Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. Looking back on my younger school days, I can remember the lame way we were taught about the first Thanksgiving like it was a wholesome party on top of Plymouth Rock. They ignored the fact that the Pilgrims had no business being there and the Native Americans would have been perfectly within their rights to shove a hot spear into thou’st rectums; but they didn’t.
My father thought I only liked the song because it had the word “bitch” in it. You can’t avoid it. The word is in the title. The song is “Ain’t That a Bitch” by Johnny Guitar Watson. I guess it was a sneaky way to get away with cursing while singing along, but that’s not why I listened. It was a logical conclusion for him to make given that I was a young white boy living in the comfortable suburbs of Charlotte, NC and the song was about a black man struggling to get by. He’s working forty hours, six long days. They are working poor folks to death and when he pays his rent and his car, he doesn’t have a damn thing left. How could I possible relate to that? But I did. Continue reading “Forgotten Blues”