The Sunflower River flows serpentine-fashion through Clarksdale, Mississippi. In the same curvaceous manner it runs north and south out of the city among surrounding fields — planted mostly in cotton. I talked for an hour by the water with the subject of our street-portrait before making this image. I cannot remember his regular name or stage pseudonym; perhaps for that reason he appears in my imagination clothed in mythical garments. Let us provisionally call him Son Seth, because he professed a fondness for the setting of the Sun.

Behind a storefront (at an open-mike event) I watched Son Seth play and sing delta blues. He lacked musical aptitude. He tried bravely to compensate with raw, soulful emotion. His twelve-minute appearance drew vague responses from the sparse crowd; the patrons concentrated for the most part on the food and beverages served to them. Their applause was merciful but weak, with no power to heal or encourage anyone. A mediocre musician — even worse as a singer — Son was not destined to receive accolades or repose in show-business glory. Nevertheless he told stories masterfully; in plain language his yarns without exception caused me to imagine cinematic scenes. It was obvious he had lubricated himself socially prior to arriving downtown. His tongue thus loosened by alcohol, Son Seth told me a little about himself.

Son dressed sharp — hence I figured him for a womanizer. I was right: he married five women, each of whom ran off, so had five divorces. In telling about his other conquests as a swordsman, he likened himself to Wilt Chamberlain. Naturally, I was skeptical when I heard this comparison. Mr. Chamberlain — a foot taller than our blues man — never married; he used his freedom, fame and fortune to arrange sex acts with a different woman for each day of his mature life. He suffered insomnia, therefore in the middle of most nights he required a second female distinct from the first, for an average one-and-one half carnal sessions per diem — at a minimum. His exact total is disputed; however 20,000 unique, lifetime sexual encounters looks within reason for the national basketball legend, who performed as formidably in bed as he did on the courts.

No reliable estimate of lovers exists for Son Seth, pictured here in winter on the sidewalk outside Martha’s Kitchen. When I asked Son how he accounted for his resilient energy, the answer came straightaway: “Whisky, Pussy, and the Lord Jesus.”

Something obligatory is missing here and casts a shadow upon our story. That is: we have not discussed Son Seth’s incarceration in the state penitentiary. He served a lengthy stretch for manslaughter; he claims chain-gang scars on his ankles to prove it. He killed a man with a knife in a street-fight. The premise for the ruckus might  come from the script of any tele-novella: he battled over a woman’s love —or her abilities to sexually satisfy — it is not always clear which carries the most weight in these murderous circumstances.

As the mythological framework requires, he taught himself to play guitar through long, sorrowful and drunken nights alone. Son Seth had no tutors and in that sense gave birth to his own persona. He sang in church choir, picked cotton, worked a sawmill, drove truck and sired more than two dozen children, the majority not legitimized.

Son Seth engaged in brazen name-dropping. A list of the stars — and also barely-known musicians — he claimed to have befriended, played alongside, or watched perform, runs long. Evidently none of the performers believed in using the names given them at birth; instead they improvised:

Mississippi Bo,

Fuzz Jones,

Lonnie the Cat,

Furry,

Hacksaw,

Hound Dog,

Honeyboy,

Magic Sam,

Pinetop Perkins,

Gatemouth,

Guitar Slim,

T-Model (who played in the key of “T”),

Last but hardly least:

Rubber Legs.