Way back last decade, at the end of 2008 to be exact, I predicted a column on the gypsy as portrayed in rock ‘n’ soul. Well, let’s just say it took me a while to distinguish voodoo from hoodoo, and a true-blooded gypsy from a down-home fortune teller or conjurer. This literally colorful archetype has faded from popularity in song since her blues roots and ’60s and ’70s rock peak as a theme, a time when her style became rock iconic thanks to Cher, Linda Ronstadt, and Stevie Nicks, to name a few. But I predict she’ll make a comeback, in that kind of everything old is new again way. Not that I believe in future predictions or anything, but simply for entertainment purposes, I’ve prepared this first column of the first month of the first year of the new decade as a token of health, happiness, and prosperity, in tribute to gypsies young and old (without actually consulting one).

Let it be a given by now that when we talk of the origins of rock we’re talking largely about the blues, an idiom in which the gypsy is a well-known character, her ways and means a favored subject. But we’d never leave the settlement if we dwell here too long, so like the gypsies, we’re just going to pass through: “Gypsy Glass Blues” by Ida Cox, in which the blueswoman learns that someone’s put a hoodoo (or a curse) on her, according to what she sees in the crystal ball, dates back to 1927. Furry Lewis was talking gypsies in “Black Gypsy Blues” in the ’20s as well, though it wasn’t the kindest portrayal: “My woman must be a black gypsy / She knows every place I go.” Robert Johnson’s songs are famously filled with references to the magic of the conjurers and to local hoodoo practice. In the ’30s, Memphis Minnie admonished, “Don’t put that thing on me,” in her “Hoodoo Lady.” Then along came Muddy Waters: “You know the gypsy woman told me that you your mother’s bad luck child.” “Gypsy Woman” from 1947 began a long catalog of songs by him that often told of the tools of the conjurer and hoodoo practitioner—the mojo hands and John the Conqueroo of African-American/Creole folk magic. “Hoochie Coochie Man” from 1954 refers to the gypsy woman’s prediction of a lucky seventh son and his later signature number, “I’ve Got My Mojo Working”, declares, “I got a gypsy woman giving me advice.”

And now it’s time for a little clarification: I’ve concluded, thanks to plenty of input from blues students far and wide, that when the blues people of the American South are talking gypsy, they are more likely referring to a hoodoo woman—a practitioner of a special line of magic, though there is also a character known as a “black gypsy,” a hoodoo woman or conjurer dressed in the clothes of a Romany, or gypsy of European descent (for our less than scholarly purposes, we might call her a gypsy gypsy). The European gypsy, with her ancient roots in India (ergo the bangles, gold hoop earrings, and nose rings), is descended from the people collectively known around the world as the Rom or Romany, many of whom made their way to the Americas as involuntarily as slaves did. Cast out of their homelands, they learned to live by their wits by necessity, presumably developing their acute sixth sense as a method of survival. But let’s just say I could be wrong about all of this. The study of esoteric practices are purposefully kept obscure for obvious reasons and true histories of marginalized populations are still being uncovered by their survivors—this is not necessarily a history for me to tell. Plus, the parsing of fact and fiction passed down through folklore’s stories, songs, and drawings are best left to the specialists. However, a few things seem certain: Hoodoo isn’t voodoo, even though the words sound similar and both were traditionally practiced in the environs of the Deep South, and a gypsy isn’t a hoodoo lady. I mention any of this because it’s essential information as we move into the ’60s, toward rock’s two most enduring songs on the subject of the magic woman: Curtis Mayfield’s “Gypsy Woman” and the Allen Toussaint-penned “Fortune Teller.”

Following the departure of Jerry Butler, the Mayfield-led the Impressions wasted no time in scoring a 1961 hit with “Gypsy Woman”, a song more about being innocently smitten by a dancing gypsy rolling through town with a traveling show than with any spells being cast by her. Widely covered by artists across genres (Brian Hyland had an extremely mellow rock hit with it in 1970), the song has stayed in circulation. Most recently, it was covered by Bruce Springsteen (more on the Boss and gypsies in a minute) on a tribute to Mayfield, as well as by George Clinton (!) and Aaron Neville; both played it pretty straight with faithful versions. Coincidentally, credit went to Naomi Neville (no relation), on “Fortune Teller”, as it was the early songwriting pseudonym of New Orleans piano man Toussaint. The song has since become a rock ‘n’ roll standard that has weathered the decades since it was first cut by Benny Spellman in 1962. Perhaps most famous is the jangly version by the Rolling Stones, followed by the Who’s monster metal attack, left for decades unreleased as a studio recording but known, rather, for the band’s persistent live performances of it between 1968-1970 (it became available on the reissue editions of Live at Leeds with bonus tracks). Today, the song enjoys renewed popularity thanks to Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, who brought it back as a dreamy addition to Raising Sand.

With the mystical practices of the old Deep South out of the trick bag by the early ’60s, the door had been opened wide for scholars and lookie loos to make what they would of matters that should likely be left to professionals. It could possibly be argued that when these songs and stories of hoodoo reached young English musicians, the likes of the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin to name but two, their dabbling in folk ritual even became dangerous (as in, all that bad omen stuff that surrounded them). Leave it to Bob Dylan to know better than to take anything lightly on the conjuring side—though he certainly did use the gypsy archetype as metaphor and storytelling device. “Went to See the Gypsy” has long been believed to be a reference to Elvis Presley’s mid-life comeback (“He did it in Las Vegas and he can do it here”). His “One More Cup of Coffee”, concerning gypsies, has turned into one of his more enduring pieces of late: The White Stripes’ debut album version, the solo Robert Plant update (there he goes again with the gypsies), and its appearance in the film I’m Not There, as performed by Roger McGuinn and Calexico, are all evocative of gypsy music style as well as lifestyle. And any breakdown of gypsies in rock would be incomplete without the king or at least the leader of the Band of Gypsys, Jimi Hendrix, singer of “Gypsy Eyes.” Hendrix’s involvement with all matters mystical has been widely documented. In addition to his blues roots, he may’ve also been inspired gypsy-wise by one of his heroes, Curtis Mayfield.

The gypsy’s turn in the spotlight continued though things started to turn dark with “Black Magic Woman”, the Fleetwood Mac song popularized by Santana; it was followed by a rash of “evil” and “witchy” woman songs. This is not the gypsy in songs we know and love. The Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac was famously baked in the blues, so naturally magic would be its domain long before the band had its own resident gypsy in the form of Stevie Nicks, whose own “Gypsy” bears little resonance to any of the previously mentioned songs and was simply a vessel for her magical leanings and twirly dancing. Nicks was, in part, working in the tradition of Cher, the deep-throated and wildly fashioned singer of “Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves” and “Dark Lady”, the fortune queen of New Orleans, two hits packed with gypsy detail.

Gypsies remain entrenched in classic rock. Van Morrison (from “Caravan” to “Into the Mystic”, “Gypsy Queen”, and “Gypsy in My Soul”) repeatedly drops musical accents, style, and imagery of gypsies into his music. In early days, Springsteen affected the look of a modern day, inner-city gypsy; his band of be-scarfed travelers and his tales of broken promises (“maybe baby the gypsy lied” from “Brilliant Disguise”) and broken dreams (”Gypsy Biker”) continue to draw from fortune teller and outlaw archetypes. And in case you think I’ve forgotten, please allow me to introduce Keith Richards.

In recent years, with the exception of the odd Morrison and Springsteen track, songs referring to gypsies have been on the wane; instead, they have been replaced by rock ‘n’ roll songs by an actual band of gypsies. Gogol Bordello needn’t write punk rock songs about gypsies, since they are gypsies. The need for the gadjo or outsider’s projection of gypsy life has been rendered obsolete single-handedly by Eugene Hütz.

Whether or not it’s possible to predict the future, there surely seems to be a call for the gypsy’s services and especially its tools for survival. How else to explain the prevalence of street corner psychic reading shops? There is something about a certain type of human’s condition that makes us want to believe in lore as well as predictions. Whether she’s right or wrong is kinda beside the point, though either way, it’s probably a good idea to always keep a little mojo close at hand.

Watch: The Who, “Fortune Teller” [at youtube.com]

Watch: Jimi Hendrix, “Gypsy Eyes” [at youtube.com]