing we do is get you settled in a hotel. We'll be recording in an office I'll show you--starting tomorrow. (then alluding delicately to Johnson's inebriation) If you're ready...

Johnson says nothing, so Dawson babbles on.

DAWSON: We've got to get a dozen or so new numbers--strong stuff. "32-20" didn't hit like "Terraplane," you know. Got to sew up that race market...

They continue through the station, Harry dragging along behind, Dawson guiding Johnson. The white people ignore them, but a couple of black porters turn to watch this odd procession.

JOHNSON: I got the stuff. (sly glance at Dawson) All's I needs now 's a drink.

They pass on out of the station during Dawson's response.

DAWSON: We'll see. But you've got to pull yourself...

The rest is lost to the exterior city noise.

INTERIOR POOL HALL

In Dallas's black section, a dingy hall with three tables and a bar. A game is in progress between two men; a young woman, the barman, and another man are watching boredly. Johnson reels in, bottle in hand and guitar on his shoulder. He looks the scene over then makes a zig-zag beeline for the sexy girl.

JOHNSON: Hey there, honey, who's got the game?

WOMAN (coldly): My man Jack.

JOHNSON (moving in): Is that right. Well, peaches, while Jackson's busy, what say you an' me go somewheres an' shake yo' tree.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The woman moves away from him without speaking. Johnson then repositions himself between her and the game.

JOHNSON: Now don' be unfrien'ly, baby--where's 'at Texas hospitality you...

He doesn't finish the sentence because something is jabbing him in the back--Jack has arrived, with the tip of his pool cue grinding into Johnson's kidney area.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Johnson turns to face Jack.

JACK: Lemme cue you in, Eightball--you want a game? You got it. Want trouble, fine, you kin have that too. But Marla... uh-uh.

To emphasize the message, he jams Johnson's stomach with the cue. The bluesman stands quiet as Marla moves around him to stand beside Jack. But when they turn away with a sneer, Johnson slams the bottle down on Jack's head.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Jack drops like a shot, Marla screams and crouches down to help him, and the second player and the no-longer-bored onlooker both charge Johnson, who grins nastily and tosses his guitar aside. The player swings his cue, and Robert dodges him, overturning a small table into the path of his opponents.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As he grabs up several billiard balls and starts hurling these at the opposition.

CLOSE ON OPPONENTS

They dodge two balls, but a third smacks the cue wielder in the gut, doubling him over.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Jack is out cold, and Marla runs screaming out the bar's front door, calling for help. The barman has moved out from behind the bar as well, carrying a sawed-off cue; he and the third man stalk Johnson, who retreats warily, waving his last ball. Then he slings it at the third man, who dodges it just as Johnson himself hurtles through the air and knocks him to the floor.

CLOSE ON THE BRAWL

As the barman and now-recovered second player close in to join the fray. They pummel Johnson with fists and feet until the barman finally slugs him with the sawed-off cue; and Robert passes out...

ANGLE UP--CLOSE ON SNARLING DOBERMAN--P.O.V.

This is what Robert sees first as he comes to--a snarling dog right in his face.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The Doberman is on a leash held by a fat white policeman. The cop steps back and yanks his dog to heel. Robert shows fear of the dog.

FAT COP: Get up, boy.

Johnson shakes his head to clear it, then clambers to his feet. The barman and a younger cop (Schmidt) approach; everyone else has vanished.

BARMAN (gesturing and pointing): Yes-suh, Miste' Schmidt, crazy nigger come in here, blin' drunk an' spoilin' for a fight, start wreckin' over my place, had to col'-cock him to keep...

Johnson has been rubbing the back of his head, eyeing the dog warily.

JOHNSON (interrupting): Where Jack an' that bitch at, then?

Barman (all innocent): Jack who? (to Schmidt) What I tol' ya, that fool still half outen his mind. Nobody 'cep'im him here since two 'clock.

Johnson starts to move toward the barman, but the fat cop and dog quickly block him.

FAT COP: Stand you' ground, boy. (to Schmidt) C'mon, Smitty--this one's enuff. Nigra in the hand's worth two in the woodpile. Haw, haw, haw!

ANOTHER ANGLE

He grabs Johnson's arm and starts hustling him toward the door. Robert tries to pull loose.

JOHNSON: Hol' up, boss. Need my git-tar.

The fat cop shoves him hard, but Schmidt intercedes.

SCHMIDT: Forget it, Joe. I'll get the guitar.

He picks it up and actually starts strumming it awkwardly while the fat cop impels Johnson ahead of him and out the door.

EXTERIOR POOL HALL

The street is deserted--black people evidently anxious to avoid the Dallas police. The fat cop shoves Johnson toward the waiting paddy wagon.

JOHNSON: Quit pushin'. I'm goin', aint I?

FAT COP: Naw, boy, you ain't goin'--you smart-assin' me, and I don't cotton to it. You ain't from aroun' here, are ya.

JOHNSON (now Tomming blatantly): Lawd, no-suh, Miste' Charlie, suh. I'se jes' a po' country boy in this big ol' frien'ly city. Doin' some re-cordin, suh, tha's all.

The fat cop is busy snapping handcuffs on Robert, but Schmidt perks up, stopping his half-assed attempt at picking out a tune.

SCHMIDT: That right? You make records? What's your name?

ANGLE ON PADDY WAGON

The fat cop throws Johnson into the van as he tries to answer.

JOHNSON (loudly): Robert Johnson. I'm here with the 'Merican Record Corporation! An' they'll be lookin' for me!

Fat cop Joe grabs the guitar and tosses it in on Johnson.

FAT COP: Too bad they ain't gonna find you, boy. You drive, Smitty. (then over Schmidt's half-protest) Nope, Johnson here's a dangerous prisoner, so me an' Smoke's gonna ride inside and keep an eye on 'im.

Johnson is struggling to stand up inside the wagon as the fat cop un-leashes his Doberman, which leaps inside with a growl. Joe winks at Schmidt and climbs inside, pulling the door shut.

INTERIOR PADDY WAGON

Johnson and his guitar are huddled in the forward area, the dog crouched in front of him growling. Joe moves toward them as the van starts moving as well.

CLOSE ON FAT COP--P.O.V.

He closes in on Robert, cracking his knuckles.

FAT COP: So, you big-mouth, black-ass, uppity-nigra record star, too bad you resisted arrest.

Hellhound 7: Tell Everyone

DAY--EXTERIOR PARK SQUARE

Another area of Memphis, this near the border between black and white sections. Johnny, Robert, Booker, and two other black men are lingering in the sunshine--passing a bottle around, making tipsy remarks to the passersby, pushing each other in good fun, etc. All this casual activity is pantomimed because the soundtrack is playing Johnson's odd, upbeat, near-theme, "Dust My Broom." Johnson finally takes up his guitar to play something, and we jump cut ahead to:

ANGLE ON JOHNSON

Him playing that very song, the last couple of verses. During the lapsed time Booker has found a passing woman to dance with him; Johnny is handing his hat around to pull in cash from white passersby, but very few stop to listen or contribute. In the background, however, one smallish white man in a suit has paused with evident interest. Johnson ends with a fluorish.

FIRST BLACK MAN (as he receives Johnson's guitar): I guess you ain't lost you' touch.

JOHNSON: I keep tryin' to get right.

SECOND MAN: You pert' near bad's anybody I ever seed. You play wid Charley Patton 'fore he passed?

JOHNSON (bored response): Run wid him some down Clarksdale an' Belzona.

JOHNNY (plucks a dime from his hat): Lookee this. White man the soul o' gen-u-rosidy, ain't he.

The white man from the background has now come forward; he is a salesman type in a clip-on bow tie, his speech fussily proper.

WHITE MAN (to Johnson): You're pretty good with that, young man. Ever cut any discs?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson immediately assumes a "new" persona aimed at whites--sullen, silent, seeming not too bright. Johnny listens in silence but mounting interest.

JOHNSON: Whut?

WHITE MAN: I was wondering if you've ever made any 78 records.

JOHNSON (avoiding looking at him): Nossir, I jes' play.

WHITE MAN (a bit frustrated): Well, would you like to make some then?

Johnson just shrugs.

WHITE MAN (peevishly): Look, I'm not trying to sell you funeral insurance or something, for God's sake! My name is Vincent Tuttle. (pulls a card from his coat pocket) Here's my name and address. (pointing at card) I'm serious. I work for this company, the American Record Corporation. We've been cutting... er, race records for you people for almost 15 years--Bessie Smith, Leroy Carr, all the big ones record for us.

Johnson still hasn't looked at him, hasn't paid any attention to the card Tuttle has been offering, so Tuttle has also been talking to Johnny part of the time.

WHITE MAN: Don't you understand? I'm offering you a chance to become famous among your people!

JOHNSON (rousing at last): Uh-huh. What it gonn' cost me?

WHITE MAN: Why, nothing. ARC'll be recording over in Texas in a couple of weeks. We'll pay your way over, plus, say... (craftier now) five dollars a song. And if your session's any good, well...

Johnny is clearly excited about all this, and he nudges Robert into responding.

JOHNSON (shrugging again): I'll think on it.

He turns on his heel and walks away, retrieving his guitar from the man who has been chording on it. Tuttle, taken aback at first, then calls after him.

WHITE MAN: Hey, I don't even know your name! Who are you?

Robert pays no attention; Johnny answers instead.

JOHNNY: Name' Robert Johnson. An' he the bes' there is.

WHITE MAN: Is he as slow as he seems?

JOHNNY: Nossir, jes' cautious. I know he be int'rested.

Johnny plucks the card from Tuttle's hand.

JOHNNY: We be callin'.

After his retreating back, Tuttle calls out once more.

WHITE MAN: Tell him party blues always sell pretty good...

Then Tuttle glances around, sees the other faces watching him--black, brooding, unfriendly--and nervously scuttles off.

DAY--INTERIOR BARBER SHOP

Lucky himself is the only person visible this time, seated in his front barber chair, reading the city's black newspaper and keeping a weather eye on the street outside. From an open door at the rear of the shop come the outcries and spirited remarks of a noisy crap game in full swing. Suddenly the front door bangs open. Lucky jumps with a start, but it's only Robert and Johnny.

JOHNNY (gangster-films voice): All right, youse guys--dis is a raid.

Johnson laughs aloud, but Lucky waves his arm irritably.

LUCKY: Funny man. Why'n'chu go hustle a high-yaller gal or somepin'.

Now Johnny dances over, grabs up Lucky's broom, and charges around the shop furiously, sweeping all the real or imagined dust and hair, keeping up his patter all the while.

JOHNNY (self-importantly): We is conductin' im-portant bizness in this here ee-stablishment, so don' you gimme none o' you' nappy jive. (bowing, gesturing Robert into the vacant chair) Whatcha need, Mist' Johnson, suh--shoeshine, man-ee-cure, process, pick a li'l number? (points with broom to the noisy back room) Roll the bones? Letcha deal go down for Georgia Skin?

Finally he runs out of breath. Robert is chuckling and Lucky laughing so hard now he can't rise from the chair.

LUCKY: Ee-nuff! Lord, you gonn' make me dis'member my bizness...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Lucky gets up and goes over to rummage among the creams for hair and skin, emerging with an envelope.

LUCKY: Mist' Charlie here for you, Robert--li'l dude name' Turtle or somepin'--and' lef' dis.

Johnson seems surprised, but Johnny looks knowing as Robert takes the letter, examines it as though it might hold a snake inside, then tears the envelope open. He shakes out green cash and a note. Manwhile, the crap game at shop rear has yielded up a pale, freckled black with reddish hair, who shakes his head ruefully.

JOHNNY (keeping one eye on Robert): Hey, Red, how's the highroller?

RED: Shee-it. Cleaned me up one side an' down th' other. Seed so many snake-eyes, thought i 'uz gone whiskey-blin'.

LUCKY: Siddown, son, I give ya a li'l trim, on the house.

RED: Practice some other nigger, you ol' buzzard--I'm gonn' check up on Annie, see has she got any coins. Them johns o' hers are the poorest excuse for spenders I ever seed!

LUCKY: Run yo' mouf on out. God sho' don' like ugly!

CLOSE ON ROBERT AND JOHNNY

Johnny peering over Johnson's shoulder, waiting while Robert tries to sound out the note from "Turtle." But Johnson gives up and passes it to his friend.

JOHNSON: You the smart one, John. Read me. What's this money?

JOHNNY (reading and answering): Say here American Record Corporation want you to cut some de-mos--meanin' records I 'spect, over to Texas... San Antone, Robert, an' money's to pay you' ticket.

JOHNSON: The man don' give up, do he. Well, I ain't in'trested. Send it back to 'um--or mebbe we buy us a good time right here...

JOHNNY: Wait up. Is you crazy? Peckerwood gonn' pay you to get famous, an' you sayin Nossir?

JOHNSON: That's all bullshit. I study to this wid other musicianers Mist' Charlie done talk up, taken roun', an' stole offa. What I need wi' that? We be doin' all right.

CLOSE ON JOHNNY

He is very enthusiastic, working to convince Robert.

JOHNNY: Lookit now. Here's front money an' you be paid there too. All's you do is go t' Texas an' play. Where's the stealin' in that? Hell, you stealin' from them. You allus makin' music anyways--let 'em pay you for it. Peoples gonn' know you from Fannin Street to Chi-cago--Blin' Lemon have nothin' on you. (as though announcing) Robert Johnson, King o' the Blues.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Robert now thoughtful.

JOHNSON (catching on): You done this wi' that Turtle fella, ain' chu? (reaches up to touch his lucky neck-bag) Well, all right, you an' me go to San Antone--see all them see-noritas up close, mebbe fin' young John hisself a Mex'can mama.

Now Johnny seems embarrassed.

JOHNNY: Aww, Bob, I ain't goin'. They's callin' you. Sho' the chips most for one. I got people to see on down in Arkansas. You go on you'self.

WIDER ANGLE ON THE SHOP

Johnson gives another of his easy-going shrugs.

JOHNSON: You say it. I catch you up come Wes' Helena. (sudden idea) Yeah, an' I may bein' check out Betty Mae too...

He breaks into a grin and a finger-popping sway, singing some improvised workds:

JOHNSON: Be goin' to San Antonio, baby, but I ain' take you...

Lucky has been tidying up his shop through all this; now he opens the steam cabinet and...

DAY--EXTERIOR TRAIN

Steam billows from a braking engine at the San Antonio station. Johnson and another black man disembark from the "Colored Only" car; Robert wears a dusty suit and carries a paper valise and his worn guitar. He steps down into the confusion of a Mexican-American city--Spanish insults hurled about, few black people, no one meeting him. He wanders through the station and out into the afternoon heat; he looks about blankly with no real notion of where to go or what to do...

((More to come soon.))