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Please donate to MS, money yes, but also time, understanding and kindness. Take a bike ride in the MS-150. Go to their website and make a pledge, let's not forget those that brought the world joy.
Robert Lockwood Jr., The Legend, Blues, Jazz, Music, Concerts,
Official Robert Johnson Site | Robert Johnson
Blues 
My friend and I produced several benefits for MS and Children's Hospital. Before his passing he asked if we could put on one more Blues event, regrettably I told him I didn't have it in me. In his memory I offer this page.
ANTHONY RANKIN | Free Music, Tour Dates, Photos, Videos
Death of a Blues Man
The wind raged mercilessly up the street
into the ramshackle yard of the last house on Cross Street. Snow drifted high
in the unused driveway. Loose shutters banged relentlessly against the chipped
paint on the siding as icicles tugged at sagging gutters. Tilted display tables
held the corpses of long dead bonsai trees. At the front porch a lone wolf-like
hound laid with its nose pressed tightly to the crack at the bottom of the
door. He whimpered a lustful whine, one of desire. The snow pressed in,
settling on the hound’s back. Out in the moonlit yard, three more hounds
circled. They studied the windows, searching for a point of entry. They moved
swiftly, deliberately, silently, as if on a hunt for wild game. The wind lifted
tufts of fur along their backs. Their breath froze then quickly mixed with the
blowing snow. The house sat void of light save the swaying street light on
Cross Street.
Three figures moved silently up the
driveway, two men and a woman. In a gloveless hand each man gripped a guitar
case. None of the three wore winter coats. The men sported vintage suits while
the lady wore only a simple dress, held tightly about her legs lest it blow in
the wind. The snow crunched beneath their feet as they stepped up onto the
porch. The hound by the door snarled as it turned toward the trio. A battered
guitar case slammed into the hound’s side, forcing a yelp and a quick retreat
into the yard.
"Damned hell hounds! Robert, chase
them things away!"
"Yes, Ma’am. I'll be right quick about
it."
"Why don't you start with something
soothing, Daddy?"
"Estella, I can't say no to you, Baby."
Easing his instrument case open, the
Gentleman lifted his acoustic guitar and began tuning it. The bitter wind had
little effect on his bare hands. Estella leaned back on the porch rail as if it
was a warm summer evening. Her man turned his back to her, his instrument
emitting unearthly notes. He played like no other. Some folks had said he sold
his soul. That was a foolish notion born of jealousy. His hands moved up and
down the scales with perfect precision, producing mystical notes as Estella
began to sing.
Kneeling, Robert gently removed his guitar
from its case. He quickly tuned then tried to follow the master. Robert hit
every note using a twelve string while the older man filled in notes with his
voice. Estella wailed in harmony to the Delta blues duo.
"Mercy, it feels like Turkey Scratch
all over, don't it, Mr. Johnson?"
"It truly does, Estella, it truly
does."
"Should I knock on his door, Momma?"
"No honey, we don't rush things. The
time will come. Just play like you never played befo'. Play the Devil Blues, I
like that one."
While the wind dusted the men's suit coats
and Estella's hair, the music played on. Inside everything was dark and still.
The door from the porch led into a kitchen with dirty dishes stacked high in
the sink. Ash trays overflowed onto the counter and piles of unopened mail
blanketed the table. Opening the mail had become too much of a burden for the
lone tenant of the home. Black plastic bags duct taped over all the windows did
little to hold out the cold but effectively dimmed the light of the moon. A
seldom used walker rested next to the door. In the back bedroom lay the shadow
of a man. His nicotine stained fingers folded together beneath his cheek. On the
floor by the bed a collage of twelve fading photos, one for each year of
school, illustrated the morphing of a son into a man. Yellowed T-shirts heavy
with the residue of cigarette smoke smothered the dresser top, fund raiser
items unsold. On the wall above the bed a poster from a Blues Benefit held for
Children’s Hospital graced an otherwise bare wall.
“This house ain’t never seen a woman’s
touch. No sweet woman’s fuss. Lord have mercy on my boy. Lord hitch him a ride
to Jericho, hitch him a ride to Jericho.” The voice and sweet sound of guitar
seeped in from the porch.
“Lordy, Robert, look at them Hell Hounds a circling,
out there in the yard.”
“Momma, this must have been a special one.
They want him bad. They hunt the good guys.”
“That’s why we’re here, Boy. That’s why
we’re here.”
“Look’it him, Momma, look! He’s walkin’!”
Robert and his Momma looked through the
wall into the house, down the hall toward the bedroom. Light surrounded the
vision. The best of the man, freed from his crippled body, was gracefully
heading toward the front door and the porch. He grinned, stopped, and looked
down on his sturdy legs. He had not felt such power in years. There in his
living room he stepped lightly, childishly trying to skip. He laughed. These
were his legs, of that he was sure now. He had never been able to skip. Even as
a child, long before MS had ravaged his strength, he hadn’t managed to skip.
Pausing, he stopped to straighten a nicotine stained plaque on the wall “In
Appreciation to the Pioneers in Light Water Breeder Technology” a hundred
signatures scrawled across the bottom. A grin sprouted on his face. His years
in the Nuclear Industry seemed so trivial now.
“I’m free,” he whispered. “No Hell Hound can
catch me now.”
He hastened to the door, willing it open
against the blast of cold and snow. He lifted his face upward, enjoying the
fresh crispness of the winter storm. The guitar strains grew more intense, more
melodic. In the yard the Hell Hounds snarled but did not approach. They pawed
at the snow, their eyes glowed hell-fire red. It would not be their night. The
Cross Roads had been reached.
“Son, you look East and you look West. This
is the Cross Roads, Boy. Come with us; no distress.” Robert held out his hand,
grasping Spin’s in a warm greeting.
“Grab your Blues Hat, Son. Let’s head on up
the road,” Estella suggested.
Spin donned his hat as Estella and her boys
packed their guitars. The Hell Hounds were nowhere to be seen as the four of
them stepped off the porch. The wind stilled as a mist of snow lightly settled
to sparkle like diamonds under the street light. The only sound was the crunch
of snow beneath their feet.
“Come on, Son, we’ll take you home.”
Estella looped her arm through Spin’s as they set off along the road the trio had
traversed a short time ago.
Erin
Burkett & The Mean Reds | Free Music, Tour Dates, 
My friend was able to secure Mr. Robert Lockwood Jr. the key to the city for his participation in our event.
Never lose the blues.
Support your local blues band.
Sep 20, 2009 · Jill West and Blues Attack at the 2nd Annual Western PA Blues Society Picnic - Sept 20, '09 …
www.youtube.com/watch?v=2o8kcdA3Ki8Chizmo Charles - Lyrics, albums, songs, artists and more music ...
Comfibook: Keep in touch with Andrea Pearl - track down the ...
Norman Nardini Official Homepage - Blues Pittsburgh PA
Welcome to Jake's Blues ~Jake Banta
Send no contributions or money to this site go directly to your favorite charity to donate, any purchase from the groups handle directly through their site. We make absolutely no money at this page. We offer only a memory of our events. These local bands all gave their support to our first "Blues for Estella" benefit at Nick's Fat City in 1999. Support them now. Thank you for your support.Children's Hospital
(story of the Brave Knight)
"The Brave Knight, the beginning
A bell dings as the elevator doors open onto the fourth floor neuro section of Children's Hospital. It's a deja vu moment, recurring every day for the past four sleepless months. Greeting me with a huge smile is ten year old Sammy, balancing on the drive wheels of his wheelchair, front wheels lifted high off the ground. That smile has greeted me every day without fail. Sadly, there's never been a day when I have seen any visitors for him. Spina bifida has robbed him of the use of his legs yet his spirit carries him effortlessly through the halls. Everyone on the floor tries to fill the void of family.
"Sammy! How are you doing?"
"Great, Jim, I been harassing the nurses and Doctors. It scares them when I pop wheelies."
"You better be careful."
"You sound like a Doctor."
Sammy smacks the wall button, opening the double doors to the neurological wing. The seemingly endless hallway teems with nurses darting from room to room, carting their medical supplies. Sammy races out in front of me. He's at the far end of the hall before I've gone a quarter of the way. He executes a three-sixty spin tilted up on one wheel stopping at the nurse’s station. It is said that the neurological unit has the worst cases in the hospital, something I won't argue. Nurses rarely last five years before burn out defeats them. Drawn faces of parents smile briefly as I pass patient's rooms.
In the months since we arrived I've seen it all and then some; broken children, broken parents and worst of all broken spirits. For myself I have lost my faith, regained my faith, lost my sanity, regained a different sort of sanity and basically found acceptance in the struggle. The heart break of other parents eventually taught me to count my blessings for here every day seems to conjure up a heart break worse than any seen before. Medicinal odors permeate the hall; I blame that for my nausea. Sammy races back toward me without regard for the nurses crossing the hall. He zips past, near miss after near miss, ignoring their complaints. Before he reaches me he does a one-eighty, setting his trajectory back toward the nurse’s station.
Half way down the hall is the playroom. Its glass wall lets me view the healthier children engaging in building lego houses, reading books, driving toy cars on the arms of the furniture and basically running off into fantasies that this place can't squash. Sitting off in a corner by himself, I see my son. He is sitting in front of a huge toy castle clutching toy soldiers that he maneuvers about. His head is cocked to the side to compensate for a visual malady caused by the tumor surgery. His head, devoid of hair, tells the tale of the trauma of chemo and surgery. My eyes trace the large scar running from the base of his neck to the top of his skull, it appears as a zipper. Stopping to enjoy the vision of my son playing, I gather my thoughts and strength, while he is lost in his make believe world.
"Hey Charlie, what are you doing?"
Surprised, he struggles to turn his body toward me, and then stands unsteadily. His arms reach for me. These days are long for me but I can't imagine how long they are for a little boy waiting for someone to visit. A single day seems to last forever in a child’s world. We hug tightly. His little body trembles from nerve damage; his breathing is raspy from the trache. Oh how I wish I could trade places with him. He settles back down at his castle, looking up at me with his crooked little grin. He places a finger over the opening of the trache to allow himself to speak. Reaching out with his other hand he presents me with a knight.
"This is the 'Brave Knight', he's not afraid. He does good deeds where ever he goes." He pulls his finger from the trache, taking a labored breath.
"The Brave Knight? Aren't all the knights brave?" My eyes well.
"No, just this one, he's a special knight. The others just pretend to be brave." His finger is back on the trache.
"How do you know this?" I ask.
"There are 'Brave Knights' in this place. I feel them."
"Did someone tell you this?"
"No. I just know things."
Sitting there with him, I watch as he manipulates his toy knights about. His fingers are raw from the pricks made to draw blood samples. Under the skin of his neck I see the bulge of the shunt that allows brain fluid to drain into his abdomen. Never once have I heard him complain or cry. Kneeling there I am in awe of this five year old man, my son, who is the bravest knight of all. He’s not a pretender. I feel ashamed of my own petty fears. This young man is teaching me about courage. While I know that his days are numbered, I also know that our future days in the castle in the sky are limitless.
Remember to donate to Children's Hospital, Cancer and Ronald McDonald House Charities.
Based on a true event.
Havasupai
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