Some call it instinctive, innate or even spiritual. No matter how you label the concept, it’s the ability of a musician to hush a chattering crowd in mid-conversation, to leave an audience with their mouth agape, to convey a passionate and entirely sincere version of the truth.
John Mooney describes it as hitting “the note.” There are as many names for the idea as there are musicians, but it’s the mysterious, nebulous talent of an artists—in this case, a blues man—to play the single note that leaves the listener mesmerized, enthrall and, ultimately, a believer, convinced that the experience exudes from a source far deeper than the face value. It’s not the actual note, of course, but what’s behind it—the years of conflict, elation, hardship, sweat, joy, and disappointments that go into productions that note. It’s what all genuine bluesmen strive to attain. It’s certainly what drives many of them to continue playing the music, regardless of commercial success or the lack thereof.
Among other things, it’s what singer, songwriter and slide guitarist John Mooney has searched for throughout his career. Mooney experienced “the note” early on when he was leaning from, and later playing with, blues legend Son House in the late ’70’s. House who was introduced to Mooney by fellow Rochester, NY., blues man Joe Beard, was a contemporary of no lesser a deity that Robert Johnson and is often mentioned in the same hushed, reverential tones accorded the King of the Delta Blues. The elder statesman taught Mooney more than fingering techniques; House possessed the sacred ability to play “the note.” That musical gift led Mooney on his own personal and professional quest for the past 25 years.
It has not been an easy trek. Mooney almost abandoned the guitar—and his career—a few years ago, when, because of downturns in his private life, he didn’t pick up the instrument for a year. It was an unusual step for a man so ingrained with the blues, but it was a necessary and career-defining move. “Playing music is such a personal emotional experience that in order to cleanse myself I had to stop, because when I performed, it would remind me of why I wrote something,” he said. “You kind of relive what you were going through, I had to put the guitar down so I could get rid of those things,” But when he resumed, it was with a clarity intensity he hadn’t felt in years. “Having not played for a year, when I started again, the good stuff was still there, and the crap had left. Sometimes you get too many ideas in your head. When I sit down and try to write songs, nine out of ten are crap. So I’ve learned to let the songs come to me. When one springs itself upon me I’m ready for it, but I don’t sit around and try to write every day. I don’t know where they come from, but they just pop out of my head. i just have to ready to catch them.”
Gone To Hell—Mooney’s ninth, most recent and arguably best release—returns him to Blind Pig, the label that issued his debut Comin’ Your Way back in 1979. Recorded in three days (actually, three-quarters of it was done in one night) and mixed in an additional three, the recording process, like Mooney’s succinct style, was direct, uncluttered and utterly unpretentious. “Typically I record with a live vocal. The way I play guitar and sing—with the two going on together—it never sounds the same if you put the vocal on afterwards.” It also helps that the album was cut with Mooney’s longtime touring band, who needed no coaching in the artist’s tricky time signatures. Old crony Dr. John added guest piano on four tracks.
From House’s raw, unaccompanied acoustic ruminations through the more rhythmic but no less intense New Orleans style that Mooney learned at the feet—or rather, the hands—of another blues master, Professor Longhair, Hell bumps, grinds, and shimmers with the emotional intensity of a musician who plays directly from his soul to yours. Certainly the combination of two somewhat disparate approaches (Delta and New Orleans) gives Mooney a distinct sound. But more importantly, it’s how he tackles this music that transcends simple technique and edges him closer to attaining the concept of “the note.” The slow, bubbling quality of his music, aided by a full-time percussionist in addition to a traditional trap-kit drummer, adds a decidedly dark—some might say voodoo-ish—edge to the sound. “The way I play is very percussive,” Mooney said. “It goes back to the fife bands from Mississippi. It’s a groove I’m used to hearing. Instead of being a straight dance band, we’re opening it up to different rhythms and an atonal style. I’m actually trying to play less guitar and let the percussion do much of the work to give it a sparse feel.”
Mooney is aiming for the less-is-more philosophy that has propelled the best blues from its earliest and least commercial roots. The singer/
guitarist, who plays festivals and halls sometimes as a solo act and sometimes with his stripped-down band, understands and religiously abides by that philosophy. “You have to understand when to sing and play—and when not to,” he said with the same laconic conviction that infuses his work. “Son House was a master of that. You’ve always heard people talk about the one note that could make people cry. Son could do that night after night. It’s and incredible thing to experience. I’ve seen musicians who say, ‘Everybody get ready, because I’m going to play that note.’ But its’ not that easy. With Son, his whole life would be focused and apparent when he played that one note. He was able to make the audience feel this incredible emotion when he did that.” What struck Mooney most was how effortless it appeared. “It would just happen. That’s the epitome of it all, to be able to play one note and open everything up.”
Has Mooney gotten there yet? With typical modesty he replies, “No. Nowhere close.”
Although “the note” is the ultimate goal, Mooney understands there are obstacles in the way. “Son was born with it. It’s not something you can learn or teach somebody. It comes from within. The fact was that he was both a preacher and a musician, and the way he was able to talk to people and get people to listen to him was because he was so open emotionally.”
Mooney also credits Beard with steering his life’s direction nearly as much as House. “Granted, Son was an immense influence on me, but Joe also has been, both in guitar technique and life in general. I used to hang out and play music with him every day. He taught me an incredible amount of stuff, as he has done for many people. He’s a great musician and an amazingly gracious human being.”
The young Mooney grew up with music in his family tree. “My grandfather on my mother’s side played banjo and mandolin. He and his brother had a duo and did a radio show in the 20’s and 30’s, so he was way into music. As a matter of fact, I got all of his old 78’s [from] Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli to big band and Bob Wills. Because he played, it made my parents more open to what I was doing as a kid.”
Even though he started when he was 10, Mooney’s parents had the usual reservations about the boy performing music for a living. “By the time I was 18, the fact that my grandfather had been a musician made them more supportive than some other parents might have been.”
Deciding so early in life to play a style of music that wasn’t likely to make him rich is an example of Mooney’s philosophy of why blues men—authentic blues man like House and Longhair, as well, as himself—followed their instincts into this calling. “Blues is a lot closer to people’s hearts. The big questions in people’s lives revolve around spirituality, because it’s on of the most elusive things. It’s something you can’t explain to someone who doesn’t know. You can’t make a believer out of a skeptic until the skeptic experiences it for himself. I feel like my whole life evolved from that, since I was 1 year old. It’s been a lifelong quest, and I’m still trying to figure it out. Some people tend to search for it more than others, but ostensible, by the end of your life, you will attain what you are supposed to while you were here. Musicians, and artists in general, are a little more tapped in and spend more time searching for answers.”
Unfortunately, that quest often takes dangerous, even life-threatening turns. Mooney, who only a few years ago recovered from a potentially deadly substance-abuse problem, has been persistent enough to reverse his fortunes, while still playing the passion and ferocity of someone who has, as his album title frankly states, Gone To Hell. “A couple of years ago I went through a big upheaval. I got a divorce and moved my family [from New Orleans] to Florida. You can literally be in your own hell—that’s really what it felt like.”
That he’s shaken hands with the devil, and is now emerging from the flame—both philosophically and physically, as evidenced on the up lifting yet eerie cover photo on Gone To Hell—is a testament to Mooney’s dogged fighting spirit. It’s a trait that can be heard in his lighting-fast but always soulful slide playing. His brush with death adds a precarious edge to Mooney’s music. It lurks directly under the surface, but it’s unmistakably present in his gravelly voice and gut-wrenching fret runs. Though he’s more contented in his life than ever before, his past lingers throughout the new album in song titles like “Grab a Hold” (“You never can forget that life you left behind/Tried hard so long, suddenly it’s gone, all you want to do is cry”) and the title track. “I’m happy now, but I know where I’ve come from, which is as serious turmoil as you can get and still stay alive. A lot of people go there and don’t come back. I feel more positive about things, I’ve straighten out issues within myself, so in terms of my writing, I feel a lot clearer. I keep that in mind and stay cognizant of where I’ve been, what I’ve come through and use that to help me keep focused in the direction I feel I should be going, both spiritually and in life in general.”
Regardless of the form of expression, Mooney remains intent on following the lead of Son House and other mentors in the way he communicates his inner feelings through his art. “Instead of expressing yourself intellectually it’s expressing yourself emotionally, which is much more difficult. In music, the words themselves can be practically meaningless, but it’s the sound that goes with them that draws feeling out of people. Part of my impetus to play music is to make people feel what I feel. I used to oil paint and draw, and everything I did had substantial emotional content. Whether the art is visual or musical, it’s representative of what’s inside of me.”
John Mooney’s dedicated search for self is now instilled with hope instead of despair. Finding “the note” may elude him, but continuing the quest is a challenge for which he’s finally prepared.
John Mooney
