I agree with Bob. Many civilizations/societies/peoples have/had a crossroads type myth. The deities involved were obviously versions of the western "devil" (Papa Legba and Kalfu - voodoo; Hecate - ancient Greece; Trivia - ancient Rome; Ganesha - Hindu traditional; Eshu - South America, etc).
I've been interested in the Robert Johnson (RJ) thing for some time, though.
The main thrust of the crossroads myth as it pertains to RJ was suggested by him, but fleshed out by others. It also, of course, plays a major part in the tourism industry of the Delta in the Southern USA (and many add-ons, elaborations stem from the need to keep the hype going and also, peculiarly, competing claims by some Delta towns as to the actual location of RJ's crossroads - so as to be the recipients of the Blues Pilgrims' cash!) The town of Rosedale claim the intersection of Routes 1 and 8 is the spot (particularly as Rosedale is the only town RJ ever referred to by name in any of his songs). RJ, of course, doesn't refer to the Crossroads meeting in Travelling Riverside Blues. Clarksdale (where US 61 and 49 cross) is, however most widely recognised as the spot.
The core isue seems to be that the Crossroads myth with particular reference to RJ was not pushed by the man himself, but by others. He refers to the devil or supernatural in six of his songs, but not in the context of the myth. Moreover, there are a number of different versions of the myth out there. The section "Devil Legend" in the basic wikipedia on RJ explains in a nice summary how the legend predates RJ in blues history and was built up by others with reference to RJ after his rise to fame:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Johnson_(musician)
Also interesting to note that many observers talk of a
Crossroads Blues curse, citing death or serious misfortune that has followed musicians who have covered that song: eg. Eric Clapton, Duane Allman, Lynnerd Skynnerd, Kurt Cobain.
For me, the coolest thing about it is the actual
verbatim telling of the myth as told by Henry Goodmen (apparently a notable blues figure in the early 20th century, and not to be confused with the actor of the same name).
It is really cool reading:
Robert Johnson been playing down in Yazoo City and over at Beulah trying to get back up to Helena, ride left him out on a road next to the levee, walking up the highway, guitar in his hand propped up on his shoulder. October cool night, full moon filling up the dark sky, Robert Johnson thinking about Son House preaching to him, "Put that guitar down, boy, you drivin' people nuts." Robert Johnson needing as always a woman and some whiskey. Big trees all around, dark and lonesome road, a crazed, poisoned dog howling and moaning in a ditch alongside the road sending electrified chills up and down Robert Johnson's spine, coming up on a crossroads just south of Rosedale. Robert Johnson, feeling bad and lonesome, knows people up the highway in Gunnison. Can get a drink of whiskey and more up there. Man sitting off to the side of the road on a log at the crossroads says, "You're late, Robert Johnson." Robert Johnson drops to his knees and says, "Maybe not."
The man stands up, tall, barrel-chested, and black as the forever-closed eyes of Robert Johnson's stillborn baby, and walks out to the middle of the crossroads where Robert Johnson kneels. He says, "Stand up, Robert Johnson. You want to throw that guitar over there in that ditch with that hairless dog and go on back up to Robinsonville and play the harp with Willie Brown and Son, because you just another guitar player like all the rest, or you want to play that guitar like nobody ever played it before? Make a sound nobody ever heard before? You want to be the King of the Delta Blues and have all the whiskey and women you want?"
"That's a lot of whiskey and women, Devil-Man."
"I know you, Robert Johnson," says the man.
Robert Johnson, feels the moonlight bearing down on his head and the back of his neck as the moon seems to be growing bigger and bigger and brighter and brighter. He feels it like the heat of the noonday sun bearing down, and the howling and moaning of the dog in the ditch penetrates his soul, coming up through his feet and the tips of his fingers through his legs and arms, settling in that big empty place beneath his breastbone causing him to shake and shudder like a man with the palsy. Robert Johnson says, "That dog gone mad."
The man laughs. "That hound belong to me. He ain't mad, he's got the Blues. I got his soul in my hand."
The dog lets out a low, long soulful moan, a howling like never heard before, rhythmic, syncopated grunts, yelps, and barks, seizing Robert Johnson like a Grand Mal, and causing the strings on his guitar to vibrate, hum, and sing with a sound dark and blue, beautiful, soulful chords and notes possessing Robert Johnson, taking him over, spinning him around, losing him inside of his own self, wasting him, lifting him up into the sky. Robert Johnson looks over in the ditch and sees the eyes of the dog reflecting the bright moonlight or, more likely so it seems to Robert Johnson, glowing on their own, a deep violet penetrating glow, and Robert Johnson knows and feels that he is staring into the eyes of a Hellhound as his body shudders from head to toe.
The man says, "The dog ain't for sale, Robert Johnson, but the sound can be yours. That's the sound of the Delta Blues."
"I got to have that sound, Devil-Man. That sound is mine. Where do I sign?"
The man says, "You ain't got a pencil, Robert Johnson. Your word is good enough. All you got to do is keep walking north. But you better be prepared. There are consequences."
"Prepared for what, Devil-man?"
"You know where you are, Robert Johnson? You are standing in the middle of the crossroads. At midnight, that full moon is right over your head. You take one more step, you'll be in Rosedale. You take this road to the east, you'll get back over to Highway 61 in Cleveland, or you can turn around and go back down to Beulah or just go to the west and sit up on the levee and look at the River. But if you take one more step in the direction you're headed, you going to be in Rosedale at midnight under this full October moon, and you are going to have the Blues like never known to this world. My left hand will be forever wrapped around your soul, and your music will possess all who hear it. That's what's going to happen. That's what you better be prepared for. Your soul will belong to me. This is not just any crossroads. I put this "X" here for a reason, and I been waiting on you."
Robert Johnson rolls his head around, his eyes upwards in their sockets to stare at the blinding light of the moon which has now completely filled tie pitch-black Delta night, piercing his right eye like a bolt of lightning as the midnight hour hits. He looks the big man squarely in the eyes and says, "Step back, Devil-Man, I'm going to Rosedale. I am the Blues."
The man moves to one side and says, "Go on, Robert Johnson. You the King of the Delta Blues. Go on home to Rosedale. And when you get on up in town, you get you a plate of hot tamales because you going to be needing something on your stomach where you're headed."
I've collected some interesting links below for those who want to read some more.
http://www.hauntedamericatours.com/cursed/
http://www.supernatural.tv/reviews/legends/s2/cb.htm
http://www.vagablogging.net/robert-johnson-sold-his-soul-to-the-devil-in-rosedale-mississippi.html
http://www.mudcat.org/rj-dave.cfm
