The Repeated Exhumations of Niccolo Paganini - The Violinist Who Allegedly Sold His Soul to the Devil

Originally published as "Burial of a Great Artist: Story of Paganini's Death Recalled by Recent Exhumation," Kellog's Wichita (KS) Record, Feb 8, 1896.

The late exhumation of Paganini's remains, near Parma, brings to memory all the other peregrinations they have gone through since they were first taken to the Nice cemetery in 1840—when Nice still belonged to Italy. Being refused there, however, because Paganini was not of Nice, the remains were taken to Marseilles, where they were also refused admittance. Not even Genoa, where Paganini was born would receive his body because an epidemic was then raging. A like refusal was received at Cannes.

Shall I tell you why it so hard to find a resting place for his bones? It was a common belief that Paganini had sold his soul to the devil, who would take it immediately after the poor man died! So, for five years, the body was left on the rocks of San Ferreol, where it might be still had not the duchess of Parma insisted on having it buried in the Villa Guime. In 1855, the coffin had to be changed, and in 1876 the body was again removed, this time to the cemetery of Parma. Then, however, all the people in Parma crowded the riverside, down which the body was carried by night, to the light of hundreds of torches. Baron Attilius Paganini, a grandson of the violinist, was also present. Once more, in 1893, the vault was opened, and the features of the great man were again seen. And now again the vault has been opened for repairs. A friend writes and says that the face is still perfectly preserved. The lower part of the body is mere bone; the face, however, is as perfect as ever, and has been photographed. Baron Achilles, Paganini's son (now an old man), has caused the body to be placed in another coffin, and this time a large piece of glass has been placed in the coffin. Thus any artist visiting Parma may now see the features of Paganini by asking Baron Achilles' permission. 

I am told that much of the music which bears Paganini's name was never written by him at all. His real compositions, however, are now going to be published, and they will be a surprise to artists on account of their mechanical difficulties, which will be a perfect test of ability to many of our modern violinists—great as they may be. He used to practice exercises by the hour together with a weight tied to his right arm. Then after this weight was removed his playing sounded as if it were a complete orchestra playing. There are some old people who still remember hearing him practice in this way. Whilst practicing he would also walk up and down the room, rarely looking at the music on the desk. From his youth he always had the preference for one bow. It never left him_ It was very long and was mended over and over again. It always lies on the chimney piece of the Green room in the Villa Gaione. It stands in a gold column, protected by a crystal shade, and on it is a paper telling what it is.

Aberdeen Journal and General Advertiser for the North of Scotland, Jun 17, 1893.

Piedmont Picking: Blues Not Doleful In Etta Baker's Hands

By BRUCE HENDERSON - The Charlotte Observer, December 27, 1988

"I dream music. I hear chords in my sleep." — Etta Baker 

"I say they (the blues) make me feel good. It's supposed to be based on somebody's sadness, but aren't you glad it's somebody else's and not yours?" - Etta Baker

They call the music she coaxes from her six-string acoustic guitar the Piedmont blues, but to Etta Baker it is the language of joy and remembrance. 

It sounds that way, too, as she lightly picks out the melody of "Dew Drops," the first tune she can remember her daddy playing more than 70 years ago in the Caldwell County foothills. 

"A-many mornings I've been awakened by my daddy's banjo, and the smell of ham cooking and apples frying," she said last week. "And it was impossible to lay in bed when I smelled all that good food, and my daddy playing. 

"It's just been a wonderful life, as far back as I can remember." 

Folklorists regard Baker, at 75, as one of the finest guitarists in the two-finger picking style that characterizes the Piedmont blues. On Jan. 18 in Raleigh, she and seven other masters of traditional arts will be honored as the first recipients of the N.C. Folk Heritage Award from the N.C. Arts Council, worth $2,000 apiece. 

After 23 years of work at a Morganton textile mill, she now performs at festivals nationwide, including JazzCharlotte. 

Baker has no formal music training, nor can she read music. But, she said from her small frame house under a spreading magnolia tree, "I dream music. I hear chords in my sleep." 

Born in the Johns River community of Caldwell County, where her father hunted and farmed for a living, she grew up near Richmond as the last of eight children. The family, which later returned to North Carolina, had black, Cherokee and Irish and musical — bloodlines. 

Boone Reid, her father, played banjo, fiddle, and guitar: her mother played harmonica and Jew's harp. Her brothers and sister also played the eclectic mix of traditional mountain tunes and popular music in their racially mixed community, at corn shuckings and house parties where music was sometimes made all night. 

"I've seen my daddy dance, and he was a tall man, but so light on his feet that you could barely hear him on the floor," she said. 

Before age 3, she was plucking out notes on a small guitar as it lay flat across her lap. It was during the family's time in Virginia that she first heard "the most sweetest music" — the blues. 

"I've had people ask me how the blues make me feel, and I say they make me feel good," she said. "It's supposed to be based on somebody's sadness, but aren't you glad it's somebody else's and not yours?" 

She's known now for her inventive performances and the delicate picking style she developed. 

"I make myself play every day about one hour and 45 minutes," she said. "If I make a sound that doesn't sound just right, I'll do it all over again. I just want to get to the point where I can tell myself, 'Etta, you can play.' 

"But I'm not there yet. I'm working on it, though." 

Baker was first recorded in 1956 for the influential album "Instrumental Music of the Southern Appalachians" and two years later left the mill for music. 

She sometimes plays with her sister, guitarist Cora Phillips, as they did during the 1982 World's Fair in Knoxville, Tenn. The pair won the N.C. Folklore Society's Brown-Hudson Award for contributions to folk arts that year. 

It was at the fair that she composed her lively "Knoxville Rag," the result of those chords that come to her in bed. 

Her nine children, of whom eight survive, continue the family's musical tradition on piano and guitar. Daughter Darlene often accompanies her on festival trips, she said, while Dorothy has a beautiful singing voice. Baker rarely sings. 

As she tends her garden and her zebra finches at home, the music of Boone Reid haunts her still. She got a banjo a year ago and a fiddle this month and is teaching herself to play them, too. 

"I lay. in bed sometimes," she said, "and think back to how Daddy made it sound." 

Junior Kimbrough's "Cotton-patch blues"

By JIM McGUINNESS Staff Writer

The Hackensack (New Jersey) Record, September 1, 1995.

Photo: Adam Smith

As I prepared for a phone interview with guitar great Junior Kimbrough, it dawned on me: What if the Mississippi bluesman was a bad — really bad — interview? 

There was a basis for such fear. Since the release of his critically acclaimed "All Night Long" debut album in 1992 —and his equally strong follow-up, last year's "Sad Days, Lonely Nights" — I couldn't recall seeing a single story in which Kimbrough was quoted at length. My trepidation intensified when a representative from his record company responded to my interview request with, "Oh, Junior. That guy's tough to get a hold of. You see, he doesn't have a phone."

Suddenly, I had a picture of poor Kimbrough risking injury by hanging from a telephone pole — "Green Acres"-style — to answer questions about his musical influences. 

Suffice to say, Kimbrough isn't exactly a quote machine. His short, barely intelligible replies only deepened the mystery surrounding the blues men of the Delta region. Robert Johnson himself — dead for 57 years —probably gives better interviews. 

Speaking in a Southern drawl thicker than Mississippi mud, Kimbrough grunted forth the essence of his music. 

"I just play my music," he said, speaking from a neighbor's home. "I just play for the people." 

Short, simple, and honest. 

Therein lies his charm. In a time when pop stars carry on as if their latest albums were the answer to world peace, Kimbrough is refreshing in his brevity. He's out of his element in an interview, preferring to let his music do the talking. 

His trance-inducing guitar style is dominated by eerily constructed riffs and raw, rocking rhythms. His original songs — one-chord droners —ring of the hard life. Farm worker. Moonshine runner. Tractor and bulldozer driver. Kimbrough has done what's needed to survive down along the Mississippi Delta. 

"I play that cotton-patch blues," said Kimbrough. "I was working in the cotton fields when I learned how to play." 

Kimbrough isn't a Delta blues man, per se. He lives in Chulahoma, a tiny town of 500 people in the northern Missisisippi hill country adjacent to the Delta. There he is a big man — the proprietor of a popular juke joint that bears his name. In the two-family house next door lives R.L. Burnside, a bona-fide blues man and Kimbrough's frequent partner in musical mayhem. A converted storehouse, Kimbrough's juke joint — which doesn't bother to have a sign —is the hot spot in Chulahoma. 

Photo: Adam Smith

"It's a place to play music, sell beer, dance, and have fun all night," Kimbrough said. "Sometimes we don't even close." Like Burnside, Kimbrough is affiliated with Fat Possum Records, an Oxford, Miss., label that specializes in recording gritty juke joint performers. At 58 or 65 (Kimbrough isn't very good with dates, so his age varies depending on the source), he seems unaffected by his apparent blues stardom at such a late juncture. 

"It surprised me," he said. "You never know." 

This much is known about Kimbrough. He was born in Hudsonville, Miss. At 8, following the lead of his three older brothers and one sister, he took up the guitar. He made his first record — "Tramp," backed with "You Can't Leave Me" — for the Philwood label in 1968. His only other recorded efforts were in the Seventies when he made "Keep Your Hands Off Her" backed with "I Feel Good Little Girl" for High Water and "All Night Long," a song that appeared on the Southland label's National Downhome Festival Series.

Kimbrough's big break came in 1992, when he was featured in "Deep Blues," a blues documentary put together by music journalist Robert Palmer. Shortly afterward, he recorded "All Night Long" for Fat Possum. Produced by Palmer and recorded at Kimbrough's juke joint, the album received glowing reviews in Rolling Stone (which called it the best Delta blues album in 40 years) and other music magazines. 

Kimbrough's belated recognition was nearly cut short late in 1992, when a stroke robbed him of some mobility in his left leg. But he's persevered, never thinking of himself as a star. 

"If my leg wasn't so bad, I'd like to work some," he said. "Maybe as a mechanic." 

Try to catch them at the World Financial Center. This kind doesn't come our way too often. 

(Jackson, MS) Clarion Ledger, Dec 12, 1982.

The Life and Death of Johnny Woods

The hard life of blues harmonica player Johnny Woods, 72, came to an end on February 1, 1990. He died of a heart attack in Olive Branch, Mississippi. Johnny Woods was born on November 1, 1917, in Looxahoma, Mississippi. His father was able to make a living by trading dogs, horses, and mule when he was not working in the cotton fields. 

In the liner notes to The Blues of Johnny Woods, on the Dutch label Swing-master, Woods recalled how he didn't even know there was such a thing as school until he was almost 13 years old. Woods was able to get more out of his farming job than the $20 he earned a month; he learned a lot about music from listening to work chants and hollers. Later, in his spare time, he would work out arrangements combining the shouts he heard with harmonica riffs. 

At 16 he married, and he and his wife had two children. His wife, in the middle of her third pregnancy, died from a stroke. 

As time went on, Woods be came an accomplished musician and a local favorite. In the '60s he recorded with Mississippi Fred McDowell, and in the '80s he traveled and recorded with R.L. Burnside, as well as many others. (Burnside was, perhaps, prouder of Woods' Swingmaster release than he was of his own album for that label.) 

In the liner notes on The Blues of Johnny Woods, he went on to say that one of the reasons his life had been so hard was due to the fact that he was never taught to read, write or count and had been unmercifully taken advantage of. In his late sixties, burdened with glaucoma and eye cataracts, Woods was trying to learn to spell his name and to read.

Shortly before his death, he and his second wife of 29 years, Verlina, had moved into government housing and were enjoying indoor plumbing for the first time in their lives. At the time of his death Woods was taking care of Verlina, who is totally blind and has not left her bed for more than ten years. He was to appear at the Eureka Blues Festival in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, this year, as well as at other local blues festivals. He also appeared regularly at the Rust College Blues and Gospel Festival. A local sculptor agreed to make a headstone for Woods.

By Matthew Johnson