Note: I am still on holiday and so not posting about anything financial. I will be back on-topic shortly.
Clarksdale–mecca of the blues
And so our rented 4×4 finally rolls onto the hallowed ground of Clarksdale. This smallish town is to music what Tabasco is to food: small but delivering of a mighty punch. It has been birthplace or home to a ridiculous number of wonderful musicians, including: Muddy Waters, Willie Brown, Sam Cooke, John Lee Hooker, Son House, Junior Parker and Ike Turner. As if that is not enough, the ever elusive Robert Johnson might well have had dubious dealings in Clarksdale, Bessie Smith died here, and Tennessee Williams grew up on these streets. I know Tennessee Williams doesn’t fit in with this lot but it does go to show that Clarksdale has a lot to be proud of.
The blues museum here is ok; it is not as slick as BB King’s in Indianola or as warm as Leland’s, but it is important–Clarksdale deserves a museum more than anywhere else in the region. The museum, rather amusingly, does exhibit what it is claimed are the remnants of Muddy Waters’ old cabin from his famous Stovall Farm tractor gig. Now, accuse me of having a suspicious mind, but this stretches things a little too far, even for as obligingly gullible a tourist as me. Nevertheless, we paused respectfully in the Hoochie Coochie man’s cabin and absorbed what else the museum had to offer before stumbling on to the superb Yazoo Pass café. I would not have expected to be trumpeting a café in Clarksdale, but the salad bar here is a life-saver: a gleaming green oasis of nutrition in what is otherwise a desert of deep-fried food. We ate more heartily than a field of caterpillars, and I am most certainly developing a taste for these American style jumbo salads which manage to incorporate everything from bacon and grapes to blue cheese and strawberries. Delicious and excellent sustenance before heading out for some live music.
In addition to all the real blues history that Clarksdale has contributed to, there is also the little bit of mythology about the crossroads and Robert Johnson. Son House, however, was adamant that the crossroads at Clarksdale was NOT the actual crossroads where the deal was done. Having stood on the spot in Clarksdale, looked up at the big blue plastic guitars, gazed over to the Chucky Chicken place and gas station across the road, my gut instinct is that SH was correct–Rosedale it undoubtedly was.
Finally, for anyone else who is sick of Holiday Inns/Comfort Inns/Super 8s, you can rent a shack nearby Clarksdale to complete your rural immersion. Here was the cute little dwelling place in which we set up shop in for the night (it does have hot water and the electric):
I would like to take it back to London.
Memphis–Elvis country
Of course Memphis is about much more than the Big Man, but his shadow certainly looms large and wherever you are a pair of sideburns or some other sort of amusing memorabilia is likely to pop up. When an elephant is present in the room, it is usually advisable to address it without delay and so we went straight to Graceland.
I have mixed feelings about The King; I love his Sun recordings, enjoy a lot of his RCA records, and like a few of the later period recordings. Graceland, however, is nothing to do with any of this. It is just a house; big but not massive, and luxurious but not decadent. You won’t learn anything about his musical tastes or influences here and there are far more televisions than guitars or records. The tourist management is as slick as it gets–you are ushered from room to room by means of iPad and/or tour guide and the whole operation was so smooth that I needed to look down just to check that I wasn’t standing on some sort of magic carpet. But it was fun to be there and enjoyable to check out the absurdly over the top cars and gold-fittings in his aeroplane etc. To me the house spoke of a fairly simple man with a sense of humour and a very large income while the running of the Graceland attraction spoke of a great management company. I bought a t-shirt and left happy, albeit fairly unenlightened.
One amusing incidental to our Graceland visit was that, when we arrived the song that was playing on our stereo (from my mobile phone, not the radio) was Burning Love. Imagine my delight, therefore, at the coincidence when that also turned out to be the song playing on the public speakers in the Graceland car park at exactly the same time. Uh-huh!