Where did you go when you left the school at the age of 16?

J.C. – I went to Nacodoches, Texas, and there was a house, a black church which had been converted to a house, and I moved into the back room of that, and I started playing on the streets, in pool halls, bus stations, and stuff, and from then on I just played anywhere I could, and didn’t have an apartment or car, and rode buses. I could work a day, what they call manpower, sweeping up at the fairgrounds, or even sell a pint of blood, if you were that hard up. For ten bucks you could buy a set of guitar strings, catch a bus ticket and make ten more dollars when you got somewhere. I did that every day, every day I was in a different place.

Was this a happy existence? In some respects, it’s a very insecure existence, isn’t it, not having a house, family, all those kinds of things?

J.C. – Well, it’s like for me it was freeing, and I was on the road, I had one foot out the door at all times, and I was real comfortable with that. As far as happiness goes, that was not really a primary concern to tell you the truth. I was in a lot of pain. I hurt every day, recovering from the accident. You know, I still have really bad headaches, but to go around and make the gig was a victory for me, and I just had to go.

Chris Whitley said that he’s been around you and other guys when you’re talking about voodoo, and for him its kind of a scary thing to see how much a part of your lives it is, part of that Southern culture.

J.C. – To say, “voodoo,” that conjures up images of Hollywood. You know, it’s like, for example, the crossroads. The crossroads is a place and it is a real place, but it’s not a specific place, on a specific highway, on a specific map. You can have the crossroads here: it’s a place of decision, it’s a place of change, of confrontation, it exists. There’s a nomadic tribe of people that erects a totem pole in their village and it represents the center of the world, but they’re nomadic, so the center of the world is moving the whole time, or are they chasing it, or taking it with them? You know all these questions come up. I have mojos that I carry with me. I have John the Conqueror roots and stuff.

You wrote in the sleeve notes that you wanted to play as close to the bone as possible. Has that been a kind of philosophy all the way through?

J.C. – Yeah, you have to be prepared to go to the point of death. I mean literally. When I started playing blues, I was literally at a point of death, and it was physically very hard for me, and there was a price to be paid physically. When I reached for a note, or when I was trying to play the music and do a thing, and you’re living that life, physically it hurts. But, you gotta push through that, you gotta go, and I’ve realized for me that to go to that place of full confrontation, you know, it’s like you’re almost going to a place where it’s instinctual. I’ve seen some of the shamans when they’re doing their thing, and their moving and chanting rhythmically, I don’t think that’s a place of abandon, but it also requires a physical commitment.

And my guitars are hard to play, on purpose. I use real big strings, there has to be a lot of resistance for me. It shakes your whole body. One of my low strings is bigger than my bass player’s small string! I learnt how to play on really cheap guitars, and when went for a note, man ow! It hurt! I just stayed with that style, I tried to use these fancy guitars, but I can’t play them. It’s just like there’s no feeling there.

With all the different styles of blues, what is your style of blues?

J.C. - Well, for me, blues is a song of life and I think one of the great powers of it is that it is different in the hands of everyone who plays it. It reflects their life experience. Everyone has a different way of walking and talking and I think everyone has a different way of expressing themselves. I think that I was a student - a disciple of the classic blues. When I started listening to the music of the great Son House, Fred McDowell, Elmore James, Robert Johnson, John Lee Hooker, men that created this great music, I realized that if I was going to attempt to do this that this was going to be a lifetime of work - It's not something that I would understand in a year, that I had to live. I think you have to ultimately develop to a point where you can sing your song from the heart honestly and then just do it the best you can and that's the way I've treated it over the years. I have no choice about it really, you know.

"Every time I go onstage, I have to confront my pain and my mortality and be willing to evoke that and invite people into it. I have to be prepared to lead. It's hard to describe but it's very much like a ceremonial ritual for me."

Being young, and not really fully understanding, but I think I came to realize the power of the music was music of life - it would look at a nightmare and a dream. It wasn't like a pop song that would just say, "I want to hold your hand," or something. This acknowledged both the dark and the light - the reality of life. That spoke to me. On a very fundamental level, it made me feel life, you know?

My earliest connections with music as a way to express myself came at a time when I was very aware of my own mortality and i was going through something that was very physically and emotionally difficult for me, and this music embraced something that I was able to hold on to.

You don't come across as an especially brooding person. Talking to you now, you sound fairly upbeat.

J.C. - No. I don't consider myself a negative person or anything like that. But for me to perform, to pick up the instrument and to tap into whatever source is inside of me, and to present that through music, it comes from a place inside of me that is deeply rooted in - how do I say? - issues that address very fundamental issues of life and death and mortality and the struggle of good and evil. This is where my music is rooted and so this is what I address with my music. It's a very intense and physical ritual with me. There's an element of resistence to it. I've remained playing an instrument that some people consider archaic. The guitars I play are acoustic guitars, 1934 Nationals - I didn't want to let go of this connection to what I am doing today. There's an element of struggle in there. It's not that I consciously brood in my life or look for negativity, but to me, the song is a victory, to come through something and acknowledge it and maybe fight it until it becomes a dance. That's kind of where I am rooted.

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