Tuck was troubled by
this thought: The Devil doesn’t visit us
all. And the next: What if I don’t
recognize him when he does? But he would. He knew it. There was a real
shifty looking dude at Aces Down last week. Haunted the table by the bar all
night long, but come set break — poof, gone, nothing. Tuck beat his foot
onstage, playing a blues for missed connections — blew out the door at 4 a.m.
and saw Shifty face down by a broken pay phone in the side parking lot, rolled
for his wallet and rings. A blues for missed connections. Tuck wasn’t a young
man anymore. No 20-year-old with potatoes in his ears, thumbing rides from dive
to dive. Those days were gone, and Tuck’s blues had never been sweeter, more
low-down, meaner. It was all in there: the miles, stages, 63 years of good
times and rotten. He’d played it out, seen it all, but this one last thing: to
call down the Devil himself with a bent string, dusty moan, the low ache of
love gone south. And Tuck had it in him. Sure as sun follows moon, he had it in
him. He pulled out his guitar at night, tucked it beneath his bed at dawn, got
down on his knees, and said a little prayer each day that he’d get his chance
to cut the Devil himself. Cut heads and get out clean. Take back the souls of
all the bluesmen who went before him: from Beale Street to the Delta jukes to
Chicago, Detroit, and all around the world. Take them all back to their Maker
where they belong. The Devil may not visit us all, thought Tuck, but soon
enough he’ll come for me. And when he does, I’ll be playing the blues.
This article appears in Dec 17-23, 2003.
