Fear and Loathing in Mississippi (part 1)

Day 1: Friday

We arrive in Memphis. Buzzard rode the dog – 4 days over the mountains from Oakland and across the plains with a ¼ pound of Mendocino county home-grown taped to his thigh – just below his new hip. McRik flew in from Hong Kong with a case of Kentucky Tavern in the trunk of his cousin’s red ’62 Imperial convertible, which he had picked up in Little Rock. I flew in with a nasty cough, my Wayfarers, and golf clubs. It was going to be a long, difficult trip.

We met in the parking lot of Soulsville and took a quick tour. They have the invoice for the charter flight that was Otis Redding’s last trip, the Hammond M3 that Booker T. played when he recorded “Green Onions,” and Isaac Hayes’ gold-plated ’72 Eldorado. Graceland is for pussies.

We loaded the Imperial and headed south on Highway 61. (cue music.) We quickly drop to sea level as we track along the big muddy and enter the Delta. I’d always thought Kansas was flat but the sunken loam of the Delta seems to flatten even the tree and buildings that rest on it. It is sucking us in.

The Imperial braked from 80 as 61 crossed Highway 49 entering Clarksdale. Robert Johnson sold his soul on this spot. We hoped to get through three days still in possession of ours – if, indeed, we still had them.

We checked into the Uptown Motor Inn; your basic 1960, one-over-one, motel. The clerk was behind Plexiglas and all rooms face the parking lot, which was already a tailgate blues party at six. McRik broke out the KT. I filled my sterling hip flask. It was going to be a long night and I would need plenty of whiskey for my cough.

Clarksdale is not another place. It is another time. I’d say 1962 -- perfect for the Imperial and perfect for our mood, which is old school verging on primal. We needs us some blues, so we go to Red’s.

Red’s is on the edge of town in a low slung red brick building that looks like an abandoned feed store. (above) There are ribs cooking out front in the double smoker and only a hand-lettered bed sheet tacked at the end of the wall to tip its identity.

Inside, Big Jack Johnson and the Cornlickers are pounding a beat. Tearin’ it up in a room that is smaller than the average CEO’s office. A couple of old couches, a few tables, some miss-matched chairs, and a half dozen bar stools hold the crowd – a mix of black locals and middle aged white folks in town for the Juke Joint Festival that has drawn us to the Delta. The festival starts tomorrow, but tonight we belong to Red. Beers are $2. The only liquor is what you bring with you, and we are well armed.