Fear and Loathing in Mississippi (part 2)

Friday night

Big Jack works the crowd like a snake charmer. He boogies us up. He mellows us down. He swings us sideways and back up again in little steps you hardly notice until you feel your backbone vibrating. We drink with the rhythm. The Kentucky Tavern tastes like gasoline – but with oaky undertones and a just a hint of carbona at the finish. My cough is gone by midnight.

I want to dance, but the women are wearing mom jeans and there is no room to move. Some big old white man takes exception to Buzzard laughing at his wife. Buzzard head butts him. Ho-Fo-Sho, a 300 pound, gap-toothed, Refrigerator Perry look-alike we met earlier in the evening, takes the opportunity to dump approximately 3 liters of beer from the world’s largest fishbowl down the front of the dude’s Tommy Bahama, and into the crotch of his Dockers. It’s time to go. McRik pulls the Imperial up front, we jump in and roll to the promised land.

Annie Bell’s, (above) situated on the edge of town, evokes a more modern vibe than the rest of Clarksdale – it's a near-urban, funkadelic, 1975 disco kindda thang. I think there was even a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, but it could have been the KT playing tricks on me.

As we walked from the Imperial, Shawnté (like enchanté) -- a very tall, very drunk, young lady, asks me if I’d like to buy her a drink of corn. I say “sure, I’d like to try some myself.” I assume she means inside Annie Bell’s, but she steers me toward her car for “a short ride” to get some. I decline, and she asks “what do you think is going to happen to you?”

My mind reels as I consider the possible answers to that question, but I decline anyway. She needs $7.50 for the corn. I give her a ten and catch up to Buzz and Mic inside. Ours are the only three pale faces in the joint. Annie Bell’s is a local hangout and not on the blues tour, but they have a good sound system and a hyped up DJ. Annie Bell’s is for dancing.

I take the stage first, joining about eight women and one other dude, while Buzz and McRik get some beers and chat up the bartender and a couple patrons. I wasn’t aware I could line dance, but apparently I can if properly fueled. Soon two of the brothers at the bar insist that my boys dance with their dates. Incredibly, they do. It’s a kind of an “Animal House,” with a reverse-role racial thing goin’ on. Soon all three of our fat white asses are shaking in approximate time to some music we’ve heard that night – if not the current offering. We made many new friends. Shawnté does not return with the corn.

The next thing I remember I’m in my room at the Uptown. I know that’s where I am by the absence of hangers, and the 13” TV. Soon it will be Saturday morning and the festival will begin.