In Memoriam: David "Honeyboy" Edwards

One benefit of making it to 96 years of age is you don’t have to wonder how your obituary will read. David “Honeyboy” Edwards lived long enough to see his story told in reverential terms in documentaries, reviews, and in countless onstage introductions by Tim Tuten, the verbose owner/emcee of the Hideout, the cozy music club whose stage Mr. Edwards frequented over the last decade and a half. This historicity that hovered around the man known as the Last of the Delta Bluesmen makes writing a proper obituary seem redundant. As his 1997 autobiography The World Don’t Owe Me Nothing, the press he received following his 2008 Grammy win, and the 2002 documentary Honeyboy, all repeated: Edwards was born in Mississippi in 1915, rode the rails picking guitar in the '20s, worked Memphis joints in the '30s, was recorded by Alan Lomax in the '40s, and cut sides for Chess Records in Chicago in the '50s. That biography gave him the kind of authenticity and aura that could have made him a legend even if he were an average talent, a by-the-numbers journeyman in a genre that cultivated by-the–numbers journeymen.

But Honeyboy Edwards was an extraordinary musician; although his guitar playing hinted at the dexterity of a shredder, at his best Edwards calmly bent notes, played around with unusual timing, and held chords in ways that made audiences simultaneously feel a soothing sense of ease and an eerie tinge of strangeness. He combined his rural roots with decades of big-city polish, sublimely demonstrating the cultural magic of the Great Migration in a very personal way. Even in his last years Edwards was never reduced to being a relic or a living archetype; he was always a distinct, important artist.

Edwards’s local revival in the 1990s was special. With his credentials, he could have put all his energy towards Chicago’s tourist-blues circuit, playing to audiences burdened by preconceptions and narrow interests. Edwards wasn’t above playing “Sweet Home Chicago” (he played it in D.C. at an Obama inauguration party), but deciding to play open-ended residencies with the Hideout’s de facto house band Devil in the Woodpile meant he wasn’t required to play that chestnut every time he took the stage. By hooking up with that band and the open-minded audiences at the Hideout, Edwards was able to play his magnificent music in an intimate atmosphere where fans and musicians could feel like everyone in the room was a friend and fellow traveler. Though this chapter in his career was far from the most historic, it was certainly a fun one, and just as he did with his guitar playing, Edwards ultimately went out on an unusual, intriguing note.