Doc Watson (1923—2012)
Arthel “Doc” Watson was as true a poet as I know. And now he is no longer resident in the mountains of his beloved Carolina but “scattered among a hundred cities,” as Auden put it when he remembered the death of his friend, W. B. Yeats. It’s a good thing, too, that the poet’s death be kept from his poems. Doc Watson now resides in the many tunes and songs and licks and riffs he left behind in various media, in the many good and generous gifts of himself that form the recollections of fans and friends who wrote about him in yesterday’s newspapers.
Blind almost from birth, a touring musician for whom touring carried the constant apprehension of being marooned, and a bereaved father; Watson, hugely talented, transported himself and his music nevertheless, into the lives and hearts of countless listeners like me who will recall him with fondness as we collect his recordings with renewed focus and energy, perhaps remembering when we first heard him in person (for me it was Durham, North Carolina, in 1967). For all of us, as for the world at large, Doc Watson is now timeless in memory—sad, to be sure (unexpectedly sad as a friend put it), but the sadness is the common sadness of human life. In Doc Watson’s case, as Daniel Gewertz put it in the comment section of yesterday’s New York Times obituary: “It wasn’t an easy life, but it was touched by amazing grace.”
It’s hard to pick a favorite recording, but here’s one I love that features Doc in his prime. It’s the ensemble recording of “Blue Railroad Train,” off the old Southbound album from 1966 that he made with Merle and others.
Julian,
Your comments on Doc are right on. And the song here and Doc’s voice and the music, his guitar, and the whole background–everything is rolled and rolling beautifully on into one piece of remembrance wholesome and rare.
In 1966 Nin and I were in Pittsburgh and I remember walking across the then Carnegie Tech campus and my friend said something like I saw Doc Watson here last night. And I was surprised. I had not heard the name and he was surprised I had not, since I am from North Carolina. And after that I heard him everywhere I went.
I never met him. Had the chance so so many times. You write about him beautifully, getting to the Thing of his being. He was himself. Fame had no part of is fiber. He wore it like a handkerchief soft in his pocket.
Hi, Shelby. I had first heard him in 1964 and had a couple of his records. Doc Watson and Son was the first LP I heard and bought. I was at first amazed at his guitar playing, as everyone is, not just the pyrotechnics but the musicality of it as well. Then, as time went by and I listened to more of his work, I began to realize that he was a rare singer as well. I love your comment. Thanks so much for it.