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 8: Texas Shuffle

((Continuing from Part 7; Johnson has just arrived in San Antonio by train.))

Song begins on soundtrack, Johnson's sprightly novelty number called "They're Red Hot." This plays throughout the following montage of scenes:

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET

Johnson walks along, eyeing the Mexicans and the stucco buildings a bit uncomfortably; he is sort of a fish out of water. He crosses over the San Antonio River.

EXTERIOR ANOTHER STREET

Now he is clearly in the Mexican part of town--all signs are in Spanish, and he is lost. He tries to ask directions from a woman with two children, but they flee from him.

EXTERIOR STREET CORNER

Johnson in a by-gestures, halting-English conversation with a young Mexican woman selling tamales on a street corner. She is beautiful, and he is vaguely interested--but both are hampered by their inability to comprehend each other. After a great deal of waving and puzzled listening and repeating and laughter, she finally points in a certain direction and he ambles off, turning to wave goodbye to her.

EXTERIOR DELAPIDATED GROCERY

Johnson, still carrying his valise and guitar, approaches this structure a bit warily; no one is in sight. Then the door opens, and two black men come out, looking Johnson over as they pass. He breaks into a relieved smile and stops them to ask for information.

EXTERIOR FLOPHOUSE

This grubby building, Johnson's San Antonio ghetto accommodations, stands near a decent gas station/garage--which Robert eyes curiously as he passes, heading for the flophouse door.

NIGHT--INTERIOR ROOM

Johnson alone in his grim, cramped quarters; he looks around, sighs deeply, and starts plunking on his guitar.

DAY--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

Finally he is standing in bright daylight in a nice hotel room, with a microphone and cable before him, playing the last few bars of "They're Red Hot" on camera. When he finishes, he turns to look where the mic cable stretches under a door into an adjoining room.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The door opens and Ben Dawson comes bustling in--a youngish, fast-talking white man in rolled-up shirt-sleeves, distant, officious, yet friendly too.

DAWSON: That's enough of that one--what is it, anyway?

JOHNSON: Some Mex gal I seen sellin' 'em.

Into the room now comes Harry the recording engineer, small, balding, and bitter. He is intent on examining the cable on across the floor and up to the mic. Walking backward, he bumps into Johnson.

HARRY: Watch it.

Dawson continues to pace about nervously; he pulls Johnson over toward the window, away from the equipment.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Dawson chatters on.

DAWSON: Okay. Got any more? You need a drink or something? I mean, we got some good stuff on the cylinders, Johnson, that "Kind-Hearted Gal" number, for example. But no real grabbers, know what I mean? We need a winner, something that'll make your people sit up and take notice. A nice sexy number maybe--what about that?

Johnson shrugs non-commitally.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Harry has been examining the gear. Now he yells at Johnson.

HARRY: Hey, you, whatever-your-name-is! I told you to keep your mitts off the mike. (to Dawson) Look at this, Ben--your boy tipped it down again. I knew I was getting a muddy sound.

JOHNSON: I ain' touch it.

HARRY (sarcastic): You tryin' to tell me it slipped down all by itself?

JOHNSON (heating up): I ain' tellin' you nothin'.

DAWSON: Forget it, Harry. (checks his watch) Look, I got to leave anyway. (to Robert) Tell ya what, you go home, take a coupla days, come back with a grabber, right? We'll wrap this up tight. (starts past him, then stops) How you fixed for money?

Robert slips the guitar and strap up over his head and off.

JOHNSON: Use some, I reckon.

Dawson digs out a ten dollar bill and stuff's it into Johnson's shirt pocket.

DAWSON (sounding paternalistic): Make it last, Robert. What with advancing you train fare and all, the company can't afford to pay you much for the session, of course.

Then he bustles on out. Johnson shifts the bill to his pants, looks rather gloomily at the plush furnishings of this room that isn't his, and follows on out too. As he passes the mic, engineer Harry glares at him. Johnson carefully ignores the look.

DAY--EXTERIOR GAS STATION

This is the black-owned garage next to Johnson's flophouse. Robert is stretched out in afternoon shade, leaning against the building, hat tipped down over his eyes, small whiskey bottle in his hand. Near him, in the garage area, the mechanic and his silent helper are in heated discussion with the black owner of a hood-raised Hudson. Two small boys are hanging around too.

OWNER: Got-dam it, I'm tellin' you I can't have this vee-hicle breakin' down every time I drive out the g'rage. Don't you lazy-ass niggers knew you' job? "He'p out the race," say Rosa--"take it t' Harris's." So I do, an' what I get? Nothin'--that's what I get.

MECHANIC: Aww, shut up you' mouf, Washin'ton. I'se tellin' you--we's gone over dis hunk o' trash from you' fancy crow-mi-um hood doodad to you' tail-draggin' muffler. Ain' nothin' wrong wid it--'cep'im maybe de driver.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He tilts his hat back and sits up enough to take a swallow and watch the fireworks.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The boys have crept in to peer inside the hood; one of them leans against the fender, and the owner jumps forward to shoo him off.

OWNER: Look out now! You gonn' scratch 'er paint. (rubs fender with his handkerchief) Lookahere, Harris. You go over her starter?

MECHANIC (dignified): 'Course I is.

OWNER: Check th' oil filter an' her car-byoo-rator?

MECHANIC: Yas, yas.

OWNER: What about the gasoline, uh... (waving his arms inarticulately) uh, connects?

MECHANIC (exasperated): Say whut? Look, Mist' Biggety Wardheel Washin'ton, I knows auto-mo-biles. Dis-yeah shiny, nigge'-rich Hudson o' yours ain't worth a shithouse!

OWNER (comic-angry): Now you done it. (slams the hood down) Insults my car. I tell you somethin' ...

The rest of his tirade is lost in the opening chords of another song, as:

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He smiles cheerfully and toasts the noisy arguers...

DAY--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

And we are back in the makeshift recording studio as Johnson begins his serio-comic, double-entendre "Terraplane Blues." This time he is seated in front of the microphone.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON--PAN

A great slow circular pan around Robert's head and upper torso as he curls over slightly to play and sing:

Well, I feel so lonesome, you hear me when I moan (repeat)
Who's been drivin' my Terraplane for you since I been gone.
Can't flash you' lights, mama, you' horn won't even blow (repeat)
Sho' must be a disconnection way down below.
I'm gonn' hist you' hood, mama, I'm boun' t' check you' oil (repeat)
Got a woman I'm lovin', way down in Arkansaw...

Intercut with this slow continuing move are a series of inserts of a station mechanic at work:

ECU IGNITION

As hand inserts key and turns.

ECU SPARKPLUGS

To make them seem looming and phallic.

CLOSE ON HEADLIGHTS

As hands rub knobbed headlights.

ECU DIPSTICK

As it is pulled part-way out and reinserted.

ECU OILCAP AREA

As oilcan spout is inserted dripping oil.

CLOSE ON REAR FENDER

As hands rub nicely rounded rear fender.

These inserts must be comically sexy without becoming offensive. The sequence ends on Johnson again as he finishes the song.

ANGLE ON DOOR

Unseen in the next room, Dawson lets out a whoop of pure pleasure and comes bursting through the door.

DAWSON: Beautiful! Perfect! That's the one we needed!

He claps Johnson on the shoulder in his enthusiasm, practically dancing around the room.

DAWSON: A Terraplane--brother, who'd have guessed... Yessir, that's the tune that'll make Robert Johnson a name to reckon with. (stops to point) You are gonna be a star if you don't watch out. I guaran-tee that'll go five, maybe ten thousand in the market.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Now he becomes more serious, while still pacing. Johnson watches him with suppressed amusement, guitar across his knees.

DAMSON: Listen, Robert, we're gonna need to keep in touch. If "Terraplane" sells like it should, we'll want you back come summer to cut some more tunes. (stops again) So where are you gonna be?

Robert finally busts out laughing; takes him a moment to straighten his demeanor to immobility again, then he ticks the locales off on his fingers.

JOHNSON (put-on serious): Well, now, le's see... Shre'port... Rosedale, I 'spect... Yazoo... Mebbe Rob'sonville... Wes' Helena... (shrugs) Take you' pick.

Dawson is momentarily non-plussed, actually speechless.

DAWSON: Hmmm...

Robert stands to stetch his tired shoulders.

JOHNSON: Nemmine that--I check wid Mist' Turtle nex' spring.

Dawson claps his hands together officiously.

DAWSON: Right, good, that does it. Now we can...

ANGLE ON DOOR

Before he can finish that sentence, Harry the engineer strolls into the room, looking vindictive.

HARRY: Hold it, boss. You're gonna want another take on that last damn thing. (indicating Johnson with his thumb) Jimbo here's voice got lost in his guitar.

And he stares challengingly at Johnson, who carefully ignores him again.

DAWSON: Oh great. Just the news I needed. Well, let's try it again, Robert. This time, keep your mouth closer to the mic, okay?

Dawson seats Johnson and positions his head near the microphone, then he and Harry retreat to the adjoining room. Johnson watches them go, then chuckles and shakes his head in bemused amazement.

JOHNSON: White folks... phew-wee!