Robert Finley in Interview: “A Winner Never Gives Up!”

This interview is part of a partnership with Radio Pluriel. Interview by Hervé Laurent. Transcription and translation by Cédric Vernet. Photos: Jean-Paul Pichon

The Rhino Jazz Festival went all out by inviting an artist whose voice and presence have achieved unanimous acclaim on today’s blues scene: Robert Finley. Now in his seventies, the Louisiana-born singer and guitarist embodies an entire chapter of Southern American history. A former carpenter, he became a late-blooming blues star thanks to his encounter with Dan Auerbach (The Black Keys). Before going on stage in Saint-Chamond, he granted us an interview — relaxed, full of laughter and heartfelt moments. He tells us his incredible story: that of a man whom life has often tested, but who never stopped believing in the power of the blues.

Robert Finley: Back to the Roots of the Blues

Robert, it’s a real pleasure to see you again in France. How are you feeling tonight in Saint-Chamond?

I’m feeling great, really great.

The last time we saw you in the region was at Jazz à Vienne, a legendary festival. What memories do you have of that concert?

Yes, exactly. And I’m really happy to be back, because that concert was unforgettable. The welcome was amazing, the audience incredible — everything was perfect. That’s probably why they called me back this time.

Tonight, you’re performing in a more intimate venue than in Vienne. Does your relationship with the stage change depending on where you play?

Yes, it does. I’d never been in this venue before, but you know, since I’m legally blind, I never really know where I’m going. My motto is: “Just take me there, and I’ll do the show.”

You’re from Louisiana, the historical cradle of the blues. Can you tell us more precisely where you come from?

I’m from a small town called Bernice, way up in northern Louisiana, just a few minutes from the Arkansas border. I live between Monroe and Shreveport, if that helps anyone locate it. And if you go toward Alexandria, it’s about the same distance in the other direction.

You were born and raised in that region. What does it mean to you to have grown up in the heart of the Deep South?

I was born in Winnsboro, Louisiana, yes. That’s about 100 miles from where I live now — not far from the cotton fields where I grew up.

“I wasn’t allowed to sing the blues”

Growing up in the rural South means growing up on blues soil. How did that culture shape your childhood?

Yes! But I wasn’t allowed to sing the blues. My father was very religious — a deacon at the church. All my brothers and sisters sang in the choir. Singing was our only escape: it allowed us to go to choir rehearsals and get a little break from work. If we were singing, we didn’t have to shell peas or shuck corn! We worked all day, from dawn to dusk, and at night we’d sit around the fire shelling peas and beans. We preserved everything we harvested that day.

You often say that you became a professional musician quite late. Was it this religious upbringing, or that work ethic, that delayed your path as a bluesman?

Yes. To be honest, I always had the blues inside me — when you’re the son of a sharecropper, you’re born with it. There was always work to do from sunrise on. We didn’t even have a pond, so we had to pump water from the well to water the horses and cows. My father always checked the troughs when he came home, because our survival depended on them. The mules were our power, the cows gave us milk, the chickens were dinner. We were poor, but we didn’t know it. As a kid, I thought we were rich, because we had more food than we could eat. If I was hungry, I could grab a piece of my mother’s homemade bread, go find the cow in the field, and drink fresh milk. We could pick tomatoes from the garden… We had everything we needed to live — except a break from work.

A Man of a Thousand Lives

Before becoming the artist we know today, you lived a thousand lives. Surprisingly, your first steps on stage happened in the army. Can you tell us about that defining moment?

Actually, it all started in the army. I enlisted at nineteen and was sent to Germany. When I arrived, my sergeant told me to report for duty on Monday. It was a Friday afternoon, and another soldier took me to the recreation center to meet some guys. I didn’t know anyone, so I picked up a guitar and started playing. When I looked up, there were a bunch of soldiers standing at the door listening. One of them said, “We’ve got a concert tomorrow, and our guitarist just went back to the States. Want to play?” I told him I didn’t know their songs, and he said, “Play what you know, we’ll follow you.”

The next day, I was playing in front of the whole battalion — colonels, generals, their families. I met everyone all at once. I immediately became the leader of the army band. My official position was helicopter technician: I handled the weapon systems on Cobra helicopters. If a bomb failed to detonate, I was the one who had to disarm it. No mistakes were allowed — one wrong move and you ended up either a hero or a memory. After the Vietnam War, that job wasn’t needed anymore, so I was transferred to the entertainment division, where I organized programs and played music.

In the army, if a soldier was late for rehearsal, it was considered being absent without leave — so my band members never missed one! When I got out and returned to civilian life, it was different. Musicians weren’t reliable. If a pretty girl waved at them, they were gone! So I got tired of that and became a solo artist.

I never stopped playing, but mostly in local churches on weekends. On the side, I worked as a carpenter, plumber, and electrician. I built and renovated houses, always through word of mouth. When you do good work, people recommend you. I always had a waiting list. But when I became legally blind, I couldn’t read my measuring tape anymore. It wasn’t safe to do electrical work. So I retired at 63.

Like anyone, I had a little moment of discouragement, but I told myself: if you don’t get up, nothing will change. I always believed I was born to do something special. You just have to be in the right place at the right time. If you’ve got a car for sale but it’s sitting in your backyard, no one will know it’s for sale. You have to show up so people can see what you do. There’s always someone out there looking for someone like you.

That’s when luck smiled on you, thanks to a meeting with Tim Duffy and the Music Maker Relief Foundation. How did that happen?

One day, a man named Tim Duffy came to see me while I was playing on the street. I had a bucket in front of me for tips, and it was overflowing. The wind was blowing the bills away. I took a break to stuff the money into a little backpack and put my coat over it. When I came back, this guy asked if he could take a picture. I said yes, but he got so close I thought, “If I’ve got a booger, he’s going to catch it in close-up!” (laughs)

After that, he told me about his project. I didn’t take it too seriously — people make promises all the time that they don’t keep. But he called me a few days later and invited me to come record at his place in North Carolina. I was cautious — being a sharecropper’s son, I learned not to trust too quickly. I told him, “If you buy me a round-trip ticket, I’ll come.” He agreed. We spent half a day talking, then we recorded.

They later sent the recording to Fat Possum Records in Memphis. And that’s how my first album, Age Don’t Mean a Thing, was born.

“I had no idea who Dan Auerbach was”

And it was that same album that put you on the road to Dan Auerbach, the leader of The Black Keys. How did your first meeting happen?

Dan had worked with Fat Possum before starting his own label. He was looking for a singer for a murder ballad project. When we met in Nashville, he introduced himself: “I’m Dan Auerbach.” I replied, “Nice to meet you, I’m Robert Finley.” He burst out laughing — he realized I had no idea who he was!

He played me four tracks and said, “You’ve got four days to record them.” I couldn’t read the lyrics, so he read them to me. He told me not to imitate anyone, but to sing in my own way. And I recorded them all in less than four hours. He was stunned. Then he asked if I wanted to make an album. I said, “That’s been my childhood dream.”

I had already recorded a small record in San Francisco, in a brand-new studio, with a young engineer who wanted to make a name for himself. It was an opportunity for both of us.

Since then, you’ve recorded several albums produced by Dan Auerbach. How did you experience this collaboration between your blues world and his more rock and vintage approach?

Yes, five albums. The first, Lifetime of Blues, then Age Don’t Mean a Thing with Fat Possum. After that, four albums with Dan Auerbach.

After the first one, Dan invited me on the road. The Black Keys weren’t touring anymore, and they decided to start again — with me. I wasn’t an opening act: I was a special guest. Dan would bring me on stage in the middle of his set: “I’ve got a friend I want you to hear.” I’d sing one song, then the crowd would ask for another.

I don’t like to rehearse too much. Every audience is different. If you always play the same thing, it’s like watching the same movie over and over — you already know how it ends. So I always keep an element of improvisation. Even my band has to stay alert: they never know where I’m going, but they always know how to follow when I get there.

After the Blues, the Gospel

Your latest record, deeply soulful, is a gospel album. Why this return to the spiritual roots of your music?

I’d wanted to do that for a long time. Dan told me, “I don’t care what you sing, just sing.” So I sang gospel. There were European musicians in the studio in Nashville. They played, and I started to improvise. No need to write anything down — when you’re telling your life story, it’s always true.

That’s how Sharecropper’s Son was born. Nobody else could tell that story but me. When I sing “working from morning till night,” those are my words, my memories. Same for Black Bayou. We recorded everything like a conversation — just like this one.

Then my daughter [Christy Johnson] posted an old video of me from the 1970s, when I was singing gospel. Dan saw it and said, “We’ve got to make a gospel album.” It just made sense.

You’re performing tonight in Saint-Chamond. Will there be some gospel in your show?

Yes. First, I had to prove that I knew what I was doing before I could have that freedom. Then I took the chance. It’s neither blues nor gospel — it’s just the truth. I sing about life, my faith, my story.

Today, I’m living my childhood dream. And I always say: a winner never gives up, and quitters never win. The secret to success is to stay humble, stay focused, and never give up on your dream.

Thank you very much, Robert.

Thank you.

Listen to Robert Finley’s Album on Spotify