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‘A hard life of bad luck and trouble’ by David Menconi at April, 2017.
It’s been a while since Algia Mae Hinton was on a stage, but she’s still a dancer. That
hasn’t changed, even though she’s wheelchair-bound nowadays. “The reason I can’t
walk, I danced so much and told so many stories, I wore out my legs,” she says and
laughs. “But I’m gonna walk again, dance again. Ain’t giving up.” A recent Sunday
afternoon found the 87-year-old Hinton holding court in the living room of her modest
country house, decked out to entertain visitors. She wore black-velvet finery with jewelry
to accent bright red nails, her eyes hidden behind rock-star shades.
Hinton used to perform for festivals with crowds in the thousands – even once at
Carnegie Hall in New York City. Now as one of the last surviving Piedmont blues players
from the old days, she performs mostly for family and friends. But even without a guitar
in hand, she still draws a crowd of those near and dear to her. A steady stream of
relatives passed through – grown children, younger grandchildren, younger-still great-
grandchildren – to give a hug and a kiss and hear a story or a song.
Every adult man got the same treatment: Hinton looking at them askance and clucking in
mock-disapproval, “He got so many women.” It brought down the house every time.
Among the visitors was one of Hinton’s longtime music friends, Mike “Lightnin’ ” Wells,
who sat on her couch picking Piedmont blues on a guitar. Hinton swayed to the music,
doing a little soft-shoe dance in her wheelchair – a version of the thunderous, full-body
buck-dancing she used to do in her prime.
“Algia Mae,” Wells finally spoke up in mild exasperation, “you gonna sing or not? I’m
here playin’!” Hinton smiled, muttered about Wells’ “many women” and began to sing.
…I’m goin’ down this road feelin’ bad
Lost the best friend I ever had…
A lot of the songs Hinton sings are the traditional blues, folk and gospel tunes she
learned growing up on her family’s farm in the 1930s and ’40s. But this is one she wrote
herself, inspired by harsh real-life circumstances – the night in 1984 when her house
burned down. “Lost everything I had,” she said matter-of-factly, then paused. “Lost a lot
of things in this life.” In 1996, Wells produced an album for Hinton called “Honey Babe:
Blues, Folk Tunes and Gospel From North Carolina.”
The title track was the first song Hinton ever learned, and the serial number they gave
the album was 82929 – Hinton’s birth date of Aug. 29, 1929. Born to a farming family,
Hinton came along at the end of her parents’ 14 children. They had her out working in
the fields almost as soon as she could walk. “I have done some work in my day,” Hinton
said. “In the field picking cotton, cucumbers, tobacco. Housework and schoolwork, too.
Cutting wood for the woodstove, did that, too.” As she spoke, her son Williette Hinton sat
nearby. At 61 years old, he is the eldest of Algia Mae’s four children who are still living.
“The snow was this deep, and mama’d go out there in it to get wood to keep us warm,”
Williette said of his mother. “We were old enough to go out and do that, but she wouldn’t
let us. She felt like we might get sick, and she could handle it better than us. That
woman taught me how to work, that’s for sure.”
Algia Mae has always been been self-sufficient, and that’s fortunate because she had to
fend for herself as a single parent after her husband died more than 50 years ago. In her
telling, the circumstances of his death were more than a little sordid. “I got married in
1950 and my husband was killed in 1965,” she said. “Murdered. Got killed in New York,
over that rock dope. He died and he had so many women! I tell you what, I did ask the
Lord to forgive him. He come back here, I was gonna bust a cap in him. But I’m glad I
didn’t do it. “I don’t even know where he’s buried at,” Hinton added, with a shrug. “Never
married another man. One was enough. Married a family, that’s what I did.”
Hinton started learning music at age 9, primarily taught by her mother (an expert finger-
picking guitarist). She learned to dance, too, and that came from her father. Show-off
tricks like playing guitar behind her back while dancing, she figured out pretty much on
her own. By her teenage years, Hinton was an accomplished 12-string guitarist playing
Piedmont blues – an uptempo, clattery style of acoustic music with elements of
bluegrass and ragtime. The best-known first-wave women players of North Carolina
Piedmont blues were Elizabeth Cotten (author of the enduring genre classic “Freight
Train”) and guitar virtuoso Etta Baker, who have both been gone for more than a
decade. Hinton ranks behind Baker and Cotten, and she’s pretty much the last survivor
of the generation after theirs.
It’s actually hard to fathom how Hinton found the time or energy for music over the
years, given the mammoth amounts of labor involved in tending to seven kids. But she
never stopped playing, dancing, performing. “I played at camps, jailhouses, rest homes,
lotta places,” Hinton said. “In jail, people in there killed somebody. They’d tell me,
‘C’mere, you.’ No, uh uh!”
For most of Hinton’s first four decades, playing music was almost strictly for family and
friends. That changed in 1978. Glenn Hinson, a folklorist from UNC-Chapel Hill, was
putting together an album to accompany a museum exhibit about 19th-century African-
Americans in North Carolina, and he’d heard about a hotshot female guitarist in the
vicinity of Zebulon.
Asking around took him to Hinton’s front door, but she was deeply suspicious of a white
stranger coming around to ask about her guitar-playing. Complicating things further,
she’d just been playing at a house party where someone had been stabbed. “She was
sure I was the law, there to get her in trouble,” Hinson said. “As I learned later, when she
saw me through the door, she ripped the strings off her guitar. Then she showed it to
me: ‘See, no strings. I clearly haven’t played in a long while.’ ” Eventually, he earned
Hinton’s trust by mailing her a new set of guitar strings. After recording her for the
museum project, Hinson helped get her booked into festivals.
On the festival circuit, Hinton’s dazzling guitar, irrepressible spirit and wry kitchen-table
wisdom (“When You Kill The Chicken Save Me The Head” is just one of the culinary
songs in her repertoire) made her an instant hit. For good measure, she was a killer
dancer as she played tunes like the old Rev. Gary Davis number “Buck Dance.” While
music would never amount to a full-time career, it earned Hinton acclaim and honors
including a North Carolina Folk Heritage Award. In 1983, the noted folklorist Alan Lomax
came to North Carolina and filmed Hinton, Durham bluesman John Dee Holeman and
friends on a porch, playing and doing “Flat-Foot” tap-dancing. A year later, in 1984,
Hinton played Carnegie Hall in New York City. It was the gig of a lifetime, but the good
feelings would be short-lived.
“Literally the night she returned from that, her house burned down,” Hinson said. “The
night before, she’d been sleeping in New York City. Then we brought her back, dropped
her off at home, it was a cold night and the wood heater caught the front room on fire. It
just went up, and she had nothing. That’s very much been her life, a very hard one in
every dimension – occupational, family, you name it. She’s had a hard life of ‘bad luck
and trouble,’ as she’d say.” Back in Hinton’s living room, Wells was still playing and she
was still singing. Occasionally, she’d tap out a beat on an old drumhead bearing
autographs of some of the many people she’s played with – fiddler Joe Thompson,
folklorist Mike Seeger and former Carolina Chocolate Drop Dom Flemons.
Thompson and Seeger are both gone now. So is most of the rest of Hinton’s musical
generation, whose numbers are dwindling. “Algia Mae,” Wells said between songs, “you
and John Dee are about the last two old original Piedmont blues players still out there.”
Seemingly lost in thought, Hinton didn’t answer. She has survived not just musical peers
but all 13 of her siblings, and even three of her seven children.
One of the hardest losses was Hinton’s youngest daughter, Elgia Mae Hinton, who died
of heart troubles in 2008 at age 46. “There aren’t but a handful like Algia Mae left,” said
Tim Duffy of Music Maker Relief Foundation, which gives financial support to elderly
blues players in need (including Hinton). “But what a life she’s had. Billionaires haven’t
had a life as rich as hers. She’s funny. Kind of a genius, even. At first, she might seem
like this kind of obtuse old lady. But she’s got a very sharp wit, and she’s one of the
funniest songwriters. ‘Cook cornbread for your husband and biscuits for your outside
man’ – who comes up with poetry like that?”
Nobody except Hinton. But she seems at least as proud of her family as her music. “I
raised my kids up, salt and pepper and switch,” she said. “I bet you whip yours, too.
Right? You’ve got to. If you don’t, there’ll be trouble.” At that moment, she realized that
her son Williette was grinning broadly as he listened. She paused, gave him a stare and
a dramatic shake of the head. “He got,” she pronounced solemnly, “so many women.”
==
One of Hinton’s career highlights came in 1984, a gig at New York City’s fabled
Carnegie Hall. But as soon as she returned from New York, Hinton’s house burned
down after her wood heater caught on fire. She lost everything. “That’s very much been
her life, a very hard one in every dimension,” said Glenn Hinson, a UNC-Chapel Hill
folklorist, in 2017. “Occupational, family, you name it. She’s had a hard life of ‘bad luck
and trouble,’ as she’d say.”
In recent years, Hinton’s health declined, and she no longer could perform. Even
confined to a wheelchair, however, she’d still perform a little soft-shoe dance for visitors
while singing sly songs like “Cook Cornbread For Your Husband (And Biscuits For Your
Outside Man).”
==
Algia Mae Hinton, Middlesex, North Carolina (2015). Photo by Tim Duffy.
“I can’t be still myself!”: a tribute to
Algia Mae Hinton by Nic Gareiss
(Michigan State University).
Get it Mae, get it, the partygoers urge Hinton as she trades off role of guitarist, rhythm
keeper, and dance partner. In other clips, men showcase their rhythmic acrobatics on a
wooden plank and make raunchy moonshine-laden toasts in rhyme. Hinton and fellow
musician John Dee Holeman buckdance – a syncopated dance style from which tap and
Appalachian clogging descend – and at one point Hinton drops to all fours, chest
skyward, and does what can only be described as a breakdancing move.
Algia At 87. Photo by Juli Leonard
The first time I watched these videos I was astonished by her palpable coolness, steady
and graceful as a thumb on the bass string of a Piedmont Blues guitar tune.
Does wanting to preserve the Piedmont Blues suggest a sentimental nostalgia, or is
there something still worth celebrating and revitalizing? If the Piedmont Blues evoke an
era of hard labor, racial violence, and generational poverty, why would we even mourn
its passage? What of the Blues should we gladly lay to rest, and what of it should we
insist on remembering?
As I leave Hinton's house, she exhorts me to find Lightnin’ and ask him for stories and
songs. “Lightnin’ know how to tear it up,” she laughs fondly.
When I arrive at his house, Lightnin’ is learning a tune on his nylon-stringed banjo from a
1920's recording. That’s how he makes his living: by reinvigorating and performing old
songs at festivals and in schools. Lightnin' is in his 60's, with curly grey hair, a soul
patch, and a habit of wearing colorful button-up t-shirts. He lives alone and is in what he
calls an “awkward” transition between being a talented revivalist and an official elder. It’s
a liminal stage that describes many roots musicians who came of age and learned from
the masters in the 1960’s and 70’s. When Hinton passes, Lightnin' will be one of the
closest sources to the mythical roots of the Piedmont Blues, an interpreter who we call
upon to remember what good times and violent histories formed the blues.
“How would you describe Algie Mae's music?” I ask, hoping Lightnin' will explain the
genre's technical particularities. But just as with Hinton, a discussion about the music
quickly becomes a discussion about the people who made it.
He begins to reminisce: “[The Hintons] made me part of their family. “I've hung around
Algia so much that the kids now have grown to think of me as an uncle or something,”
he said. “That's probably more important to me than the music. I'm not like, 'Hey, I
learned this from Algia'; I don't take their music out and exploit it that way. It's just—it's a
part of my heart.”
The more I talk to Lightnin' and read from archival interviews with Hinton, the more I
wonder whether Hinton's evasion of my questions, her insistence on talking about
Lightnin' rather than her own accomplishments, is not simply a reflection of an aging
brain's failure to remember, but rather, the way that the Blues is embedded in and
subordinate to human connection. For Hinton and Lightnin', a Blues devoid of friends
with whom to play and dance isn't worth talking about. It might not even be worth
preserving.
“What's happening to the Blues?” I ask Lightnin'. “Is it going to leave us?” Lightnin'
gazes at his shelves of old LP's and the tobacco fields beyond his living room.
“I think it is; I mean it'll be there, but in different forms. And in a lot of ways that's a good
thing. You look at the old hardcore blues guys—There's one that lived 20 miles from me
but what a sad sight to see! He lived as a tenant farmer in a shack, drank cheap wine
and died in his 40's. That made 'real blues' but do we need the conditions that made real
blues anymore?”
Lightnin' exhales as if in resigned prayer. “No, we don't.” Lightnin' welcomes the notion
of Blues as an art form in constant evolution. And despite our desire to view Hinton as a
symbol of the old ways, her Blues was also in a regular cycle of reinvention. After our
interviews, I learned that contrary to the popular story, Hinton didn't actually compose
“Goin’ Down this Road” in response to the fire after all. It turns out that she had already
been singing a version of it for years, drawing inspiration from the melodies of white
country music and domestic woman's blues alike. She added new verses as life
delivered new hardships.
I'm goin' down this road, feelin' bad; If I don’t get you baby, I don’t want nobody else.
I'm goin' down this road, I'm feelin' bad; Ain't got my house, it's burnin' down on me.
It seems appropriate that like the Piedmont Blues itself, Hinton's best-known song defies
our attempts to chronologize the genre. It is full of contradictions: jubilant and
heartbreaking, traditional and original. It is born of relationships that flow from and wind
back into themselves like some traceless tributary. When I listen to it now, when I
wonder what of this region's incredible music will survive, I think of the bonds of intimacy
that undergirded Hinton’s music and have kept Lightnin' a part of her family for almost
forty years. Blues as a relational art, as an evocation not just of hardship but of the love
that helps people to endure it: that, to me, seems worth preserving.
==