Another Man Done Gone
From the faint static of an old field recording, a rich female falsetto rings out like a sad horn: Another man done gone[1]. The slow, minor melody emerges simply; every tone is articulated with delicate grace. The last word of the phrase reaches out perilously over a full beat. As it extends, the long note shakes slightly with vibrato--as if it were quavering, as if the performer were on the edge of tears as she sang. Another man done gone. Now the phrase reaches high up the scale, piercing the territory of laughter, weeping, and angelic hymnody; now it slips down into the chest voice, stopping to keep company with moans, growls, and chain-gang chants. The pace quickens, and the rhythm swings. The song is a train picking up steam. Another man done gone / From the county farm... Now, as the train nears the end of the line, the melody again dips down and the meter is reined back to a methodic crawl. Another man done gone. This final phrase is the last twist of a descending spiral: the melody has returned to the key of the first line, but now it so deep that the words fade into the inaudible. The effect is chilling; the verse, which started as a slow, high wail, then quickened with swing, now disappears into despair.
I didn't know his name / I didn't know his name. The second verse: the same words are repeated four times. It is all the singer can do to stammer out the same phrase, again and again. She addresses an authority-- a prison guard? a plantation overseer?-- and pleads ignorance. The shake of vibrato is now a tremble of fear, for the performer is being interrogated. The high wail is defensive, repetitive insistence: I didn't know his name / I didn't know his name. But as the voice again drops to the mournful last line, we come to suspect that the man missing was, in fact, all too well known.
Each successive verse is composed of repeated phrases. Each is sung to the same arresting tune.
He had a long chain on (4)
He killed another man (4)
I don't know where he's gone (4)
I'm gonna walk your log (4)
On another recording of this song, by the same singer, the last verse contains a variation.
I'm gonna walk your log
I'm gonna walk your log
Down by the waterfall
I'm gonna walk your log[2]
The third line, like a waterfall, plateaus out, and then drops quickly. Indeed, each stanza is a waterfall, starting slowly, and then cascading down into the froth of melancholy.
This is Vera Hall's classic performance. It is the song that, for all of her obscurity, brought her a little closer to fame during her lifetime. Carl Sandburg, the celebrated 20th century poet, wrote of this very recording, "Terror and grief is in the air over a man escaped from the chain gang. He killed another man and his name must not be told. Here is one of the strikingly original creations of ***** singing art[3]."
The song, like every song of Hall's on record, was performed under circumstances that must have been strange for her (though they were surely familiar by the end of her life): she sat before a microphone and a portable record cutter, singing song after song for days while a researcher, a trained ethnomusicologist, took careful notes by her side. In this case, that researcher was John Lomax. He had traveled from Washington D.C. at the behest of Ruby Pickens Tartt, a local enthusiast of black culture, who had befriended Hall and many other local black musicians. On October 31, 1940, Tartt, Lomax, Lomax's wife Ruby Terril, and Hall all gathered at Tartt's ante-bellum home in downtown Livingston, Alabama[4]. They sat in Ms. Tartt's living room, looking out over the garden, each taking his part in this new tradition of microphone, note taker, singer, and folklorist. At the end of a long day in which both spirituals and game songs had been committed to record, Lomax thought to inquire if Hall knew any blues. Her response is documented in Lomax's journal.
"No, Sir, I believe not. My husband knows some. He picks a guitar and sings. He ain't home much, but maybe I can get him to come sing 'Another Man Done Gone.'"
"Don't you know it?"
"No, Sir. I ain't never sung it except to myself. But let's see if I can catch it up."
After a pause she straightened herself in her chair, and out came the haunting tones of what has become an Afro-American folk classic.
A black man has escaped from prison.
"Another man done gone (each line is sung four times)
From the county farm."
His pursuers close on his trail. They ask at a cabin door.
"I didn't know his name.
He had a long chain on.
He killed another man.
I don't know where he's gone.[5]"
In Folk Song U.S.A. John and Alan Lomax (father and son respectively) later wrote of "Another Man Done Gone",
Like every underprivileged ***** in the South, Vera Hall knew all about the county farm and the state pen. She had heard about them from people who were close to her. Although Vera Hall was a peaceloving cook and washerwoman and the pillar of the choir in her Baptist church, she knew about these things and she knew, as well, a song from the prison, a song about escape. Her song, "Another Man Done Gone," can be a blues or a work-song, but mostly it is enigmatic, full of silent spaces, speaking of the night and of a man slipping by in the night. You see his face, you know him, but at the same time you put him out of your mind, so that when the white man asks after him, you can say:
I didn't know his name,
I didn't know his name.
I don' know where he's gone,
I don' know where he's gone.[6]
Vera herself gave an explanation of the song's last, perplexing line: I'm gonna walk your log. "He was running away from the county farm," she told folklorist Harold Courlander, "and he told his woman to be sure to meet him. If she didn't meet him, he was gonna walk her log. That meant he was gonna kill her.[7]"
I asked Andrew Moore, Vera Hall's nephew, about the peculiar expression. His answer, admittedly speculative, traced the phrase's etymology back into the darkness of slavery. During slavery, Andrew suggested, the black quarters were set apart from the plantation, perhaps across a river. To reach them, one would have to walk a log which forded the river. Thus, to say, "I'm gonna walk your log" is a threat. It means, "I'm gonna track you down, and find you in your house."
Neither account completely elucidates the enigmatic phrase, but both suggestions illuminate the song's social context. The piece refers to a violent world, a world in which the singer is at odds with authority; the song may be about black life in the late 19th and 20th century-- about escaping from a county prison-- but it might as well be about the 17th and 18th century slavery-- about running from an overseer. As Eileen Southern notes, the one determined the music of the next.
2006-09-18 04:13:31
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answer #6
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answered by inquisitor 3
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