By Chris Salewicz
Robert Johnson was once, in line with Eric Clapton, "the most crucial blues singer that ever lived." An itinerant road musician, with a weak point for whisky and ladies, his is a lifetime of natural legend-the guy who offered his soul for the satan, and thereby invented sleek track. necessary little is understood approximately his 27 years, or the situations of his dying, or even the location of his grave is contested. during this mini-biography, acclaimed tune critic Chris Salewicz investigates the reality at the back of the parable, evoking an incisive profile of an enigmatic determine who, with simply 29 songs, replaced well known song for ever.
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Additional resources for 27: Robert Johnson (The 27 Club, Book 7)
Mongolia,” I said. ” Even as I said it out loud, I could hardly believe it myself. Mongolia? “Here,” he said, offering me a piece of paper with a name and e-mail address written on it. “An American college friend of mine is working there right now. ” Dumbfounded because things like this just don’t happen, and especially not in the anonymity of airports, I thanked him. What else could I do? Before I had a chance to come up with a reasonable response, like asking the man why he’d sought me out, he dashed off to catch his next flight.
I tried to prepare for all of this. In a single backpack, sturdy hiking boots joined a single pair of high heels, mascara and eye shadow were lumped together with heavy-duty sunscreen, and a sealed Ziploc bag contained both diarrhea medication and a bottle of perfume. For my internship at the TV station, I packed one notebook and one pen. Finally and for good measure, I tucked Cat—my worn-out and shabby thirty-year-old stuffed animal—into the mix. I was about to fling myself thousands of miles from the nearest designer juice bar or Starbucks, a time zone or so way away from a reliable salad.
After all, he’d spent at least double the time trying to locate my destination. In fact, he’d probably spent three times as long as he should have spent to help me find my apartment. But at this point, he’d grabbed my arm and begun to twist. As a woman, I happen to have a stubborn policy of refusing to negotiate with men who use their physical strength to negotiate with me. ” he repeated, twisting ever harder. Suddenly, I realized what he was demanding. During my long delay when flying into Ulaanbaatar, I’d made use of my time learning the basics of the Mongolian language.