Fear & Loathing in Mississippi (part 4)

Saturday night

Saturday night requires more planning, and the first priority is upgrading the liquor. “I can’t drink anymore of this shit,” Buzzard declares as I pass the Kentucky Tavern. If McRik’s feelings are hurt he hides it well.

A mess of ribs are cooking in the Uptown parking lot. Buzzard tosses half of the last bottle of KT into the fire, which nearly immolates a Chicago biker dude who’s staying next to us in the motel. (The Uptown doesn’t really attract the Dockers crowd.) Biker dude laughs and says, “dump the rest in the sauce, man.” Buzzard complies. Instant Ribs Sunoco.

We replace the KT with a quart of Crown Royal. It’s Saturday night after all. You need the right beverage and you gotta dress sharp. I go with my magic shirt -- a gift from Buzzard that he picked up at the Super Soul Shop last year. It’s royal blue with gold sparkly appliqués representing a Crown Royal logo, some brass knuckles, a Cadillac logo, a Hummer grill and a few other lifestyle-appropriate images, and my new lid. I look superfly.

Buzz and McRik elect to dress like two guys hanging out at the sports book at Caesars Palace, but hey – I don’t judge.

We also need an itinerary. During the day it’s easy to just wander around outside from act to act, but tonight there are indoor venues – mostly juke joints – where the headliners will perform at set times, and we had people we definitely wanted to see. Fortunately Buzzard has been to the fest a couple times before and knows his way around.

We make a plan and set off for Hopson’s Plantation where Muddy Waters drove a tractor until he split for Chicago. They have three music rooms and we head in to hear Terry “Harmonica” Bean. He plays a great set in which he gives little 30 second blues history lessons between songs, and plays the same harmonica riffs the way James Cotton, Little Walter and then Sonny Boy Williamson would have done. Terry has mucho charisma.

Next comes Cedric Burnsides, grandson of R.L., playing drums, with Lightnin’ Malcolm on guitar. Cedric looks like Dwight Howard, only blacker. He’s wearing a white wife-beater and punishing the toms with a furry. Malcolm, a big white, farm boy is more Hendricks than Hooker. This is the younger generation of bluesmen and they are whipping the crowd into a frenzy. It’s Malcolm’s little sister’s birthday. She jumps up on stage and dances like no one is watching. Nobody is having more fun than her.

We go back into town to My Brother’s Sport’s Bar to hear 84-year-old T. Model Ford (above). T. did time at Parchman for murder as a younger man, and was a big player in the resurgence of blues the past ten years. He can still bring it, although he let’s his partner “Stud” control most of the set.

We keep moving. The Crown goes down easier than the KT would have if we’d mixed it with Bosco. We are vibrating to the beat, in synch with the crowd. It’s a happening. We’re like lemmings at a party, but with no cliff in sight. I contemplate why I love this music so. I read once that the foundation of the blues are rhythms that come from a specific West African tribe with no tradition of signing; they instead used drumming to express emotions. I don’t know if that’s true, but it sure makes sense. You can’t listen to the blues and not move it.

The blues also make you feel good because no matter how bad things are for you, you probably have it better than whoever is signing. He ether just shot his old lady, got shot by his old lady, had his boss cheat him out of his money, caught his old lady cheating on him with his best friend, is running from the police, hiding from his landlady, drinking too much to ease his pain, or gambling to win money to feed his babies.

On the other hand, he is almost certainly getting laid more than you, so there is a chance you might learn something useful. In the end, it’s just as John Lee Hooker said: “I got it in me and I gots to get it out!” But it's only midnight.