September 23, 2025 • 16 mins
At a lonely crossroads in the Mississippi Delta, a desperate guitarist made a midnight bargain that would change music forever. His fingers learned secrets no mortal should know, his songs carried shadows that couldn’t be silenced, and his fame burned as fast as it rose. But every bargain comes with a price. Betrayal, poison, and whispers of the Devil himself followed his every step. Nearly a century later, his story is legend — a chilling reminder that dreams can come true… if you’re willing to pay the cost.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. They say every
song has a soul, but on every soul belongs to
the singer. Some songs rise from joy, some from sorrow,
But every so often a song is born from something darker.
(00:23):
You've heard the whispers a lonely crossroad at midnight, a
man with nothing left to give, a bargain carved not
in ink but in blood. For nearly a century, the
name was passed from mouth to mouth like a curse.
How could a poor, wandering guitarist and the Mississippi Delta
suddenly become the greatest bluesman anybody has ever heard. Well,
(00:47):
the answer, they say, waits at the crossroads. And I'll
tell you now this ain't no legend, because I was there.
This is Script Lucky, the Devil's Bargain, Act one. Nobody
knows when you're down and out the Delta. Nineteen thirty,
(01:11):
dust storms rolled across Mississippi like ghosts. The Great Depression
had its claws in everyone. Sharecroppers bent over cotton until
their spines cracked, men drowned in whiskey. Women carried sorrow.
Like a second skin. Music was their only escape. Juke joints, ramshackle,
dimly lit, bled with fiddles and banjos and the raw
(01:32):
cry of the blues. And there he was a boy,
no unrespected, thin and restless, his hands clumsy on a guitar,
his sound oh pitiful. When he tried to play in
those joints, people just laughed, shouting them off the stage.
Leave that guitar alone, boy, But I saw what burned
(01:53):
in his eyes. Hunger, not hunger for bread, but hunger
for more, for greatness, for immortality. And that kind of
hunger always finds its way to me. So there you are,
and a juke joint. Smoke coils thick in the air,
the floor covered in sawdust. A young man steps to
(02:14):
the corner, guitar in hand. He begins to play. Is
sound as weak, thin strings buzz out of tune. Someone
laughs behind you, A man mutters at the bar, he
ain't got it, room turns its back. Music dies, Nobody
listens because nobody cares. Act two Crossroad Blues. By nineteen
(02:38):
thirty one, his life was slipping into nothing, a wanderer,
drifting from plantation to plantation with nothing but a batter,
guitar and dreams, too heavy for his shoulders. And then
then came the crossroads. It was midnight, the air heavy,
still as a grave. He carried that broken instrument, strings rusted,
(03:00):
body cracked, His hands shook as he held it out,
his voice barely a whisper. When he begged, I just smiled.
He didn't ask for riches, he didn't ask for power.
All he wanted. All he wanted was to play, to
be heard, to make the world bowl to his sound.
So I took that guitar from his trembling hands, tuned
(03:23):
it with fire and shadow, filled its hollow wood with
secrets no mortal could touch. When I gave it back,
his fingers already knew how to set the world on fire.
The first chord he struck split the night in two,
and I knew he was mine. You're in a shack,
(03:45):
deep in the delta. A kerosene lamp flickers. The man
sits in the corner, guitar in his lap. He plucks
a single string. The note crawls across the floorboards. Your
skin prickles. Another note follows, low, heavy enough, unnatural. The
room falls silent. You've never heard anything like this. It
(04:06):
feels dangerous, like music not meant for this world. Act three,
hell Hound on My Trail. Next, Act three, hell Hound
on My Trail. By nineteen thirty two, he was a
(04:28):
different man. He drifted from town to town, leaving slack
jaws in his wake. Musicians who used to mock him
now stared in disbelief. Women who had turned him away
now clung to him. How could this nobody suddenly play
like he's lived a hundred lifetimes. Whispers spread across the delta.
(04:49):
Some said witchcraft. Others swore he had walked with the
devil himself. Well, they weren't wrong. By nineteen thirty six,
he found his his way to San Antonio, Texas. Inside
a hotel room turned recording studio, he pressed sound into wax.
Tearplane Blues became a local hit nineteen thirty seven in Dallas.
(05:11):
More recordings followed, songs Thick with Shadow, his name Robert
Johnson in every note he played, Carried My Fingerprints, Cross
Road Blues, hell Hound on My Trail, and Me and
the Devil, Blues, songs that sang my name without ever
saying it, songs that confess the bargain. Every time he
(05:32):
opened his mouth, act for love in vain bargains always
carry a bill. By the late nineteen thirties, Robert had
become more than just another bluesman. He was a shadow
on every stage, a storm and every juke joint. Women
adored him. They followed him from town to town, their
(05:53):
hearts tangled in his songs. Men feared him, whispered his
name like a warning. Other musicians wouldn't match him, and
some wouldn't even try. His music was fire, and fire
always consumes everywhere he went. The stories grew darker. Some
swore he could make his guitar talk. Others said when
(06:13):
he played, it sounded like two men picking at once,
like unseen hands were guiding him. A few whispered they
saw hell hounds circling him at night, glowing eyes in
the dark. But Robert didn't care. He leaned into the shadows.
He wanted more, more whiskey, more women, more applause. So
(06:35):
I gave it to him. But what mortals never understand
is this fame is a drug, a cruel one. The
more you taste, the hungrier you become. And Robert was starving.
He drinked till dawn collapse in strangers' beds, and rise again,
only to chase another stage, another woman, and another bottle.
He loved the applause, but he needed the chaos. And
(06:58):
with chaos comes enemy. Husbands with clenched fists, bar owners,
cheated and short changed, lovers, scorned, rivals humiliated on stage.
Everywhere he went, resentment followed a shadow growing longer, sharper,
waiting to strike. So you're standing outside a juke joint
in Mississippi. The summer air presses heavy, thick with sweat
(07:21):
and the sour smell of mash inside voices rise, A
woman shrieks oh, a slam of a bottle, a man
cursing his name, vowing revenge. But then cutting through the chaos,
comes the sound that guitar sliding, bending alive with fire. Oh,
the fight doesn't matter, the threats don't matter. The crowd
(07:43):
falls silent, drawn back in like Maus to the flame.
He's still playing, still untouchable and still mine. But even
the fire burns out, the circle of enemies are closed,
and Robert couldn't see it, or wouldn't. He laughed in
(08:03):
their faces, charmed their women, mock their rage, and every
time he picked up that guitar. He believed he was untouchable,
but bargains don't last forever, and his was running out.
At five. Come on in my kitchen, next act five,
(08:30):
Come on in my kitchen, nineteen thirty eight, Greenwood, Mississippi.
The juke joined burned like a furnace that night. The
air thick with smoke and whiskey and sweat. Music rattled
the floorboards. Laughter and lust whirled in the dark, and
Robert he owned it all. And she was there too.
Clara May, Oh, Clara May. Her skin glistened in the
(08:55):
lantern light, lips crimson, eyes sharp as broken glass. Oh.
She was married, yes, but restless. She was hungry. When
he played, she swayed, hips, rolling with each cord. When
their eyes locked, her breath caught, And when the crowd
pressed close, she leaned in, whispered in his ear, her
(09:19):
hand brushing his thigh. He played for her, only her,
And in the back room, air thick as molasses, a
lamp flickering low, Robert pressed her against the wall, his
mouth on hers, rough and desperate. Her lap broke into
gasps as his hand lifted her dress, her nails digging
(09:43):
into his back. She whispered between kisses. I'll never go back,
he groaned, answering, They'll never take you from me. The
bodies collided in rhythm, the outside music fading until only
their moans and whispers filled the dark and through the
crack of the door. Oh, I saw everything I was.
(10:10):
I was patient, I was silent. Oh, pretending to polish
glasses while collecting secrets while I while I bartended. Yeah.
Later the husband came in. Yeah, his jaw locked, fists clenched,
rage like a storm, the husband snarling. I know he's
in my bed with my wife. Everybody knows I'm going
(10:32):
to kill him, I said, calmly, you could, Yeah, but
fists are loud and guns are louder, and when the
law comes though, they'll hang you. The husband's spitting, I
don't care. He ain't walking out of here. Oh, well,
let me help. There's a way, no one will question,
no rope around your neck, no jail cell waiting. What way?
(10:55):
He hesitated, Well, I'll give you gift. I'll give me gift.
He looked at me and said, why why would you
help me? And I responded, well, you know, he owes
me something, something he ain't paid up yet, So let's
put it this way, maybe maybe you'd be doing me
a favor. So give him this. He drinks, he falls.
(11:17):
The crowd will say whiskey killed. The blues mean not you.
The husband jaw tightening, And what if it don't work,
Oh it will, poison doesn't shout, it whispers, and by
dawn he'll be gone. The husband stared at the bottle.
His hand trembled as he picked it up. But the
(11:37):
thought wasn't his. It was mine. That night, the stage
was his kingdom again. Robert played, Clara May swayed her
eyes on him like no one else existed. The husband
stepped forward, calm, now smiling. He held out the bottle
and for the music, he said. Robert grinned, cocky, careless.
He tipped it back, drank deep. Ooh, that poison crawled fast.
(12:02):
The first sip, it burned his throat. The second, his
stomach twisted like a blade in the gut. Third, sweat
poured down his face. His skin turned ash pale. Wow.
His guitar slipped from his hand, string snapping like screams.
He staggered, clutching the stage, eyes wide, foam forming on
his lips. The crowd gasped. The room froze. Clara May
(12:25):
screamed his name, rushing forward, tears streaking her cheeks. She
dropped to her knees, cradling his face, begging, don't leave me,
don't leave me, Robber, please. The husband stood back, arms folded,
a cruel smile stretching across his face, and me, Oh,
I just I just leaned on the bar, polishing the glass,
(12:46):
savoring every second. Oh, because this ending. I outdid myself
on this one. It was all me. Robert tore himself
from Clara May's arms, stumbling outside, collapsing into the night.
His steps left no prince, his body bent, his voice hollow,
echoing like kid, already belonged to the grave, half man,
(13:09):
half spirit. A ghost, That's what he was, a ghost,
staggering towards the inevitable and back to where it all began,
the crossroads. He fell to his knees, his hand sang
through the dirt as if it wasn't real, his body withering,
his soul already mine, And I was there. I was waiting, Robert,
(13:33):
Please don't take it home. Please, not the music, not
my name. Oh Robert, your body belongs to Greenwood. Now
your soul it belongs to me. Then I'll live forever.
Why yes, Robert forever cursed, forever, played though, and every
(13:55):
time they whisper your name, every time, every time another
soul comes to these ross roads, they'll find me. Robert flickered,
the man the shadow, then silence. The body in Mississippi
would rock, the grave would remain unmarked. But the spirit
walked away with me in his music, still cursed, still
(14:20):
calling ac six Me and the Devil Blues the epilogue.
Next A six Me and the Devil Blues the epilogue.
They remember him, don't they? Robert Johnson, the man who
(14:40):
turned dirt roads into holy ground. He lived only twenty
seven years, but in that time he changed everything. Without him,
there's no Muddy Waters, no holand Wolf, no Rolling Stones,
no Clapton, no Zeppelin. They played his songs and they
felt me in the room too, Because Robert wasn't the
(15:01):
first to kneel at the crossroads, and he won't be
the last either. Some of them came searching, some found me.
Some paid more than what they bargained for. And now
maybe you why not imagine it fame power name that
outlives your body. It's closer than you think, because there's
(15:24):
a place where the road forks, quiet and dark with
the moon hanging low. You know where it is, and
if you don't, you will come to the crossroads. Bring
your hunger, bring your need. I'll be waiting because dreams
(15:47):
do come true for the right price. I hope you enjoyed.
Script thirteen, The Devil's Bargain story of bluesman Robert Johnson.
This has been Johnny's Dead Air podcast. I'm Johnny Hartwell,
thank you so much for listening.
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. They say every
song has a soul, but on every soul belongs to
the singer. Some songs rise from joy, some from sorrow,
But every so often a song is born from something darker.
(00:23):
You've heard the whispers a lonely crossroad at midnight, a
man with nothing left to give, a bargain carved not
in ink but in blood. For nearly a century, the
name was passed from mouth to mouth like a curse.
How could a poor, wandering guitarist and the Mississippi Delta
suddenly become the greatest bluesman anybody has ever heard. Well,
(00:47):
the answer, they say, waits at the crossroads. And I'll
tell you now this ain't no legend, because I was there.
This is Script Lucky, the Devil's Bargain, Act one. Nobody
knows when you're down and out the Delta. Nineteen thirty,
(01:11):
dust storms rolled across Mississippi like ghosts. The Great Depression
had its claws in everyone. Sharecroppers bent over cotton until
their spines cracked, men drowned in whiskey. Women carried sorrow.
Like a second skin. Music was their only escape. Juke joints, ramshackle,
dimly lit, bled with fiddles and banjos and the raw
(01:32):
cry of the blues. And there he was a boy,
no unrespected, thin and restless, his hands clumsy on a guitar,
his sound oh pitiful. When he tried to play in
those joints, people just laughed, shouting them off the stage.
Leave that guitar alone, boy, But I saw what burned
(01:53):
in his eyes. Hunger, not hunger for bread, but hunger
for more, for greatness, for immortality. And that kind of
hunger always finds its way to me. So there you are,
and a juke joint. Smoke coils thick in the air,
the floor covered in sawdust. A young man steps to
(02:14):
the corner, guitar in hand. He begins to play. Is
sound as weak, thin strings buzz out of tune. Someone
laughs behind you, A man mutters at the bar, he
ain't got it, room turns its back. Music dies, Nobody
listens because nobody cares. Act two Crossroad Blues. By nineteen
(02:38):
thirty one, his life was slipping into nothing, a wanderer,
drifting from plantation to plantation with nothing but a batter,
guitar and dreams, too heavy for his shoulders. And then
then came the crossroads. It was midnight, the air heavy,
still as a grave. He carried that broken instrument, strings rusted,
(03:00):
body cracked, His hands shook as he held it out,
his voice barely a whisper. When he begged, I just smiled.
He didn't ask for riches, he didn't ask for power.
All he wanted. All he wanted was to play, to
be heard, to make the world bowl to his sound.
So I took that guitar from his trembling hands, tuned
(03:23):
it with fire and shadow, filled its hollow wood with
secrets no mortal could touch. When I gave it back,
his fingers already knew how to set the world on fire.
The first chord he struck split the night in two,
and I knew he was mine. You're in a shack,
(03:45):
deep in the delta. A kerosene lamp flickers. The man
sits in the corner, guitar in his lap. He plucks
a single string. The note crawls across the floorboards. Your
skin prickles. Another note follows, low, heavy enough, unnatural. The
room falls silent. You've never heard anything like this. It
(04:06):
feels dangerous, like music not meant for this world. Act three,
hell Hound on My Trail. Next, Act three, hell Hound
on My Trail. By nineteen thirty two, he was a
(04:28):
different man. He drifted from town to town, leaving slack
jaws in his wake. Musicians who used to mock him
now stared in disbelief. Women who had turned him away
now clung to him. How could this nobody suddenly play
like he's lived a hundred lifetimes. Whispers spread across the delta.
(04:49):
Some said witchcraft. Others swore he had walked with the
devil himself. Well, they weren't wrong. By nineteen thirty six,
he found his his way to San Antonio, Texas. Inside
a hotel room turned recording studio, he pressed sound into wax.
Tearplane Blues became a local hit nineteen thirty seven in Dallas.
(05:11):
More recordings followed, songs Thick with Shadow, his name Robert
Johnson in every note he played, Carried My Fingerprints, Cross
Road Blues, hell Hound on My Trail, and Me and
the Devil, Blues, songs that sang my name without ever
saying it, songs that confess the bargain. Every time he
(05:32):
opened his mouth, act for love in vain bargains always
carry a bill. By the late nineteen thirties, Robert had
become more than just another bluesman. He was a shadow
on every stage, a storm and every juke joint. Women
adored him. They followed him from town to town, their
(05:53):
hearts tangled in his songs. Men feared him, whispered his
name like a warning. Other musicians wouldn't match him, and
some wouldn't even try. His music was fire, and fire
always consumes everywhere he went. The stories grew darker. Some
swore he could make his guitar talk. Others said when
(06:13):
he played, it sounded like two men picking at once,
like unseen hands were guiding him. A few whispered they
saw hell hounds circling him at night, glowing eyes in
the dark. But Robert didn't care. He leaned into the shadows.
He wanted more, more whiskey, more women, more applause. So
(06:35):
I gave it to him. But what mortals never understand
is this fame is a drug, a cruel one. The
more you taste, the hungrier you become. And Robert was starving.
He drinked till dawn collapse in strangers' beds, and rise again,
only to chase another stage, another woman, and another bottle.
He loved the applause, but he needed the chaos. And
(06:58):
with chaos comes enemy. Husbands with clenched fists, bar owners,
cheated and short changed, lovers, scorned, rivals humiliated on stage.
Everywhere he went, resentment followed a shadow growing longer, sharper,
waiting to strike. So you're standing outside a juke joint
in Mississippi. The summer air presses heavy, thick with sweat
(07:21):
and the sour smell of mash inside voices rise, A
woman shrieks oh, a slam of a bottle, a man
cursing his name, vowing revenge. But then cutting through the chaos,
comes the sound that guitar sliding, bending alive with fire. Oh,
the fight doesn't matter, the threats don't matter. The crowd
(07:43):
falls silent, drawn back in like Maus to the flame.
He's still playing, still untouchable and still mine. But even
the fire burns out, the circle of enemies are closed,
and Robert couldn't see it, or wouldn't. He laughed in
(08:03):
their faces, charmed their women, mock their rage, and every
time he picked up that guitar. He believed he was untouchable,
but bargains don't last forever, and his was running out.
At five. Come on in my kitchen, next act five,
(08:30):
Come on in my kitchen, nineteen thirty eight, Greenwood, Mississippi.
The juke joined burned like a furnace that night. The
air thick with smoke and whiskey and sweat. Music rattled
the floorboards. Laughter and lust whirled in the dark, and
Robert he owned it all. And she was there too.
Clara May, Oh, Clara May. Her skin glistened in the
(08:55):
lantern light, lips crimson, eyes sharp as broken glass. Oh.
She was married, yes, but restless. She was hungry. When
he played, she swayed, hips, rolling with each cord. When
their eyes locked, her breath caught, And when the crowd
pressed close, she leaned in, whispered in his ear, her
(09:19):
hand brushing his thigh. He played for her, only her,
And in the back room, air thick as molasses, a
lamp flickering low, Robert pressed her against the wall, his
mouth on hers, rough and desperate. Her lap broke into
gasps as his hand lifted her dress, her nails digging
(09:43):
into his back. She whispered between kisses. I'll never go back,
he groaned, answering, They'll never take you from me. The
bodies collided in rhythm, the outside music fading until only
their moans and whispers filled the dark and through the
crack of the door. Oh, I saw everything I was.
(10:10):
I was patient, I was silent. Oh, pretending to polish
glasses while collecting secrets while I while I bartended. Yeah.
Later the husband came in. Yeah, his jaw locked, fists clenched,
rage like a storm, the husband snarling. I know he's
in my bed with my wife. Everybody knows I'm going
(10:32):
to kill him, I said, calmly, you could, Yeah, but
fists are loud and guns are louder, and when the
law comes though, they'll hang you. The husband's spitting, I
don't care. He ain't walking out of here. Oh, well,
let me help. There's a way, no one will question,
no rope around your neck, no jail cell waiting. What way?
(10:55):
He hesitated, Well, I'll give you gift. I'll give me gift.
He looked at me and said, why why would you
help me? And I responded, well, you know, he owes
me something, something he ain't paid up yet, So let's
put it this way, maybe maybe you'd be doing me
a favor. So give him this. He drinks, he falls.
(11:17):
The crowd will say whiskey killed. The blues mean not you.
The husband jaw tightening, And what if it don't work,
Oh it will, poison doesn't shout, it whispers, and by
dawn he'll be gone. The husband stared at the bottle.
His hand trembled as he picked it up. But the
(11:37):
thought wasn't his. It was mine. That night, the stage
was his kingdom again. Robert played, Clara May swayed her
eyes on him like no one else existed. The husband
stepped forward, calm, now smiling. He held out the bottle
and for the music, he said. Robert grinned, cocky, careless.
He tipped it back, drank deep. Ooh, that poison crawled fast.
(12:02):
The first sip, it burned his throat. The second, his
stomach twisted like a blade in the gut. Third, sweat
poured down his face. His skin turned ash pale. Wow.
His guitar slipped from his hand, string snapping like screams.
He staggered, clutching the stage, eyes wide, foam forming on
his lips. The crowd gasped. The room froze. Clara May
(12:25):
screamed his name, rushing forward, tears streaking her cheeks. She
dropped to her knees, cradling his face, begging, don't leave me,
don't leave me, Robber, please. The husband stood back, arms folded,
a cruel smile stretching across his face, and me, Oh,
I just I just leaned on the bar, polishing the glass,
(12:46):
savoring every second. Oh, because this ending. I outdid myself
on this one. It was all me. Robert tore himself
from Clara May's arms, stumbling outside, collapsing into the night.
His steps left no prince, his body bent, his voice hollow,
echoing like kid, already belonged to the grave, half man,
(13:09):
half spirit. A ghost, That's what he was, a ghost,
staggering towards the inevitable and back to where it all began,
the crossroads. He fell to his knees, his hand sang
through the dirt as if it wasn't real, his body withering,
his soul already mine, And I was there. I was waiting, Robert,
(13:33):
Please don't take it home. Please, not the music, not
my name. Oh Robert, your body belongs to Greenwood. Now
your soul it belongs to me. Then I'll live forever.
Why yes, Robert forever cursed, forever, played though, and every
(13:55):
time they whisper your name, every time, every time another
soul comes to these ross roads, they'll find me. Robert flickered,
the man the shadow, then silence. The body in Mississippi
would rock, the grave would remain unmarked. But the spirit
walked away with me in his music, still cursed, still
(14:20):
calling ac six Me and the Devil Blues the epilogue.
Next A six Me and the Devil Blues the epilogue.
They remember him, don't they? Robert Johnson, the man who
(14:40):
turned dirt roads into holy ground. He lived only twenty
seven years, but in that time he changed everything. Without him,
there's no Muddy Waters, no holand Wolf, no Rolling Stones,
no Clapton, no Zeppelin. They played his songs and they
felt me in the room too, Because Robert wasn't the
(15:01):
first to kneel at the crossroads, and he won't be
the last either. Some of them came searching, some found me.
Some paid more than what they bargained for. And now
maybe you why not imagine it fame power name that
outlives your body. It's closer than you think, because there's
(15:24):
a place where the road forks, quiet and dark with
the moon hanging low. You know where it is, and
if you don't, you will come to the crossroads. Bring
your hunger, bring your need. I'll be waiting because dreams
(15:47):
do come true for the right price. I hope you enjoyed.
Script thirteen, The Devil's Bargain story of bluesman Robert Johnson.
This has been Johnny's Dead Air podcast. I'm Johnny Hartwell,
thank you so much for listening.
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