Tracking Down the Lost Recording of Robert Johnson’s Mythical ‘Crossroads Blues’ On a moonlit summer night in 1936, guitarist Robert Johnson stepped foot onto dusty Mississippi crossroads making an alleged deal with the Devil – birthing the original "Crossroads Blues" recording that shaped modern music despite the mysterious original being lost forever...or was it? This podcast investigates legendary Delta bluesman Robert Johnson’s apocryphal song missing from history – yet rumored still haunting obscure archives and closely guarded private collections. Could vintage vinyl pressings or cylinder phonographs gathering dust in forgotten Southern estates hold the key to unlocking music’s most mystical missing grail nearly 100 years later? Follow the trail of cryptic clues various collectors left scattered attempting to rediscover Crossroads’ original forgotten recording session lost since that full moon midnight hour when Johnson traded away his soul for six-string genius. Born in 1911 in Hazlehurst, Mississippi, Robert Johnson overcame humble beginnings as an itinerant performer across juke joints and lumber camps throughout the oppressively segregated Deep South. While flaunting an unusually advanced guitar style from aggressive finger-picking to innovating bottleneck slides, Johnson attracted little success beyond regional following performing covers of more prominent blues stars during the volatile Depression-era 1930s. Yet the desolate midnight Mississippi crossroads marked Johnson’s metaphoric turning point from obscurity into immortal legend. Conflicting accounts claim sometime between 1933 and 1936, Johnson grew so frustrated with limited musical gifts under moonlight he surrendered soul to sinister supernatural forces in exchange for mastering the delta blues – thereby spawning the signature otherworldly guitar phrasings and vocal holler Johnson later pioneered on watershed records. This landmark intersection pact birthed the foundational source tune “Cross Road Blues” – aka “Crossroads” – etched into music history, just not recorded history. No original physical copy survived despite launching a thousand cover versions after the song passed into oral folklore. Modern blues forefather Robert Johnson thus remains known primarily through paltry surviving commercial studio works recorded during 1936-1937 traveling sessions in Texas and New Orleans. These seminal tracks saw small initial releases on niche race record labels aimed at black audiences. But mainstream pop culture failed to recognize Johnson's seismic talent until the blues revival exploded in 1960s Britain – over 20 years postmortem after the obscure musician met a suspected poisoning fate at age 27. Yet every rebellious British rocker from Eric Clapton to Keith Richards worshipped Robert Johnson for sparking the unearthly guitar solos and defiant showmanship embodying the crossover electric blues infecting chart-topping hits worldwide. Obsessive music detectives continue searching believing Robert Johnson achieved such extraordinary skills overnight solely due to infernal intervention over ordinary practice. And somewhere, perhaps gathering dust inside a lightless Mississippi Delta toolshed sinking in bootleg whisky funk or collecting mold within a Booneville estate attic ravaged by summer heat, lies the sole copy of “Crossroads” capturing that mythic midnight moment when Robert Johnson strummed his way past earthly limits. Secretive collectors remain convinced the acetate resides in private archives, mislabeled or unidentified, awaiting rediscovery – a holy vinyl grail consecrated by hoodoo halves forgotten alongside the Devil’s certified authenticity marking this musical portal to the beyond. The truth remains buried somewhere in the grooves. But inside perhaps waits proof pop culture’s most supernatural legend rang true, cut into wax as the first and only document of history’s most dangerous song: Crossroad Blues #1. The vinyl that feasibly sold Robert Johnson’s soul to spark unhuman guitar genius is still jealously guarded today under lock and key. Yet with each crusty farmhouse collection investigated, each rumor tracked down finding no faded labels denoting hellish goods exchanged, the recording's existence evades confirmation. And so the mystical hunt continues for this lone elusive album said to showcase blues reaching Satanic heights... music's greatest supernatural legend ever captured. Let the chase resume forewarning all encroaching ears: Beware the sounds from that fated midnight crossroads! Thanks for listening to Quiet Please. Remember to like and share wherever you get your podcasts.
