The Blues Musician's Duet
"Bessie still plays the chitlin' circuit at sixty. When a jazz producer wants to record her, she discovers some blues need singing together."
Blues is truth set to music.
Forty years playing juke joints and festival stages, my voice carrying what words can't say. I'm Bessie—sixty, Mississippi delta blues woman, still picking and singing.
"I want to record you."
The man catches me after a festival set. Marcus Webb—jazz producer, New Orleans label, looking at me like he's heard something real.
"I don't do studios."
"Then I'll bring the studio to you." He hands me a card. "Your voice needs preservation, Miss Bessie. The world needs to hear it."
He's serious.
Mobile recording equipment arrives at my shotgun house. Marcus stays, learning my rhythms.
"Why you really doing this?" I ask.
"Because blues built everything else." He sets up a microphone. "And you're the real thing. Not imitation—essence."
Recording happens between living.
Songs on my porch, in my kitchen, wherever the spirit moves.
"This feels different," I admit.
"That's because you're not performing." He adjusts levels. "You're just being. That's what I want."
Being becomes sharing.
Stories between takes, dinner after sessions, his presence becoming expected.
"You eat like a field hand," I tease.
"You cook like a grandmother." He laughs. "I've been living on restaurant food for thirty years. This is healing."
"Stay for breakfast then."
His eyes meet mine. "Breakfast means staying the night."
"I know what it means."
The first night is gentle.
His mouth learning my blues the way his ears learned my music.
"You taste like honey," he murmurs.
"You taste like hope." I pull him closer. "I forgot what that was like."
He undresses me slowly.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"I'm road-worn—"
"You're authentic." His hands trace my curves. "Let me hear your body too."
His worship is musical.
Finding rhythms, building toward crescendo. When his tongue plays me, I sing notes no microphone catches.
"Marcus—"
"Don't stop." He smiles. "Your voice is heavenly."
When he enters me, we're duetting.
"So good," he groans.
"More. This song needs a proper ending."
"This song never ends."
Afterward, in my old iron bed, he plans.
"Tour with me."
"I'm too old for tours—"
"Intimate venues. Your style. Your terms." He pulls me closer. "The album releases next spring. Let me show the world what I found."
"And us?"
"Us is the best track I've ever produced." He kisses my forehead. "Marry me, Bessie. Let me be your duet partner for life."
The album wins a Grammy.
Traditional Blues—Bessie Webb (I took his name) with production by Marcus Webb.
"To the woman whose voice changed my life," he toasts at the ceremony.
"To the man who heard it," I counter.
The wedding is on my porch.
Where we recorded, where we fell in love, where the blues live.
We kiss while the guitar plays on.
Some musicians perform solo.
Some find harmonies.
And some blues women discover that the best songs are duets with someone who hears your truth.
Note for note.
Truth for truth.
Forever singing.