When they serendiptiously crossed paths onstage with Phil Lesh & Friends, JD Simo and Luther Dickinson's musical souls spoke to each other. They started jamming together leading them to cut Do The Romp at JD's home studio, combining their appreciation of hill country blues, spirituals, swamp rock, and Afrobeat in a modern grease and grime.
Dickinson has the North Mississippi Allstars and toured with the Black Crowes and John Hiatt, while JD Simo earned his stripes in the Don Kelley Band at Robert's Western World before forging an impressive solo career and working studio magic for Dave Cobb, Jack White, Beyoncé, Chris Isaak, and Baz Luhrmann's Elvis movie.
Individually, JD Simo and Luther Dickinson are building their own legacies as solo artists, sidemen, songwriters, and guitar heroes. Together, they're a creative force to be reckoned with, making their own version of amplified American roots music. On the pair's first collaborative album, Do The Rump, the musicians trade blistering guitar solos, take turns at the microphone, and turn their classic influences — including hill country blues, spirituals, swamp rock, and Afrobeat — into something contemporary, reinterpreting a number of their old-school favorites into eclectic, electrifying anthems.
The partnership began onstage, where Simo and Dickinson first shared the spotlight as touring members of Phil Lesh and Friends. Dickinson had already established himself as co-founder of the Grammy-winning duo North Mississippi Allstars, as well as a celebrated guitarist for acts like Black Crowes and John Hiatt. Similarly, JD Simo had built an audience not only with his solo project, but also as a session musician for Jack White, Beyoncé, Chris Isaak, and Baz Luhrmann's Elvis movie.
Cedric Burnside, the reigning lion of Mississippi hill country blues.
How a musical legacy is passed from generation to generation.
I’m fascinated by family traditions. Much of my family’s were lost in the transition from Poland to the U.S., and to a language barrier. Thus, the details of my grandmother's history as a village healer in her youth are lost. But for musical families, legacies are easier to trace and preserve, thanks to recordings and other documentation.
One of the best examples in American music is the Carter and Cash clan—four generations deep, with hundreds of records and filmed performances between them. The Allman/Trucks/Betts kin are another illustration that spills across generations. But the closest to my heart are the Burnsides, who, along with Junior Kimbrough and his sons, are guiding lights of North Mississippi hill country blues.
The patriarch was R.L. Burnside, who was born in 1926 and learned to play at the feet of his neighbor, Fred McDowell, who was the foundation of North Mississippi blues as most of us know it—although the style, with its intricate rhythmic bedrock, is really an offshoot of the straight-from-Africa sound of the fife-and-drum bands that are the precursor to rural acoustic and electric blues. My beloved friend and mentor R.L. died in 2005, but his sons, Duwayne and Garry, and his grandsons, Kent and Cedric, who collectively span two generations, carry on the family tradition. Cedric, in particular, who I met when he was a 14-year-old drummer supporting his “Big Daddy” on tour, has become a profoundly important part of his family’s musical legacy at age 44.
Quietly, without his grandfather knowing, Cedric was taking notes on the fabric of R.L.’s guitar style from his seat behind the drums. It was only on his deathbed that R.L. learned Cedric was preparing to step forward into history. “I had only really started playing guitar in 2002,” Cedric, who, along with Kinney Kimbrough, was already one of the two preeminent drummers in North Mississippi blues, recalls. “I was able to play for Big Daddy and show him a song I’d written, and—he couldn’t really talk clearly at the time—his eyes lit up, delighted. I could tell he was proud of me and he put his thumb up. He loved to throw that thumb up when he heard something he dug.”
Today, Cedric has been nominated for three traditional blues Grammys and took the prize for his 2021 album I Be Trying. He has also won a half-dozen Blues Music Awards and was awarded a 2021 National Heritage Fellowship by the National Endowment of the Arts, the federal government’s highest honor for folk and traditional arts.“I could tell he was proud of me and he put his thumb up. He loved to throw that thumb up when he heard something he dug.”
At a recent show at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium, supporting his new album Hill Country Love, the simplicity and complexity of Cedric’s music was laid bare. With his guitar and singing supported by only a drummer—in the deep juke joint tradition—his playing echoed his grandfather and McDowell, but was also a self-created style of swift, sharp, fingerpicked, hard-chiseled melodies that resonate like the music’s deepest bones. At times Cedric sounds like Ali Farka Touré, an artist he had never heard until his own approach was entirely developed. And Cedric’s lyrics deal with the struggle of being Black in an oppressive culture, of fighting up from poverty, of finding his own way in a tradition that goes back more than a half-century in his family’s history and to a place two continents away.
As any of Johnny Cash’s children, or Duane Betts or Devon Allman, might tell you, hefting that kind of legacy to new ground can be a heavy load. And yet, Burnside relates, “I just try to let it flow and do what my heart tells me to do, and if it works, great. If not, I regroup and try again. But I am grateful for how far the hill country sound has come, and grateful I’ve been able to help carry it. I’m about letting people know where I got it from, while paving my own way. As long as I can help keep it alive and well, I’m honored to be able to do that.”
Along those lines, Cedric says he’s got enough new original songs on his phone for three or four more albums. “So, I’m just going to do my own thing and put out as much music as I can before the good Lord calls me home, and show as much of this music to the younger generation around hill country—maybe even my own kids—so after I’m gone we can keep this going.”
R.L. would be very proud.
Our senior editor onstage with R.L. Burnside for the first time, at the original House of Blues in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
How meeting one of my guitar heroes changed my life.
This month’s Question & Obsession (“Have You Ever Met One of Your Guitar Heroes?”) gave me a Crank-like jolt of gratitude. Such encounters are one of the gifts of this music journalism gig, and it conjured a riptide of joyful memories. A few: traveling with Metallica in the Netherlands and Italy; gift shopping with Billy Gibbons; smoking weed with blues legend Robert Lockwood and counterculture legend John Sinclair along the banks of the Mississippi; interviewing Robert Fripp at his ancestral home in Cranborne, Dorset, and meeting his delightful mother, Edith; being introduced to Leo Fender by Les Paul; nearly getting tossed out of a hotel bar in Akron with Scorpions (we were hammered, disorderly, and on the first Monsters of Rock tour); many conversations with B.B. King; trading jokes with the wonderful Sonny Sharrock; instigating a jam with Danny Gatton and Billy Sheehan (after Billy and I were nearly ejected from Trader Vic’s in Chicago … alcohol again!); and trading bootleg tapes with Carlos Santana.
A few encounters with my heroes even changed my life, and none more profoundly than meeting R.L. Burnside at Junior Kimbrough’s rural juke joint in the hills outside of Holly Springs, Mississippi, in 1993. I’d been immersed in blues for about a decade when I saw Robert Mugge’s amazing documentary Deep Blues, which introduced R.L., Junior, and a host of other obscure artists, from Memphis to the Delta, to the mainstream. I had no idea such unvarnished music still existed in America, and I had to meet them. Plus, R.L. was the most intense rhythm guitarist I’d ever heard. So, through luck and another meeting—with the great musicologist and journalist Robert Palmer, an idol who instantly became a friend—I found myself at Junior’s Place on a Sunday afternoon, with Junior and his band shaking the shack’s floorboards while R.L. nursed a can of Busch and watched from a lawn chair across the room.
I was dumbstruck. I was in an off-the-path juke joint with plywood-patched walls, a toilet cracked in half from seat to floor, bare lightbulbs for illumination, the grape-Nehi smell of kudzu in the air, a bare fan from a cotton gin offering cool breeze and potentially serious injury, and a smattering of patrons day-drunk on moonshine—one doing a cartwheel by the pool table, another grooving in his overalls and shit-caked shoes, straight off the farm. For the first half-hour, my jaw was on the floor. I’d found Never Never Land.
By the time my mandible was reattached, R.L. traded seats with Junior and took over. When he played “Poor Black Mattie,” I had a vision. I saw a silvery-gray web appear in the air and it connected all the music I love. In that instant, I came to understand that the sounds R.L. and Junior controlled were the nexus of jazz, blues, primal rock, heavy metal, folk, funk, soul, African music, Pink Floyd, Captain Beefheart, improvised skronk, and all else that fed my soul. And at that moment, I resolved to do whatever I could to bring more attention to these keepers of the keys to the heart of music. I still keep that promise, decades past their deaths.
As luck had it, a few months after I returned to Boston, where I lived at the time, I paved the way for R.L. and Junior to make an extended stay at the original House of Blues in Cambridge. While they were there, I put myself at their service, and by the time they left we were fast friends. Especially R.L., who had a reservoir of joy and charisma that nourished everyone he met. It’s hard to convey how merely spending time with R.L.—hearing his stories and jokes, his insights and concerns, his tales of growing up in the Jim Crow South, learning his preferences—enriched my thinking about life and music. But they did, greatly.
And then there was the music—so ripe with everything. I have no idea why he decided I should try to play it—and I demurred, because I revered it and him. But the night he literally made me get my ass onstage alongside him for the first time, something happened. When we finished the concert, I stepped down and my knees buckled, almost dropping me to the floor. Instantly, I knew I had to absorb everything I could about North Mississippi hill country blues, so I delved into fingerpicking, open tunings, one-chord fantasias, and slide with total commitment.
That began yet another odyssey: 15 years touring the U.S. and Europe with my hill-country-inspired blues duo Scissormen. Which, of course, led to meeting more heroes, and many more stories.
