Hell is not gonna be hot enough for this cat.
R.I.P. Johnny Winter, an American bad-ass of the first rank.
An albino playing the blues? Duh.
Most young, uninitiated punks would know him only as the brother of Edgar, the other albino who had a couple of immortal ’70s songs, Frankenstein and Free Ride.
Fact of the matter: dude was around before Hendrix (played with him, too), worshiped Muddy Waters (played with and produced him, too), and MFer was at Woodstock.
He also made a LOT of very good albums.
An excellent overview of his life and times can be found HERE.
His early stuff, cut many years before his late-’60s explosion, are restrained, rootsy and revelatory in their way.
His performance at Woodstock was not included in the film. That had to hurt. But like a good blues man, he simply soldiered on.
For the uninitiated.
1984: You were wearing parachute pants and Members Only, listening to synth rock.
Johnny Winter was getting his gutbucket blues on with Dr. John.
This is REE.DIC.U.LOUS. And no, none of us are worthy.
No matter what path we choose, the best we can do in this life is feel it, be as honest as possible, and work at it every day.
If anyone was true to his vision, it was Johnny. He died, literally doing what he loved to do (playing music; on tour). How could he not? He was always on tour; he was always playing music.
He made his music. He made his mark.
We are all better off for having had him with us.
