The first thing you notice is the space. It’s a vast, echoic darkness, like the corner booth of a deserted bar at 3 a.m. The recording isn’t dense or cluttered; it is a canvas of quiet sorrow, prepared for the arrival of a single, piercing voice and the silver-toned chime of an electric guitar. This is the sound of “Another Night to Cry,” the title track from the 1962 album of the same name by the legendary Lonnie Johnson.
For a man whose career stretched back to the New Orleans jazz explosion of the 1920s—a genuine architect of the blues and jazz guitar solo—this track arrives late in his timeline, a profound statement made during a rediscovery era. The 1960s Folk and Blues Revival brought Lonnie Johnson back into the spotlight after years spent working outside of music, primarily in the service industry in Philadelphia. This piece of music is a testament to the fact that genius, however overlooked, never truly fades.
The Return of a Pioneer
Lonnie Johnson was never simply a Delta bluesman. Born in New Orleans in 1899, he possessed a musical vocabulary that effortlessly traversed ragtime, jazz, and the deepest, most melancholic shades of the blues. He was, arguably, the first true jazz guitar soloist on record, his intricate, single-note runs foreshadowing everyone from T-Bone Walker to B.B. King. The electric instruments he embraced in the 1940s only amplified that innate sophistication.
The Another Night to Cry sessions, recorded for the Bluesville label (an imprint of Prestige), positioned Johnson back where he belonged: in a studio, backed by musicians who understood the gravity of his legacy. While the song itself has been played by Johnson in various forms over the years—a notable 1963 television performance featured a heavyweight rhythm section—the 1962 studio recording captures a specific, restrained elegance.
He is backed on this track by a deceptively simple quartet. The instrumentation is classic: guitar, piano, bass, and drums. However, the personnel are giants: the bass is handled by the magisterial Willie Dixon, and the piano by the incomparable Otis Spann. Drums, often credited to Fred Below or Bill Stepney depending on the session details, provide a supple, responsive texture rather than a heavy beat. This is not Chicago muscle; it is deep, mournful introspection with a rhythm section acting as sympathetic Greek chorus.
A Masterclass in Restraint
The arrangement itself is a study in texture and dynamic control. The groove is slow, a creeping, late-night tempo that suggests walking home alone in the rain. Willie Dixon’s bassline doesn’t just keep time; it murmurs, its warm, heavy timbre providing the track’s emotional floor. The drums use brushes or light sticks, creating a soft shh-shh on the snare that sounds like the gentle sigh of a room.
Otis Spann’s work on the piano is a marvel. He plays sparse, echoing chords in the upper register, never stepping on Johnson’s vocal or solo lines. His fills are like short, liquid tears dropped into the quiet—a perfect complement to the song’s themes of enduring heartache. He understands that in the blues, silence can often be heavier than sound.
Johnson’s vocal delivery is startling in its directness. There’s no strained emoting or guttural shout. His voice is smooth, clear, and world-weary—a conversational baritone that recounts the pain with a dignified calm. “I went to bed last night, tried to sleep, I tossed and turned until the clock struck three.” The narrative is simple, the imagery concrete. His pain is an ordinary, domestic horror, experienced in the isolating quiet of an apartment.
The Sound of Sorrow, Amplified
Then comes the centerpiece, the sound that cemented his influence: the electric guitar. Johnson’s tone is the definitive detail of this recording. It is clean, slightly bright, and devoid of the aggressive fuzz or distortion that would soon define the British Invasion blues-rockers. This clarity allows every note, every subtle bend, every brush of the pick, to be heard with absolute fidelity. The sound is so transparent and immediate that it would benefit from being heard through high-end home audio equipment.
His solo is a melodic miracle. He doesn’t indulge in blinding speed, opting instead for perfectly placed notes that articulate the sadness in the lyrics. His phrasing is conversational, almost vocal; he plays in short bursts, allowing the notes to sustain and decay, filling the silence left by the rhythm section. This wasn’t merely country blues transposed to an electric instrument; it was an advanced musical language, blending the linear improvisation of jazz with the emotional framework of the blues. The way he approaches the neck—precise, lyrical, economical—is what made him an icon for aspiring guitarists decades earlier. This elegant technique is a key element of the man’s legacy.
I remember once trying to transcribe this very solo, finger-by-finger, only to realize the inadequacy of simply copying the notes. The magic lay in the feel—the slightly hesitant attack on a note, the exact moment the vibrato kicked in, the subtle push-and-pull against the slow rhythm. It’s a level of artistry that can’t be notated; it must be absorbed.
“The magic lay in the feel—the slightly hesitant attack on a note, the exact moment the vibrato kicked in, the subtle push-and-pull against the slow rhythm.”
A Bridge Through Time
The enduring power of “Another Night to Cry” lies in its ability to connect the listener to a lineage. Johnson, a man who recorded with Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington in the 1920s and 30s, was now playing alongside the Chicago blues royalty of the 1960s. He was a living bridge, his style demonstrating how the sophisticated jazz approach to the fretboard informed and elevated the urban blues sound.
Imagine a young person today, perhaps learning the fundamental blues scales in their first guitar lessons. They hear the flashier, more aggressive tones of later blues legends. Then they find this track. Suddenly, they are confronted not with spectacle, but with profound substance. Johnson’s playing here is a reminder that technical mastery is secondary to emotional clarity. Every note is a consequence; every silence holds a memory.
This song exists outside of time, resisting the urge to be fashionable. In the context of 1962, when the R&B charts were busy and the blues revival was beginning to take hold, this track is remarkably subdued. It makes its statement not through volume or aggressive showmanship, but through emotional depth and flawless execution. It is the sound of a man who has seen it all, endured it all, and finds the deepest truth in a soft, sad song played perfectly on a clean electric string. It’s a truth that hits hardest when you realize the years of struggle and non-musical labor that preceded this late-career flourish.
The final notes of “Another Night to Cry” simply dissolve. Johnson doesn’t slam the door; he quietly turns away from the microphone, leaving the mournful resonance of the last chord to fade into the tape hiss. It’s an invitation to introspection, a profound final bow from a master who needed no bombast to communicate the universal ache of the blues.
Listening Recommendations
- T-Bone Walker – “Stormy Monday Blues”: Shares a similar lineage of sophisticated, single-note electric blues guitar work and smooth vocal delivery.
- Otis Spann – “The Thrill Is Gone (Live)”: A raw example of Spann’s sympathetic and expressive piano accompaniment from the same era.
- Robert Johnson – “Love in Vain”: For a connection to the deepest roots of the acoustic blues that Lonnie Johnson helped electrify and modernize.
- B.B. King – “The Thrill Is Gone”: Showcases the development of the clean, lyrical, vibrato-heavy electric blues solo that Lonnie Johnson pioneered.
- Blind Willie McTell – “Statesboro Blues”: Provides an earlier example of a blues master with a wide-ranging repertoire blending folk and urban themes.