Progress(ion): A 12 Bar Blues

This piece of fiction is intended to be the start of a meta-narrative that unifies part of a larger writing project I've got going at the moment - a series of 12 short stories (plus the narrative sections), based on the music and lives of 12 of the great blues musicians, from Robert Johnson through BB King and Eric Clapton. Conceived as a way to describe my own interest in playing blues music. It'll take a while, but I hope you enjoy the beginning, at least:

You can Always Trust the Blues

You can always trust the blues. Although it's got a family – the rebellious child that the new invention of 'teenager' dubbed rock 'n roll, all leather jackets and spiky hair, the anarchic sibling of jazz, tall, leggy and wearing the milliner's equivalent of Lewis Carroll's Jaberwock at a rakish angle over a pale complexion – the blues has its own structure. Rarely sticks its guitar through unimaginably expensive audio equipment in fits of rage, has no urge to delve into the realms of chaos theory and obscure musical modes. One, four, five, and the music that the songwriter loved so much rarely, if ever, reached beyond the numbers of 12 or 16 in its attempts to interpret, explain and justify the actions, thoughts and motives of individuals, communities, the world.

The more confusing thing is how this has stayed the same throughout the form's long and varied history. The old silent films hid all kinds of little tricks. Perhaps Charlie Chaplin was colourblind, we just have no way of telling because the filmreels we see in retrospective documentaries aren't telling the difference in shade or tone or fashion between his suit and tie. Spots and stripes were still probably a no-go, though. You listen to Robert Johnson, you listen to the Blues' interpretation of the nativity, all three kings and the divinely inspired child Stevie Ray Vaughan, united around the same rhythmns, the same notes. Unlike Chaplin, you listen and you see, hear, feel one colour. Blue.

So when the songwriter sat down and felt ebony and rosewood, lightly grained under his calloused fingers, he knew what was coming...