[The last leg of our road trip and my final holiday post. The return to reality looms…]
West Point
West Point is the home town of Howlin’ Wolf, a man with a voice rougher than sandpaper and more menacing than an old shotgun. He was a great singer but also had the good sense to work with a brilliant guitarist–Hubert Sumlin–whose playing added another layer of interest to Wolf’ s records.
Despite the hard sound, however, HW was by all accounts a very nice man. He looked after his band well, even going so far as to pay their health insurance (a very American touch) and also seemed to be much loved in his hometown, to which he continued to return for concerts throughout his life. In addition to the usual Mississippi Blues Trail plaque, there is also a prominently situated statue to his memory, which is sometihng I haven’t seen for any of the other musicians in the region (although Satchmo does have his own park and airport).
Our hotel in West Point was situated opposite one of those excellent Edward Hopper-style diners (I admit to loving these). Needless to say I had to try it and was delighted to discover sample some of the local fare I haven’t had the opportunity to try yet: fried green tomatoes, fried pickles, fried okra, hush puppies (fried bread), and fried catfish. Every single item except the catfish was new to me as a candidate for battering and deep-frying. By way of cultural exchange, I should have suggested to the cook that he tried battering and deep-frying a Mars bar (that much derided but actually very tasty Glaswegian speciality). My golden plate was an experience, but the post-dinner heavy feeling told me that this sort of fodder isn’t something I should be eating regularly. We went for a big walk around the enormous local Walmart to work it off.
Meridian
Jimmie Rodgers is to country music what Charlie Patton is to blues: the Daddy, or the Daddy-O, I should say. The Singing Brakeman was the first superstar of country and enjoyed huge success before succumbing–aged only 36–to that old TB.
The Jimmie Rodgers museum, in Meridian Mississippi, was our last stop before we returned to New Orleans but I am glad we made it. It contains a wealth of information about the man and all the bits and pieces you could want to look at (everything from his guitar, which is insured for over a million dollars, to his railroad tools) or read about.
The curator/guide was a mine of information and enthusiasm and it was enjoyable to chat to her about JR and country music. She told us that Britt Gully, another Meridian man, recently used JR’s guitar to record a tribute album. To think that this is the first time the guitar has seen active service in 80 years makes you aware of how old some of JR’s music now is. It is heartening to see the museum still keeping the flame burning. I will check out the Britt Gully album in due course.
New Orleans (reprise)
And so we have come full circle. The trip turned out to be all that I could have hoped for and it has given us memories for life; everything from nearly losing control of our 4×4 in a field near Holly Ridge, Pat Thomas materialising beside his painting in Leland, and eating hot tamales in Rosedale. There were also incidents involving lost (or misplaced) credit cards and a toilet plunger that I have decided it is better not to share!
What was the best music I heard over the two weeks? The Opry? Something in one of the many bars or clubs we visited? The best was those ramshackle gatherings of music loving kids on Frenchmen Street in New Orleans: A bass drum, snare drum, tuba, and then a few trombones and trumpets blown hard and loud with bags of talent, rhythm and enthusiasm. What could beat that?
Bur for now it is back to London where all everyone seems to be talking about is Scotland. This is going to make interesting watching over the next week or two. Fortunately I bought a few records on my travels to give myself something to listen to and help keep my sense of perspective.