Thunderstruck

Heading for the Delta

By Steve Beard and Troy Meier

Entry 11. Friday, October 22, 2004

Click photos to enlarge

We had been asleep for four hours when the wake-up call rang in our room at 6:30 a.m. Aside from being dead tired, we were in need of some serious breakfast chow so we headed to Cafe du Monde for coffee and beignets (ben YAY). It was sunny and muggy. While the vast majority of patrons were outside watching the tourists stroll, we headed straight into the air conditioning. These beignets are square, fluffy doughnuts covered in powdered sugar. The staff is made up of a legion of talkative Vietnamese women. What a great way to start off our trip.

We hated to leave New Orleans. What an interesting city -- no, not because of Bourbon Street. We really had so much more we wanted to do while we were there, aside from eating the great food. We were not able to visit any cemeteries, talk to artists (such as the guy pictured here), take the Haunted Tour from one of those goth chicks, or check out Frenchman Street where the locals go to hear music. We’ll have to come back.

The New Orleans football team is called the Saints and the city is very Roman Catholic. Simultaneously, there is this voodoo thing going on and tarot card readers are on every street corner. This place is buzzing with spiritual crosscurrents. We could have used another day, but I am almost giddy to escape this unforgiving humidity.

We listened to Jeremy Lyons and the Deltabilly Boys, the Best of Jackie Wilson, and some Sonny Boy Williamson on the road.

Around lunchtime we stopped in Yazoo City, Mississippi, just because we liked the name. From her little roadside stand called The Pig Shack, Shirley Reeves served us some terrific ribs, hot links, and a BBQ Poboy. Yazoo City is famous for being featured in the movie, My Dog Skip. We found out that there were segments of O' Brother Where Art Thou and Miss Firecracker also filmed in town.

We are headed to Clarksdale, Mississippi -- the birthplace of Tennessee Williams, John Lee Hooker, Ike Turner, Muddy Waters, and Sam Cooke. Blues legend W.C. Handy is said to have transcribed the first blues song here and blues queen Bessie Smith died here in a tragic accident. It is also the place where Robert Johnson supposedly met Old Scratch at the crossroads.

It is fitting that we started this trip by enjoying the luxury of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis and we end the trip by crashing at the Shack Up Inn. The Hopson Plantation has been around for almost 150 years in Clarksdale. It is now home to two of the most interesting places on our trip: The Hopson Commissary and the Shack Up Inn. Since we arrived on a Thursday night, we were able to enjoy the blues jam session at the Commissary where local musicians let loose with the blues boogie. They also serve up some great pulled pork BBQ sandwiches that they cook on a converted BBQ tractor (picture below). The interior of the Commissary is worth the price of admission, except there isn't any. It is a cross between a museum and a flea market.

Virtually all of the guests at the Shack Up Inn were hanging out at the Commissary. We met a couple from New Orleans who saw the Inn on the internet and had to check it out. They shared with us terribly interesting stories about some of the musicians from the Big Easy, such as the Neville Brothers. We ate dinner with an Australian named Mark who is on a 6-week exploration of the United States. Turns out that he was at the same gig last Sunday we attended in Lafayette. Small world.

The Shack Up Inn has got to be one of the more unique overnight experiences one can imagine, short of sleeping in one of these teepees that you sometimes see along the highway. Basically, a handful of guys thought that it would be great if the old Hopson Plantation would acquire old shacks, fix them enough to make it comfortable, and decorate them in the most eclectic ways imaginable. We stayed in bluesman Robert Clay's shack and we were blown away. Apparently, Elvis Costello stayed in this shack when he was in town to record an album. What a blast. It is like visiting someone’s old mountain cabin, without the mildew smell. Yes, there is running water, and plumbing, and (thank you, Lord) air-conditioning. There is no phone or television service in the shacks. There is satellite blues radio 24/7 for your listening enjoyment, or you can check out one of the movies in the lobby to watch on a VCR. They offer free long distance and internet services, as well. For those who prefer a bit less rustic lodgings, there are six additional non-shack quarters that are decorated in Delta Blues themes (a bathroom mural can be found below).

The Hopson Plantation and Shack Up Inn have become a kind of hang out for locals who dig meeting all the funky overnight guests who are drawn to a place like Clarksdale. One evening we chatted with a guy who used to be an associate of gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson. At another time, we hung out with a man who was riding a bike from Kansas to Florida (yes it is a long but interesting story) and ended up moving to Clarksdale because of the musical draw.

At night, we headed into town to check out Sarah's Kitchen, where we heard they would be peeling the paint with the blues. Turns out, this was not the night. We ducked in next door to the Delta Blues Cafe. Once again, our gleaming white faces were in the severe minority, but there were no worries because we were more than welcome. We ran into the Belgium film crew again, having met them in Lafayette. Axl, their on-screen host, was sharing with us about the interest in American roots music and we exchanged notes about where they had been and where we had been.

When I asked if they had filmed at the Rev. Al Green's church in Memphis, Axl got all indignant. "No, he is too right-wing. I do not like what he preaches. He is homophobic." I looked at our European friend, and said, "Ah, but he is Al Green." For a moment, Axl got the picture and said, "Yes, yes, I will show respect. But I still do not like what he preaches." The conversation kind of flittered away after that. So much for liberal tolerance. Look, whatever you think about what Al Green may or may not have said about homosexuality, you simply cannot do a documentary on American music and leave him out. It is called prejudice and it stems from bigotry. It’s ugly.

When we walked out of the Delta Blues Cafe, we ran into a couple who had recently moved to Clarksdale from Florida. They wanted to know if we were musicians. I pointed to Troy and their faces lit up. They talked for a while and then they called someone on their cell-phone. It was after midnight, and my head was throbbing from a cold that I have now had for 10 days. Nevertheless, I know that Troy would eat up the opportunity to head off to some seedy juke joint to blow the harp or play the slide guitar.

Well, apparently this couple had called a local guy and he had agreed to open up his club for a little late night jam session. They just told us to follow them. Well, all of my reservations where quickly giving way to the fact that this is the kind of thing that lands one in jail or ends up being one of those real blasts. We get there and we meet Terry "Big T" Williams and here he is opening up his juke joint, The Blues Spot, at 12:30 in the morning so that some jabber jaw white folks can play the blues. He was exceedingly gracious.

Big T teaches guitar at the Delta Blues Museum's music program for kids and has been playing the blues for more than two decades. Needless to say, he is really good. He played bass for a while, while Troy played guitar, the wife played drums and the husband played sax. Me? I hung my head in my hands trying to ease the throbbing nature of an aching ear. Troy, of course, was like a pig in slop. I could not have been more jazzed for him and I kicked myself for having stopped playing the bass so long ago. Meanwhile, all manner of locals started filtering in and out of the club, some lighting fat boys, while others just wanted to play pool. This was part of the road trip--no regrets, no reservations, just swinging at the curveballs and seeing what happens.

At 2 a.m., I put the kabosh on the evening and told Troy that I had to call it a night. It was like telling your kid to put down the new toys on Christmas night and go to bed. Am I getting too old for this? I hope not.

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