Writing Us a Letter: Keith Relf's "I'm a Man";
The Moving Finger writes, and having writ, Moves on: Jimmy and Keith, live, 1968
The evolution of Bo Diddley's "I'm a Man" [Checker single no. 814, March 2, 1955]—from semi-satirical Chicago blues boast into signature London Mod rave-up number [Five Live Yardbirds, 1964], and thence into full-bore psychedelic apocalypse [live, 1967–68]—began innocuously enough with a small change in the third line of the pivotal third verse.
Bo's original verse (somehow "the Diddley version" doesn't sound quite right) begins:
Other players might have a mojo in their pocket, then, but Bo actually has the blood running in his veins of the magical guy the mojo is named after.
But when Keith sings it at the Marquee Club in March 1964 (on Friday the Thirteenth, natch), he's merely "gonna get me a mojo / That John the Conqueroo," so we're back down to the everyday again. Or would be if not for the extraordinary blood-rushing, soul-quenching guitar-harmonica rave-up that immediately follows. And I don't know exactly what thrones, dominions, or principalities Keith manages to invoke and awaken when he intones the letter A (as "A*Y*E") so resonantly and numinously in the last verse, but they pretty much leave Mr. Conqueroo and his entourage shuffling quizzically at the departures gate.
* = a transcendent vowel that either hasn't been invented yet or is so ancient and has been so utterly forgotten that it might as well be new.
About a year and a half later, in September 1965, we're back where we started (physically, anyway), at Chess Records in Chicago, where the Yardbirds record their studio version of the song. Now "gonna get me a mojo / That John the Conqueroo" has been replaced by:
"bring back a little girl /Just like you."
This is clever, because it allows Keith to roll out some manic rapid-fire consonance before the line break (bring-back-a-lit-tle-girl!) and then contrast it with a flatter, more nonchalant delectation after it, almost as if the Devil himself had been about to lick his lips but thought better of it at the last second. Then follows some sinuous (and insinuating) intertwining of Keith's harp and Jeff's guitar, before an accelerating (and exhilarating) ascent into warp speed as Jeff attacks his instrument ever more crudely and percussively in order to bring into being the apocalypse that must materialize in order to end the song.
From here we enter a new stage: the live performances during 1967–68, when the band toured as a 4-piece with Jimmy Page. New guitarist, new framework, as Jimmy slows things down before the final verse, bowing his guitar like a viola to elicit all manner of ghostly moans and eerie, keening bardo shrieks. Nestled within, a brief soliloquy from Keith, different every time, sung to a simple, lilting tune—also different every time—unrelated to the rest of the song.
These were almost certainly improvised, perhaps frequently with some, ahem, biochemical assistance, so we needn't take them too seriously as a creative opus in themselves. But as an attentive Yardbirds fan, I couldn't help but sweep them into my orbit.
Emphasis mine, of course. The lousy sound on the Shrine bootleg is a real shame,** since the words sound extra mysterious and tantalizingly close to intelligibility, and these final words of Keith's I'm a Man persona claim explicitly that he carries a vital message. It's worth noting what the guy who recorded the concert, who was there and may have heard those words, says in his liner notes:
** The tape recorder was hidden inside the dress of bootlegger's pregnant wife!
All very intriguing, but I think significant more in terms of atmosphere than any allusion to the specific "message" he's talking about. For that we have to go back to the beginning of the tour, New York, where, for the only time I'm aware of, Keith changes the words of the first and last verses completely.
Keith introduces the song as the "pièce de résistance." After an eye-opening harmonica–wah-wah pedal intro, he launches into something that lets us know we're a long way from that little boy at the age of five:
Then, after the soliloquy (quoted above), the final verse dispenses entirely with the 1950s "line I shoot/will never miss" patter in favour of a reprise of the "Goin' back down" verse, offering further reassurance to the faithful:
This floored me when I first heard it in 1984. I'd always considered Keith a sort of epochal figure, because of my initial deep visceral response to him, but now I realized he might have thought of himself that way, too. Or, perhaps more likely, he saw I'm a Man as a song he could take in the direction his long-term metaphysical bent and more recent experimentation with LSD were beckoning him.
Some context here: Messianic complexes were not uncommon among those who gobbled LSD without boundaries or supervision in the late 1960s: see Manson, Charles, and John "We're-bigger-than-Jesus-and-we're-lying-in-bed-for-world-peace" Lennon, not to mention Fleetwood Mac's Peter Green, who took to performing in flowing robes and flowing beard with dangling talismans before cracking up completely and taking a potshot with a rifle at someone trying to deliver him a royalty check.
The evolution of Bo Diddley's "I'm a Man" [Checker single no. 814, March 2, 1955]—from semi-satirical Chicago blues boast into signature London Mod rave-up number [Five Live Yardbirds, 1964], and thence into full-bore psychedelic apocalypse [live, 1967–68]—began innocuously enough with a small change in the third line of the pivotal third verse.
Bo's original verse (somehow "the Diddley version" doesn't sound quite right) begins:
I'm goin' back down
To Kansas to
Bring back the second cousin,
Little John the Conqueroo
Other players might have a mojo in their pocket, then, but Bo actually has the blood running in his veins of the magical guy the mojo is named after.
But when Keith sings it at the Marquee Club in March 1964 (on Friday the Thirteenth, natch), he's merely "gonna get me a mojo / That John the Conqueroo," so we're back down to the everyday again. Or would be if not for the extraordinary blood-rushing, soul-quenching guitar-harmonica rave-up that immediately follows. And I don't know exactly what thrones, dominions, or principalities Keith manages to invoke and awaken when he intones the letter A (as "A*Y*E") so resonantly and numinously in the last verse, but they pretty much leave Mr. Conqueroo and his entourage shuffling quizzically at the departures gate.
* = a transcendent vowel that either hasn't been invented yet or is so ancient and has been so utterly forgotten that it might as well be new.
About a year and a half later, in September 1965, we're back where we started (physically, anyway), at Chess Records in Chicago, where the Yardbirds record their studio version of the song. Now "gonna get me a mojo / That John the Conqueroo" has been replaced by:
"bring back a little girl /Just like you."
This is clever, because it allows Keith to roll out some manic rapid-fire consonance before the line break (bring-back-a-lit-tle-girl!) and then contrast it with a flatter, more nonchalant delectation after it, almost as if the Devil himself had been about to lick his lips but thought better of it at the last second. Then follows some sinuous (and insinuating) intertwining of Keith's harp and Jeff's guitar, before an accelerating (and exhilarating) ascent into warp speed as Jeff attacks his instrument ever more crudely and percussively in order to bring into being the apocalypse that must materialize in order to end the song.
From here we enter a new stage: the live performances during 1967–68, when the band toured as a 4-piece with Jimmy Page. New guitarist, new framework, as Jimmy slows things down before the final verse, bowing his guitar like a viola to elicit all manner of ghostly moans and eerie, keening bardo shrieks. Nestled within, a brief soliloquy from Keith, different every time, sung to a simple, lilting tune—also different every time—unrelated to the rest of the song.
These were almost certainly improvised, perhaps frequently with some, ahem, biochemical assistance, so we needn't take them too seriously as a creative opus in themselves. But as an attentive Yardbirds fan, I couldn't help but sweep them into my orbit.
I saw my whole world within a tiny yellow flower
saw the whole reason why/I'm here with you now.
Deep within the tiny slice of inspiration
that I took with me to eat
I realized its ruination: that I could always never be
all of Mankind.
It's got me moanin' and a-sobbin'
with all my heart . . . it's hurtin', etc etc.
Please make it better: Write me a letter.
Anderson Theatre, NYC, March 31, 1968
There was a day when the sun shone
but I was [looking into?] the moon . . .
[unintelligible] . . . that I held in my hand.
There's a message I must hand you now:
Read it well or else you'll fail
Shrine Auditorium, LA, June 1, 1968
Emphasis mine, of course. The lousy sound on the Shrine bootleg is a real shame,** since the words sound extra mysterious and tantalizingly close to intelligibility, and these final words of Keith's I'm a Man persona claim explicitly that he carries a vital message. It's worth noting what the guy who recorded the concert, who was there and may have heard those words, says in his liner notes:
Holding in the palm of his outstretched hand the skull, the philosopher’s stone, the image of Hamlet’s brooding self-reflection, Relf soliloquizes about the unknowable and unforgivable....So maybe it was a skull that Keith says he held in his hand, bringing to mind Yorick's in Act V of Hamlet. And that final, boldface couplet surely brings to mind (with help from Page's moaning guitar) the voice, if not the exact words, of the ghost who gets everything rolling in Act I—Hamlet's slain father.
** The tape recorder was hidden inside the dress of bootlegger's pregnant wife!
All very intriguing, but I think significant more in terms of atmosphere than any allusion to the specific "message" he's talking about. For that we have to go back to the beginning of the tour, New York, where, for the only time I'm aware of, Keith changes the words of the first and last verses completely.
Keith introduces the song as the "pièce de résistance." After an eye-opening harmonica–wah-wah pedal intro, he launches into something that lets us know we're a long way from that little boy at the age of five:
Men have faith! Don't be dismayed!
I'll prove to the Only One
That I'm a Man!
That's spelled M–A–N, Man
Then, after the soliloquy (quoted above), the final verse dispenses entirely with the 1950s "line I shoot/will never miss" patter in favour of a reprise of the "Goin' back down" verse, offering further reassurance to the faithful:
I'm goin' back down
deep inside!
Bring back someone,
whom I can hide!
I'm a Man, etc.
There follows a psychedelic guitar-harmonica rave-up finale guaranteed to tingle the spine of anyone not yet afflicted with complete spinelessness.This floored me when I first heard it in 1984. I'd always considered Keith a sort of epochal figure, because of my initial deep visceral response to him, but now I realized he might have thought of himself that way, too. Or, perhaps more likely, he saw I'm a Man as a song he could take in the direction his long-term metaphysical bent and more recent experimentation with LSD were beckoning him.
Some context here: Messianic complexes were not uncommon among those who gobbled LSD without boundaries or supervision in the late 1960s: see Manson, Charles, and John "We're-bigger-than-Jesus-and-we're-lying-in-bed-for-world-peace" Lennon, not to mention Fleetwood Mac's Peter Green, who took to performing in flowing robes and flowing beard with dangling talismans before cracking up completely and taking a potshot with a rifle at someone trying to deliver him a royalty check.
Guess which one is Peter Green
Keith appears to have been both dissipated and energized by his LSD indulgences but was never overwhelmed or reduced to Lennon-like solipsism. He remained creative and intact, in fact ended up founding not one but two new musical groups, with radically divergent names and agendas: the softer, folk-rock Renaissance and the harder, proto-metal Armageddon. That's why I always figured his I'm a Man was part Yeats-ian automatic-writing acid trip and part Blakean self-consciously imaginative, prophetic vision. The thrust of it seemed to me to be the Christos hypostasis (to get all Neoplatonic about it) proclaiming and celebrating his mortal aspect, to wit: "I've experienced myself as Godhead, and now I'm [also] a Man."
I think that's all that needs to be said at this point. How it fits in with the rest of March 1988 I'll leave for you, gentle reader, to sort out.
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