Walking the Dog

The tempo here is almost insolently relaxed, a lazy strut that dares you not to move along with it. Rufus Thomas understood something about the relationship between humor and rhythm that most musicians miss — that genuine playfulness is a form of musical intelligence, not a lesser cousin to seriousness. The guitar riff that drives this track is circular and hypnotic, coiling around itself while the rhythm section holds a groove so comfortable it feels like an old pair of shoes. Thomas's voice is the instrument that makes everything work: he is a showman in the deepest sense, every phrase delivered with a knowing wink, the voice itself grinning even when the words are fairly simple. He narrates a walk through the neighborhood as though it is an adventure worth reporting, and his enthusiasm is completely infectious without being forced. This is pre-Woodstock Memphis soul, and it carries the energy of a community music scene that was working things out in real time, discovering what the body could do when rhythm was structured just so. There is something almost anthropological about it — a document of how a city danced and why. You put this on when you need to reset the mood in a room, when things have gotten too serious and someone needs to remember that music at its core is supposed to be fun, physically fun, the kind that starts somewhere in the hips.