Sometimes you feel called to pilgrimage. Perhaps once in a lifetime, perhaps again and again. It is an longing related to spirit, unrelated to reason and thought. At twenty-one, I began haunting Norman Sylvester's Thursday night sets at the Candlelight Room in Portland. I was immediately comfortable in that raucous dive, drawn to old sounds. It was his slow blues, electric guitar solos that felt like a long, slow drag on a cigarette, that got under my skin. I can still hear it. Ever since, I have sought out live blues and blues history. But this year it was time for me to finally seek the source of the music itself, the Mississippi Delta. Though Danielle is also a fan, she encouraged me to undertake this mission on my own -- so long as I scouted everything for a return trip. I landed in Memphis, playing the musical tourist by immediately visiting Sun Studio and Stax Records. Though these are shrines to the outgrowths of delta blues (rock and soul), it was none-the-less a thrill to stand in the footsteps of Johnny Cash, Elvis, Booker T., Otis Redding and countless more. Still, I didn't linger, driving south on Highway 61 the next day, bound for Clarksdale, Mississippi.
After the extreme classism of south Florida, Clarksdale was a revelation. Racial disparities and economic neglect are present, no doubt, but the warmth and hospitality of the people -- black, white, privileged or poor -- was tangible. Half the town is a crumbling ruin, never having lost its veneer of 1940's signs and murals, but the other half is lovingly restored. Quite the backdrop for the Juke Joint Music Festival, a full-throated celebration of the last few blues halls remaining -- and a tribute to the aging blues men and women of Mississippi, most of whom never saw a record contract. Day-time stages were set up on the streets, or inside abandoned theaters and banks. At night the jukes came alive, pulsing with dancers.
Every year, a few more of the old timers pass on. The oldest I saw perform was 89 years old, and one show was canceled due to a sudden hospitalization. But I also saw the grandchildren of my hill country idols (RL Burnside, Junior Kimbrough), carrying on the tradition and taking the hypnotic stomp of the forebears in new directions. As the Reverend KM Williams put in, taking a breather from his one-string cigar-box guitar, "the blues helps you get through the day-to-day. Come Friday or Saturday we make this joyful noise. I have learned that we can ALL be different. Just let each other be different, and come together, you know?".
I was grateful to share a day of the festival with an old LSU friend, Thorpe, whom I hadn't seen in nine years. It also felt good to tear up the dance floor on my own, just letting the music wash over me, unabashed. My worn out shoes will attest to a budding love affair with my new musical home. I thought this trip would be a one-off, but now I'm conspiring to return every year. After all, this is not the music of the mainstream. If I want it to continue, I've got to directly support its messengers.
Memphis, where rock and soul took to the airwaves.
Re-purposing abandoned storefronts and theaters for some serious blues.
Club 2000 and Red's Lounge, nearly the last of the Juke Joints.
Rocking an old cotton plantation outside of town.
No comments:
Post a Comment