Just a thought

Okay, I'm actually back home now, settling in at the comfort of my own desk. Unfortunately, there was simply not a single moment between Clarksdale and New Orleans to find a functioning computer and update you on the latest goings on. I did find something resembling a computer at New Orleans airport on the way home, and I foolishly fed it my credit card. It gave me 30 mins of credit, and then promptly crashed. As they say in the States: aaahhhh man!!

Where was I then? Well, we stayed another night in Clarksdale, and went to Ground Zero blues club, owned by "famous" US actor Morgan Freeman (I think he plays God in Bruce Almighty, otherwise I have no idea). You walk in off a street that could be from the 1920s into a supposedly "authentic" looking juke joint - which has pool tables, high ceilings and baseball on wide screen TVs. We also had some famous hot tamalas (quoting a Robert Johnson song which is the title of this blog: "Hot tamalas and they're red hot, yeees she got 'em for sale"), but they weren't at all hot, even for my own particularly delicate palate. Just tasted of curry to me (which also means I didn't really like them).

In the morning we made our way to Jackson, state capital of Mississippi, and another place "you don wanna go to man, or you get killed". People have said that about almost everywhere we've been though, and I'm now safely back home (just to stop Mum and Dad from worrying). This was the only night when we didn't have any accommodation booked, but we thought we'd just be able to rock up at a motel and have a $30 room. No such luck. We'd managed to arrive the night before Jackson's biggest festival of culture and music, and there was no room at the Inn. After driving round aimlessly for about an hour, we finally stumbled on the Quality Inn, where they only had suites left, so Sam and I, getting rather desparate by then, decided to spend some real quality time together in our honeymoon suite. I'll stop there before I start to frighten people.

We spent the evening at the 930 Blues Club, where we once again basked in the glory of being English. "Yuuuuu seeeem to haaave an accseent" we were told. "I'm afraid so" I replied, but our general sense of irony seemed to be lost in translation. Never mind. We also met someone who seemed to be some sort of local impresario and was keen on booking our band for some gigs in the Delta area. I wasn't sure whether she was prepared to fly us all out for the privilege, but I won't complain. It's slightly better than the Dog and Duck on a dreary Wednesday night in Brighton. I've got her card and live in hope.

Next morning we set off early for New Orleans, our last stop on this grand blues tour. The land started to get greener, hillier, and we passed over some impressive suspension bridges across the lakes and bays which surround New Orleans. After dropping the car off at the airport (tears were shed as we waved goodbye to our trusty Mustang), we made our way into downtown by bus. All the talk of the destruction from Hurricane Katrina still not being fixed was actually hard to see. Everything on our bus route looked pretty solid, but we were told later that it was other (low lying) parts of the city which were worst hit, and nobody has seen any of the money raised to fix it. Politicians eh?

It's a sultry and tropical climate down in New Orleans, and the air is thick with jazz, blues, and the spirit of "letting the good times roll". There were lizards in our back yard, and the most gigantic dragonfiles I've ever seen. If you stop and listen to the birdsong, it's totally different from home, you really feel somewhere far flung and exotic.

In the evening we went in search of more music. The main street for partying in New Orleans is Bourbon Street, where even at 3pm it looks like everything is in full swing. "Looks like people have fun there" said Sam with his trademark dry wit. But by night it rather disappointingly turns into something from the Algarve - full of tourists, hardcore dance music, and flashing neon lights. All they need is a bar showing re-runs of Only Fools and Horses and they'll have cracked it. After our exploits in some fairly remote parts of the Deep South, this was a bit much, so we went in search of something a little more "local". We eventually found it on Fishman Street, which seemed to be where the locals hang out. Jazz and blues wail from almost every building, and people just seem to keep going and going - it really is an awesome experience. You could definitely do with a good few days here to properly absorb the spirit and feel of the place. But alas we had to wearily make our way home, conscious of the long journey back to England the next day.

Our trip was all but over. Nonetheless, it has been an amazing experience, and one I won't forget in a long time (especially if I print out and keep these inane ramblings, which was part of the intention of doing this blog - as well as for some general entertainment, of course). I hope I've learnt a little something more about America, its music and its culture - but even if I haven't, it's been great fun just being here. You guys ROCK!!

Here's to Blues Tour 2008 (TBA)...

I didn't fall down on my knees, but I took lots of cheesy photos and looked very much like the archetypal British blues tourist. Oh well.

For those who aren't aware of this historic location, "the crossroads" is where Highway 61 and Highway 49 meet, and is where Robert Johnson ("King of the Delta Blues") is said to have fallen down on his knees, and made a pact with the devil in return for becoming a master blues guitarist. Nobody knows if this story is actually true, but it's another great tourist trap just like Sun Studios in Memphis. A far cry from my vivid imagination of this sacred spot, the crossroads are now surrounded by a petrol station, a second hand furniture store, and a couple of greasy American diners. The local authorities have managed to stretch to a kitch-looking sign which consists of a couple of Gretch electric guitars (despite the fact the Robert Johnson would have been playing an acoustic in the 1930s) lit up above a sign which simply says "The Crossroads". Another illusion shattered.

Aside from this, we've had great fun cruising round the Mississippi Delta in our Ford Mustang, gently nodding our heads to the strains of Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf et al on the stereo. Pictures to follow...

Last night we pulled up at a classic Deep South BBQ restaurant in downtown Clarksdale, where everybody was bending over backwards to help us. Everyone is exceptionally friendly here - we've been told on a number of occasions that it's a pleasure for us to be here, shortly followed by "aaaahhh love yeer accccseeent, where ya fraaam?" Cue some Hugh Grantesque blustering from us, and they're eating out of our hands. Great stuff. Anyway, back to the restaurant, as I was driving I wanted to know if I could have a beer with dinner, so I thought I'd ask the waitress what the drink driving laws were in Mississippi. Ever keen to help, she got straight on her "cell phone" and asked a few questions. After she'd hung up, I asked who she was talking to:

"That waaaas the powlice" she said.

Slightly alarmed that she'd now tipped me off, I asked what they said to her.

"They saaaid yawu can drink as muuuuch as yawu laaaike, as laaoong as yawu don get caught"

Imagining the Dukes of Hazard now waiting for me outside, I decided to stick to the coke.

We've been doing more "cultural" things which I won't bore you with, aside from the fact that each new town we pass through seems to claim to be the "home of the blues". I've also found out there's quite a family of blues forefathers to remember:

W C Handy - "The Grandfather of the Blues"
Muddy Waters - "The Godfather of the Blues"
BB King - "The King of the Blues"
Koko Taylor - "The Queen of the Blues"
Robert Johnson - "King of the Delta Blues"

I'm sure these honerable titles must have been settled after a huge lawsuit between all the estates.

Tomorrow we leave Clarksdale for Jackson, needless to say via some significant Delta Blues sites. We met someone tonight who comes from there, and she told us to make sure we go to Finnigan's, but I think coming all this way to go to an Irish themed pub might be a little frivilous. Hopefully we'll find some more live blues (no bands full of 12-year-olds please) and accommodation in a classic American "motel" with a neon sign which has a couple of letters missing. I expect nothing less.

...that song came on in the bar we were in last night - I'd never really listened to it properly before. Does anyone know who wrote it?

Well, it's been a little while since the last blog (I'm sure you were all waiting with baited breath), and we're down in Memphis right now. Got the overnight train from Chicago - very pleasant, if a little cramped. We arrived at 5.30am, Sam told me the station looked like Maidenhead. Not a good start. (later on he said the town looks like Windsor, hmmmm...)

We did all the things you do in Memphis, apart from see Graceland. The guy in the taxi from the station said "yauw guys gonna go to Graceland?" To which Sam curtly replied "nah, I don't really like Elvis". Great job.

After breakfast at TGI Fridays, we went to the Gibson guitar factory, and then the museum of rock and soul. Saw WC Handy's house and strolled up and down Beale St (the heart of Memphis downtown, so the guide book tells us). I won't bore you with the detail, but that was the cultured bit.

In the evening, we went to the BASEBALL!! Now that was an experience to treasure. It was the Memphis Redbirds against the Nashville Sounds - clearly a derby clash to provoke a fierce rivalry amongst fans. At least that's what we thought until we arrived. It's quite a big stadium but it was also VERY empty. We should have realised why we were given free tickets for the game at the museum earlier in the day. People don't seem to get into the game like good old English football fans. They sit, drink a Bud, eat some popcorn, and wait for the pom pom dancers between innings. I'm sure if we did baseball in the UK we'd be doing that thing they do at the football where the crowd go "ooooooOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH - YOU'RE S**T AAAAAAGGGGHHH" when someone takes a run up to kick the ball. We were trying to drum up something similar around us before every pitch, but they weren't having any of it. Besides, there were children present, and I don't think our sharp wit penetrated the locals.

We didn't stay till the end, it's such a slow game (actually worse than cricket) and we were losing 5-1. On to BB King's...

Apparently, BB King was in Memphis a couple of nights ago, playing at his club. Not so last night, although there was an exceptionally funky house band playing some Curtis Mayfield, Stevie Wonder, and Prince. Sam ate some catfish, I tried to sing along to "Kiss" (it's not really my range) and we grooved the night away. But by 1am, everything shut down. I thought Memphis was the place that grooved all night long, but Beale St seemed to do it's bit for the tourists and chuck everyone out onto the street at 1. A bit like England I suppose. Perhaps Sam wasn't so far off the mark about Maidenhead after all...?

So much for Memphis. We're about to check out of our hotel here and get our hire car - this is the moment I've been waiting for all trip! This afternoon we'll be crusing down Highway 61 with Muddy Waters wailing out of the speakers. 1-2-3... HELL YEAH!!

Next stop, Clarksdale, and "those" crossroads.

I can't believe it's our last day in Chicago!!

Last night we went "down South" to (guess what) another blues bar in a most unlikely location. At least Sam seems to know where he's going...

So we rock up, perch ourselves at the bar, and try not to look too English. Failing miserably, I order a Rolling Rock and Sam orders a whisky. We sit and hope we don't get picked on.

Then a big guy comes to the bar and asks us to move up. We duly oblige and he offers to buy us a drink as a courtesy (would that ever happen in England?). "Hi, my name's Tom, but most people call me Big Daddy" he said. We could see how that nickname might be somewhat appropriate. "You guys on vacation?"

We explained the mechanics of our "blues tour" and he sounded pretty impressed. "Lemme introduce you to some people" he said. During the course of the evening we were treated to a "who's who" of the South Chicago blues scene. Al Gitar [sic], Johnny Drummer, some old geezer who wailed some excellent blues later on in the evening. It seems a shame that we're only called Sam and Luke. Still, I managed to pass my card on to Big Daddy and he placed it purposefully in his breast pocket. I await a call for guitar lessons.

It seems the further out you venture from "downtown" the more friendly people get. I think they appreciate the effort it takes to arrive at these out of the way blues joints and they make sure you get treated as real guests. Another great evening's entertainment.

Well, we're off on the overnight train tonight to Memphis. Internet access might be a little more tricky, but I'll do my best to keep you all informed!

I'll let you know if I manage to spot Elvis...

Having just written one of the most inspired blogs ever conceived by man, my computer terminal decided to randomly shut down on me and I lost the whole thing. As the Americans would say: "that sucks".

Hmmm, where was I? Well I'll skip the bit I originally wrote and save it for another time I think, it was only some more complaining about all sorts of things I should really be appreciating in this Great Nation.

So last night... We took a cab down to the "west side" and frequented a little blues club called "Rosa's Lounge". Highly recommended by Lonely Planet, we thought we might impress the locals by escaping "downtown" and chilling to some provincial blues. And it didn't disappoint.

As we arrived, there were a couple of 12-year-old boys setting up the stage. Sam and I joked that we'll have to get some 12-year-old roadies for our band. We thought "how sweet, the band have brought their kids to help out". It must be tough finding a babysitter at such short notice.

Anyway, we continued chatting until our attention was drawn to some HOT blusey guitar licks coming from the stage. We looked up, and sure enough, it was the 12-year-old boy playing his Les Paul. Our jaws dropped. The drummer was also about 12 and could hardly see over the kit, but it sure sounded good. It was like a Chicago blues version of Jackson 5, squeaky voices which kept causing the mics to feed back, but hardcore blues which, if you shut your eyes, could just as well have been played by an old man with all the troubles in the world.

"This isn't good. It's time to give up." We thought. As they rattled through Mustang Sally, some Stevie Ray Vaughan and other classics, we thought there was nothing which could make us feel more inadequate. Until, that is, the drummer and guitarist swapped instruments and ripped into Voodoo Chile with just as much proficiency. Damn their talent.

Perhaps the only saving grace was the fact that they couldn't really credibly sing about "My baby's left me, she don love me no more" without you thinking it was time for their bed. Still, that will come I guess. And if you don't believe me, I looked up their MySpace site when I got back:

www.myspace.com/nextgenerationmusicmachine

Sickening.

Looking forward to watching some good old fashioned old geezers with whisky on their breath at the festival tonight.

It's about 8.30am here, and I think I'm still on BST as I woke up with the birds (and all the shuffling in our room - not used to these youth hostel places, they're full of loud young people).

Anyway, opportune moment for another blog, I thought. We went down to the Blues Fest last night, which was pretty cool. They have a strange system of tickets for buying food and drink - a dollar a ticket, and then something silly like 8 tickets for a beer. Still, at least the choice was extensive: Bud, or Bud Lite. Looks like a Bud then. They do the hard sell everywhere you go "SAUSAGE ON A STICK, COME AND GET IT" sounded rather tempting - 10 tickets, ouch.

Still we managed to forget about the obsenely priced food and drink and enjoyed an evening of... blues, unsurprisingly.

Later on we went down to Buddy Guy's blues club, which had an excellent choice of drink and even accepted cash! Music was excellent again, naturally, and we partook in festivities by dutifully responding to the singers frequent requests "Lemme hear you say YEAH!" I'm working on my throaty American "YEAH" which I hope to have perfected by the time I return. Ahem. Marvellous stuff.

Well, I suppose it's breakfast time.

See you soon!

Well, I'm here, and it's rather hot!! Had not such a good flight as the pilot had to abort the landing as he saw some debris on the runway. We then had a bumpy second attempt and the girl sitting next to me was sick. That could of course be due to the fact that she'd endured talking to me for the past few hours, but I prefer to think not.

On the plus side, I managed to drag lots of "Americanisms" out of her, and at one point she actually said "great job" in all seriousness. Good work. She didn't know what the Mason-Dixon Line was though, which was a tad disappointing (for those of you who don't know, it's my standard question for all Americans - answers on a postcard please).

So I made it to the hostel, and Sam was actually there (wondered whether he was joking about coming to Chicago with me after all).

I'm now being rushed as the first act of the blues festival is on in 15 mins. Better go.

More to follow...

TTFN