Sinners and the Blues
An Analysis of the Blues as Storyform
In the Beginning Was the Blues
In his 1976 book Stomping the Blues, Albert Murray set out to reveal a truth about the blues: something self-evident, yet often overlooked. The blues, for all its preoccupation with “the most harrowing anxieties, hardships, and misfortunes,” as Murray put it, was fundamentally a music specifically contrived to be entertainment. Like any other music you would hear in a ballroom, dance hall, or club, this music was intended to make people feel good first and foremost. Music of “high spirits,” it contrasted with the feeling of the blues, which is synonymous with “low spirits.” The blues, as a music, is a remedy for the blue feeling life can give. As my father, to whom Albert Murray was a mentor, always used to tell me about the blues:
“Life is a low-down dirty shame, but the sun will still rise tomorrow bringing a new day.”
Sinners and the Blues as a Feeling
As I sat in the movie theater watching Ryan Coogler’s film Sinners, near the end of the film, as the sun rose, delivering the main protagonist from a night scarred by a vampiric reign of terror, I could only think back to this sunrise as a metaphor for that statement about the blues. Sinners is a film that, I believe, truly understands the blues—as a feeling and as a music. The film itself, according to Coogler, was inspired by his late uncle, who was a fan of Mississippi Delta blues music and would recount stories about his youth growing up in Mississippi. After having lost his uncle, Coogler began listening to this music with “a different ear,” as he described it. It was in his blues—his grief for his uncle—that the music clicked for him. Coogler took this new understanding and decided he had to make this film.
The Blues and the Hero’s Journey
Actor Delroy Lindo, who portrayed the character Delta Slim, stated very clearly what he believed the message of the film to be:
“Taking your pain and transforming it into a creative endeavor—even though it is painful—the process of transforming it is a beautiful and very human thing.”
It was a film not only about the cathartic power of music but the cathartic power of a Black American music born out of the resilient spirit of the Black American experience. In his earlier book The Hero and the Blues, Albert Murray wrote the following:
“In a sense, the whole point of the blues idiom lyric is to state the facts of life. Not unlike ancient tragedy, it would have the people for whom it is composed and performed confront, acknowledge, and proceed in spite of, and even in terms of, the ugliness and meanness inherent in the human condition. It is thus a device for making the best of a bad situation.
Not by rendering capitulation tolerable, however, and certainly not by consoling those who would compromise their integrity, but—in its orientation to continuity in the face of adversity and absurdity—the blues idiom lyric is entirely consistent with the folklore and wisdom underlying the rugged endurance of the Black American.”
Murray, in both books, emphasized an idea from art critic André Malraux: that art is primarily a response to art. Artists engage with other forms of art—within and outside their medium—as primary inspiration. Autobiographical experiences function to inform the artistic process. They provide meaning and depth to the tropes used within the medium. Sinners, as a film, is one born out of direct engagement with Mississippi Delta blues and the blues as a musical form. This is shown in the film’s protagonist, Sammie, and his relationship with the blues throughout the film.
Sammie and the Blues
Sinners is a one-night coming-of-age story set in Jim Crow-era Clarksdale, Mississippi, following a naive young blues guitarist named Sammie—nicknamed “Preacherboy.” His chance encounter with the “blues devils”—a group of blues-obsessed vampires—marks the turning point that propels him onto the path of becoming a true bluesman.
As the film progresses, Sammie’s relationship with the blues—a music he loves to play—evolves with his experiences. Throughout the film, he performs three blues songs that serve as touchstones for Sammie’s development. Just as a blues song follows a three-part structure, so too does Sammie’s transformation. I use the musical form of the blues as a framework to analyze Sammie’s character growth and evolution as a blues musician.
The Blues Form as Narrative Structure
The blues, at its simplest, is made up of three chords and can be broken into three sections, each corresponding to one of the chords.
Section 1: The I Chord — The Home Key
This is the beginning of the journey and the foundation the form will always return to.
It’s where the main idea of the blues—musically and lyrically—is stated.
Section 2: The IV Chord
This chord provides contrast.
The main idea is restated but in a new context.
A new perspective is gained before returning to the I.
Section 3: The Turnaround — V to IV to I
This final section involves movement from the V chord to the IV chord and then back to the I.
The turnaround is where catharsis occurs.
One may experience the misfortunes of life, but all is right—the sun will rise tomorrow, and we’re playing the blues.
Imitation and the First Song
Sammie begins the movie in a state of innocence and naivety. As the sheltered son of a preacher, he desires to experience the “real world”—a world he believes has been withheld from him. This means partying and revelry and, most importantly, playing blues music professionally. He sees himself growing up and escaping his father’s shadow, and he carries himself with the bravado of someone unfamiliar with life’s misfortunes. He deepens his voice, takes on responsibilities that aren’t his, and tries to become the idea of a man he’s dreamed up in his head.
He is flanked by two brothers, Smoke and Stack, who serve as the angel and devil on his shoulder. One seeks to protect; the other seeks to tempt. Stack, who gifts Sammie a guitar he claims belonged to Delta Blues legend Charley Patton, sets him off on this night-long odyssey by enlisting him to perform at the opening night of the juke joint he and his brother opened with ill-gotten money. Throughout the film, Stack uses this money to convince people—including Sammie—to work for him and encourages Sammie to indulge himself in his base desires.
Smoke, by contrast, is the realist. He understands the darkness that lurks beneath he façade of the world around them—the very darkness Sammie’s father sought to shield him from. Smoke discourages Sammie from pursuing the life of a blues musician, a life that would drag him further into society’s underbelly. He urges him to either return to his father’s church or move to a mythical all-Black town where he can live free of Jim Crow’s burdens. At a pivotal moment, Smoke calls Sammie’s bluff, exposing the adult persona he’s performing and forcing him to confront the violence underpinning the life he desires.
Sammie’s story is one of innocence to experience, imitation to authenticity. Early on, he imitates his idea of a man, and in his music, imitates what he thinks a blues musician sounds like. He has not yet formed an identity that reflects who he is, and that shows in his music. His first blues functions as the I chord of his journey—a home key where the central theme is stated:
“Travelin’ / I don’t know why in the world I’m here / Travelin’ / I don’t know why in the world I’m here / ’Cause the woman that I’m lovin’ / She sure don’t feel my care.”
On the surface, the lyrics reflect his literal situation—traveling in a car with Stack, unsure of what’s to come. But they also capture his feeling of traveling through life without a sense of purpose or direction, being led by others. He wants the freedom to chart his own path. The last line—about a woman not feeling his care—might reference Pearline, whom he failed to woo earlier in the previous scene, but it also reflects a reliance on tropes and imitation.
It’s no different than a teenage rapper, recounting the experiences and exploits they’ve never experienced. Because he knows this is the kind of thing his audience, Stack would expect from a blues singer, he fulfils that expectation. Stack of course gives him this hyped response, yelling “Woo boy! We gon' make some money, we gon' make some money!”
This imitation isn’t necessarily inauthentic—it’s a necessary step in an artist’s development. As Murray explains:
“Andre Malraux defines art as the means by which the raw material of human experience becomes style. He contends that stylization, whether abstract or representational, is the supreme objective of the creative process. He also maintains that the artist derives not from nature itself but from other artists and that the sense of life which any given artist expresses always involves an interaction with other works of art.”
Visual artists learn through imitation. Within the conventions of a form, they find their voice. Blues riffs don’t sound the way they do just because of pain of the artist—they sound that way because previous blues musicians shaped them. When lived experience begins to inform and merge with these inherited tropes, real meaning emerges.
The IV Chord: Conflict, Depth, and Revelation
The second blues Sammie performs functions as the centerpiece of the film’s most hypnotic scene. This scene corresponds to the IV chord in the blues form of Sammie’s journey. The main idea is reiterated, but now with a different chord and in a new context. Here, we begin to understand the source of Sammie’s uncertainty.
In the song “I Lied to You,” Sammie, standing before a crowd of revelers, confesses to his father—through music—his love for the blues and his decision to pursue it despite his father’s objections. This desire is the crux of his story, and the authentic, conflicted emotion he pours into the song transforms into music that the entire party feels. His playing summons the ghosts of musicians past and future to the dance floor.
But this vulnerability also draws danger. Sammie’s performance calls forth the specter of darkness—still outside his full understanding. It’s at this point that the vampires make their way toward the party, drawn by the raw power of his playing. The metaphor of vampirism—something that leeches off vitality—is made explicit in the motivations of the head vampire, Remmick. He’s fascinated by Sammie’s talent and seeks to harness it for his own gain.
This is a metaphor for a familiar danger faced by many Black artists: exploitation. Remmick represents the system—often embodied by powerful white executives—where artistry is valued only for its profitability. The artist’s humanity is reduced to numbers.
Remmick’s offer to Sammie is tempting: through vampiric transformation, he promises escape from pain, eternal life, and a kind of communal brotherhood. Later, Remmick and the other vampires perform an Irish jig—a scene that mirrors the earlier juke joint performance. The film invites us to compare the two. Both scenes seem celebratory on the surface, but the spirit beneath them differs completely. The blues is a music that confronts despair and transforms it. Remmick offers an escape—but it’s an illusion. The vampires function as a hive mind. No freedom. No self-determination. Only his will and his desires.
Remmick’s Irish heritage adds a layer of complexity. He, too, comes from a historically oppressed people. But by choosing to escape his pain through vampirism, he’s damned himself—and others—to a cycle of spiritual theft. Though he claims to understand and love Black music, he ultimately misunderstands its soul. He mistakes its power for something to be consumed, not something to be lived.
The Turnaround
This brings us to the final step in Sammie’s evolution as a blues musician: the turnaround, the final section of the blues. Here, the progression moves from the V chord to the IV chord and finally back to the I—returning home with a deeper perspective and a sense of resolution before the cycle begins again.
Sammie, having had a near-death encounter with Remmick—a literal dance with the devil—is saved at the last moment by his cousin Smoke. The sun rises, and both are delivered from the vampires. After all that’s happened, one truth remains: the sun will always rise to bring a new day.
It’s significant that Stack—the brother who tempted Sammie—was the one turned into a vampire, completing his transformation from metaphorical devil to literal one. Smoke then reveals another truth: the guitar Stack gifted Sammie didn’t belong to Charley Patton. It belonged to their father, a man known for wickedness. Another illusion, shattered.
Now we arrive at Sammie’s final performance. Back at his father’s church, standing before the congregation, his father urges him to give up the guitar, to let go of the blues, and to devote his musical gift to the church. But Sammie, after all he’s seen and experienced, can’t do it. He still loves the music. He cannot part with it.
So, he leaves. He hits the road, clutching the broken remnants of the guitar as he walks away—still traveling, still unsure of where he’s going or why.
In one of the film’s most powerful moments, this image of young Sammie walking away is match cut with adult Sammie—now portrayed by blues legend Buddy Guy—performing a blues whose riffs are rich with lived experience. It’s a deeply affecting transition. Sammie has chosen an uncertain, painful freedom over the security of conformity. He plays the blues now not just as music, but as his testimony. He is exorcising his demons every day. The blues has become his way of life.
What Is the Relevance of the Blues Today?
With the popularity of Sinners and the critical acclaim it has received, one question continues to echo in my mind: What is the relevance of the blues today?
We live in a culture where negative feelings are often met with escapism—through drugs, entertainment, or distraction. We seek to numb instead of confront. Yet the blues, both the music and the feeling, teaches us something different. It calls us to catharsis, not avoidance.
The "blue feeling" is still one of the central challenges facing American society. Just look at how we relate to drugs and alcohol—longstanding “remedies” for despair. Drug overdose is one of the leading causes of death in the country. These substances are not just ever-present; they’re celebrated in popular culture. Even in hip-hop—one of the blues' direct descendants—lyrics have evolved. They once told the stories of drug dealers and street hustlers. Now, more often, they speak from the perspective of the user. The shift reflects a deeper cultural depression.
Where these lyrics once stylized a dangerous lifestyle, many now sound like confessionals—moody, melancholic, numb. Alcohol, marijuana, opioids—these substances don’t heighten experience. They mute it. They offer escape, not exaltation. As Albert Murray once wrote:
“Whiskey, gin, brandy, vodka, wines, and other alcoholic beverages and concoctions are also traditional antidotes, or in any case personal fortifications, against the pernicious effects of the blues. And so are narcotics. But while for many people the stimulation of liquor and/or drugs is often sufficient to get them going or sometimes even to help them through many very difficult situations, the problem for countless others is not only that such stimulation is not enough but when it subsides you are likely to find the same old blues still very much there and indeed nagging at you worse than ever—not to mention how they thrive and multiply on the nourishment of your hangover.”
And that’s the heart of the problem: we keep trying to escape the blues. We keep taking Remmick’s deal. But the escape is temporary. And when it fades, the blue feeling often returns—worse than before.
A Music That Never Left
Black American culture was forged in “the most harrowing anxieties, hardships, and misfortunes”—from slavery to Jim Crow to mass incarceration. But that’s not what defines the culture. What defines it is perseverance. The blues is not about giving in. It’s about pressing on. It’s what Murray called resistance to “the folklore of white supremacy.”
What Ryan Coogler highlights so brilliantly in Sinners—particularly in the dance scene—is the timelessness of music. A single musical phrase can echo across centuries and anticipate what’s still to come. This is the power of the blues.
A music created over a century ago still has relevance in today’s commodified world. And it makes sense. If you look across the spectrum of American music—jazz, country, gospel, rock, R&B, hip-hop—you’ll see the imprint of the blues.
The blues never left.
It’s always been here.
And we still need it.
I will never see Sinners as I don’t do horror movies, but your analysis on the music that surrounds this movie is outstanding and excellent explained. Well done Wynton👏👏
Magnificent writing!