The Journey and Legacy of Blues Legend John P. Hammond]

The great black post-war bluesmen are almost gone now, and the passing of John P. Hammond – from a cardiac arrest in February at the age of 83 – is a stark reminder that time is also running out for the hip white kids who followed their lead.

“I’ve lost my best friend,” wrote the Grammy-winning guitarist’s frequent collaborator, Paul James, in the first of many tributes. “The blues world has lost a giant.”

From his birth in New York on 13 November 1942 – the eldest son of the noted Columbia Records producer John Henry Hammond, and a drop in the blue bloodline of the unfeasibly wealthy Vanderbilt dynasty – Hammond seemed destined to leave his mark on the world.

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His middle name was a hint at the family’s connections, nodding to singer and civil rights activist Paul Robeson. But it was a meeting, in 1949, with another associate of his father – the blues giant Big Bill Broonzy – that proved his awakening.

“By the time I was in my early teens, I was a blues fanatic,” Hammond once said, citing titans such as Lead Belly, Josh White, Brownie McGhee and Chuck Berry, alongside Jimmy Reed’s seminal 1961 Carnegie Hall album. “When I got a guitar, that was it.”

Quitting his studies at Antioch College, Ohio, Hammond performed at the Newport Folk Festival before debuting with 1963’s self-titled album on Vanguard Records (notable as one of the first full-length white folk-blues releases). And while he was not yet much of a songwriter – for now covering the standards of Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, Son House and Lightnin’ Hopkins – his interpretative skills were clear.

By the mid-’60s, Hammond was a fixture in the coffee houses of New York’s Greenwich Village, where for a time he seemed like the connective tissue between every artist who mattered.

In 1965, his So Many Roads album featured not only Mike Bloomfield but future Band principals Levon Helm, Robbie Robertson and Garth Hudson (it was largely down to Hammond that Bob Dylan chose them as his backing group). Three years later, at the city’s achingly cool Gaslight Café, he was flanked by both Clapton and Hendrix. In 1969, he was briefly bandmates with Duane Allman.

(Image credit: Mick Gold/Redferns)

Hammond was arguably just as arresting a live performer as any of the above, ultimately settling on a solo man-and-guitar format that gave full rein to his head-turning acoustic attack (for this, his most famous tool was an ancient steel-bodied National).

Since I don’t make rockstar money, I have to play a lot

“Not only was John a virtuoso on guitar, harp, singing and choosing songs, to me it felt like he was totally possessed by the blues,” wrote Bonnie Raitt. “I’ve never witnessed anyone as swept up and away as John playing his music live. He was the inspiration for teaching myself blues guitar and learning how to sing these songs we loved so much. He made it cool and all right.”

In truth, Hammond never became quite as celebrated as his ’60s peers, especially outside the States. Yet, unlike many bigger names, he survived the decade and proved a long-term talent.

BAFTA-nominated for his soundtrack to 1970’s Dustin Hoffman movie, Little Big Man, he won a Grammy for 1985’s Blues Explosion, and had released some 34 albums when the books were balanced at the time of his death.

The shows he played across those six decades, meanwhile, were beyond calculation. “Since I don’t make rockstar money, I have to play a lot,” reasoned Hammond in a 1995 interview with the Los Angeles Times. “I play smaller theatres and clubs. With experience, you learn how to maintain your energy and not blow it.”

A marathon runner in an industry of sprinters, Hammond was a lifelong ambassador for the blues. He was happy to pass the torch to rolling generations of younger players – but not afraid to occasionally pull rank.

“The first time I met John was on New Year’s Eve in 1991 when he was opening up for Buddy Guy at Irving Plaza in New York,” posted Joe Bonamassa on the day the sad news broke. “I was asked to sit in with Buddy that night. John handed me his 1930s National with 14-gauge strings on it and smiled while I struggled to get anything out of it…!”