SAVANNAH, AUGUST, 1840
The late summer sun bore down on the Chatham County Courthouse, casting long shadows across the dusty street. A slight, hot breeze carried the scent of magnolia and freshly tilled soil, mingling with the soft hum of chatter from townsfolk going about their day. In the center of it all, a lanky young James Simms, just seventeen, adjusted the strings of his fiddle. His brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers deftly tightening the pegs. Beside him, his twelve-year-old brother, Thomas, set down a tambourine and picked up a pair of well-worn bones. With his five-string fretless banjo resting comfortably in his lap, their friend Isaac plucked a few experimental notes, nodding in rhythm.
The distant murmur of the town felt distant to James as if the world was a mere backdrop to the rising sound of their music, but there was a quiet undercurrent to the moment—something more urgent, more defiant, beneath the playful tune.
James grinned, his eyes darting between his companions. “There ya go, Thomas. And one, two, three... Now, Isaac!”
The trio launched into an impromptu rendition of De Blue Tail Fly, their voices rising in unison. The jaunty and irresistible melody floated through the courthouse square, drawing curious ears. Isaac’s banjo twanged cheerfully, its resonance filling the air as Thomas struck a steady beat on the bones, his grin wide and infectious.
The song, light-hearted on the surface, carried something more, slipping beneath the crowd’s awareness like a mocassin floating lazily down the river. The joy of the tune masked the sharp edge beneath—the sting of oppression woven into every note:
“O when you come in summer time,
To South Carlinar’s sultry clime,
If in de shade you chance to lie,
You’ll soon find out de blue tail fly,
An scratch ‘im wid a brier too.”
The infectious rhythm of the song pulled people in like a magnet. Small groups of Black and White men and women stopped to listen, their skepticism melting away as claps and foottaps began to sync with the trio’s beat. Children darted between the adults, their laughter mixing with the tune, while others started to sway to the rhythm, their movements turning into lively jigs.
The crowd’s initial hesitations were quickly swept away as the music worked its magic. What started as a simple tune became something more—an unspoken statement that echoed through the square, asking for something bigger than just a good time.
“When I was young, I used to wait,
On Massa’s table a hand de plate;
I’d pass de bottle when he dry,
An brush away de blue tail fly,
An scratch ‘im wid a brier too.”
James’s bow danced across the fiddle strings, each note ringing out clear and bright. He glanced over at Thomas, who matched the beat with infectious energy, his hands a blur as he clacked the bones together in perfect time. Isaac added a warm and rich voice to the verses, the banjo’s twang carrying the melody.
The music was relentless, like a force that could not be tamed. With every note, the weight of the words grew, not just a catchy tune but a subtle rebellion.
“Den arter dinner Massa sleep,
He bid me vigilance to keep;
When he gwine to shut the eye,
He tells me to watch de blue tail fly,
An scratch ‘im wid a brier too.”
The jigging intensified, the crowd growing thicker as more onlookers gathered. Young women spun in their skirts, their laughter ringing out as they twirled. Men stomped their boots in time with the beat, the cobblestones vibrating with the rhythm. James’s grin widened as he saw the joy spreading through the square. He tugged off his hat and tossed it onto the ground, inviting coins from the enthralled audience.
The crowd’s enthusiasm was infectious, but James couldn’t help but feel the weight of their joy—the realization that each step, each note, was a small act of defiance.
“One day he rode around de farm,
De flies so numerous did swarm;
One chance to bite ‘im on de thigh,
De dabble take dat blue tail fly,
An scratch ‘im wid a brier too.”
The fiddle’s high notes soared as James leaned into the final verses, his bow flying over the strings with a showman’s flair. The hat in the dirt began to fill, coins clinking against one another as spectators reached into their pockets. Emboldened by the growing applause, Thomas added flourishes to his beat, grinning as Isaac plucked his banjo with newfound vigor. As they soared into the air, the final notes seemed to carry something heavier, something real—the idea that this song, this moment, was not just for entertainment but for survival.
“De poney run, he jump, an pitch,
An tumble Massa in de ditch;
He died, an de Jury wonder why,
De verdict was, de’ blue tail fly.’
An scratch ‘im wid a brier too.”
A thunderous stomp from the crowd punctuated the verse, their movements wild and uninhibited. Even the most stoic onlookers couldn’t resist the rhythm, their heads nodding and their feet tapping despite themselves. James flushed with the crowd’s energy, calling out the final lines, his voice strong and clear.
With each clap, each stomp, the power of their defiance grew, driving what had once been a simple tune into a declaration, a challenge.
“Ole Massa’s gone, now let him rest,
Dey say all tings am for de best;
I never shall forget till de day I die,
Ole Massa an de blue tail fly.
An scratch ‘im wid a brier too.”
As the song concluded, the trio’s voices rang out in harmony one last time. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, their enthusiasm palpable. More coins rained into the hat, the sound mingling with the fading echoes of the music. James scooped it up, shaking it with a grin before tossing a few coins into Thomas’s tambourine.
The moment of jubilation was not just about the music; it was a quiet victory, the sweet sound of their resistance reverberating long after the music had stopped.
“Good job, little brother,” he said, clapping Thomas on the shoulder. Thomas beamed, his chest puffing out with pride.
Isaac stood, stretching his arms and slinging the banjo over his back. “Reckon, we put on a good show,” he said with a satisfied nod.
James chuckled, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. For a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of their joy—a shared moment of freedom and levity in a world that offered too little. The sun blazed down on the square, gilding the faces of the dancers’ and players’ faces. In that instant, James Simms wasn’t just a fiddler. He was a symbol, a reminder of the power of music to bring people together, even amidst the divisions of a fractured South.
But as the sun beat down and the crowd dispersed, James felt a quiet stirring beneath the surface—a reminder that music, no matter how powerful, was only a tiny part of the fight ahead. The echoes of the song would fade, but the struggle, like the song’s persistent rhythm, would never stop.
