How much does a song weigh?

Last night I burned eight music CDs. Each pair of two was wrapped in an identical piece of cardboard and placed inside one of four identical envelops. I used the same Sharpie to address each. This morning I took them to the post office to be mailed. The clerk weighed each envelope separately while calculating the correct postage. Two envelopes weighed about 20% less than the other two. Do you think it was because they had fewer songs burned onto the CDs?

I’ll leave you to ponder this and other mysteries for the next week, as I am heading out to Myrtle Beach in the morning for five days of golf, poker, cocktails and stories with some pals from my college daze. I also have the new Jack Reacher paperback with me in case I finally get tired of hearing the same stories we tell every year. Fortunately the stories are different every year due to diminished memories and shifting agendas. (Or is it agendi?)

Porkchop

Saturday night, Clarksdale.

Having already absorbed our minimum daily requirement of pork, Rocket, Buzzard and I were dining at Hicks Hot Tamales, laying on a base of catfish and beef tamales as we strategized our plan for the evening. There is far more music than there is time to hear it all on Saturday night, so an efficient travel pattern is essential to hearing the as many of our favorites as possible.

We had our programs open as we doused the catfish in hot sauce and unwrapped the steaming tamales. There were some obvious mandatory stops among the 17 venues scattered around Clarksdale. We were going to catch Terry Bean at Sarah’s Kitchen for sure, and Big George Brock at Hopson’s Plantation. Hopson’s had to be early since it was a few miles out into the Delta and we didn’t want to be driving out there after we got seriously into the Bushmills. (We’d finished the CR Black the night before.) Annie Belle’s is always the last stop of the night and Bilbo Walker and Big A were scheduled for this evening. The bars close at 1:00, so that left us with a couple hours to fill in with both new and old talent.

“Pass the hot stuff. Damn these hush puppies are good. What about “Mule Man” Massaey? He’s at the Bluesberry Café?”

“Reverend Payton’s Big Damn Band? They’re at Ground Zero.”

“That place will be packed with all the college kids tonight. We won’t be able to buy a beer.”

“Excuse me gentlemen – are you going to the festival this evening?” The stranger who approached our booth stood out for several reasons. He was a big white man in a nice gray suit and an open-collar, white dress shirt. The uniform in Clarkdale ranges from bib overalls, through a wide range of tee shirts, to a variety of hipster attire. This was the first suit any of us had seen. He was in his late thirties and moved with confidence.

“It’s not on the official program, but stop by the New Roxie tonight and check out Mark “Porkchop” Holder.

Me: “The New Roxie? We looked in there today. There’s no roof on it.”

“It’s going to be a nice night. Makes it all the more interesting,” the stranger replied.

Buzzard: “Where’s he from?”

“He’s been playing on the streets in Nashville the last couple of years, but his health is better now and he’s starting to play more clubs. Plus he just cut a new CD?”

Rocket: “Was he in a group before?”

“Yeah, but he had compatibility issues. Just come by. You won’t be disappointed I promise you.”

Rocket: “Yeah sure. Thanks for the tip,” as the stranger left Hicks.

Buzzard: “We could stop by if we catch T. Model Ford at Club 2000. It’s right next door.”

The stranger returned and placed a copy of Porkchop’s new CD on the table and said, “With my complements. Hope to see you at the Roxie,” and left again on quick feet.

Porkchop’s face was printed on the disk. His thick black plastic glasses over slits for eyes and a slash of a mouth made him look like a slasher movie version of a jack-o-lantern. Rocket read the titles aloud: “Long Green Cadillac,” “Me and the Devil,” “Market Street Bridge.” Interesting. Kind of a scary looking dude.”

Without saying so we’d all decided to stop by the New Roxie, but we lost control of the evening and the next thing we knew it was growing late. I feared we might a missed him as we strolled up to the building that had once been the local cinema. Probably built in the ‘30’s the New Roxie was in serious disrepair, although that isn’t totally clear from the street. (see photo on right below.)

We walked inside to a scene upon which a Hollywood set director would have a hard time improving. The walls were bare brick, except where small patches of colorless plaster still clung to them. What would once have been the lobby had been turned into an intimate club; there was a small bar in the far right corner, covered with a canopy. Strings of light criss-crossed the room. An eclectic mix of plants were randomly placed atop the odd patches of carpet, brick and tile. Rocket and I sat down on what had once been the front seat of an old Buick, over on the left. Buzzard selected a lawn chair tour right.

And above us was heaven. It was nearly midnight but the sky was almost as blue as it was black. Stars shown through the grid of the steel beams that were the only remaining memory of the New Roxie’s roof.

The wall was missing from the place where the lobby once gave way to stairs that lead to the rear of the theater proper. That elevated platform was now a stage, and on it, between two planted palms, sat a man who looked like Drew Carey’s evil twin. In his hands was a steel bodied acoustic guitar. At his feet a porch board. Around his neck a harp-rack. Behind him was the vacant expanse where thousands of Delta citizens had once sat, enthralled, watching Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, Astaire and Rogers, Gable and Leigh. Its massive emptiness lent scale and drama to the set. It felt like a cross between Greek theater and a Williamsburg club.

The dramatic setting was not wasted on the man on the stage. Mark “Porkchop” Holder had a body like what you’d expect on a man called Porkchop. He didn’t waste it. His whole mass attacked the guitar and board with ferocity. His huge lungs infused every vocal, and each harp note, with big emotions. The lyrics were tough and unsentimental. He was on a mission to get his story out now. This minute. This place. This audience.

It was intimate. Urgent. Primal. The blues.

You can see a video of Porkchop playing here, or visit his MySpace site.

Delta notes

Well, it was another successful trip to Clarksdale for the Juke Joint Festival, which is to say, we all survived despite little sleep, Crown and Bushmills for hydration, and barbequed ribs for breakfast.

We ate two meals at Wop’s after closing Annie Belle’s Friday and Saturday. If there is a better burger in this ol’ world I have not tasted it as yet. We did not see the devil woman while dining on the hood of our rental car, which frankly, was fine with me.

It wasn’t all ribs and burgers. We had an awesome dinner at Hick's Hot Tamales where Bill Clinton once ate.

Musically we saw many of our favorites from last year including Big Jack Johnson, Big George Brock, Terry “Harmonica” Bean, KM Williams (with Washboard Jackson), Cedric Burnsides and Lightnin’ Malcolm. And lots more of course. We were immersed in music from 10 a.m. until 1 a.m. every day. We also saw the venerable T. Model Ford and Honey Boy Edwards. It’s always fun to see these links to the past. Honey Boy learned to play guitar from Robert Johnson, but they are both around 90 and their playing is not what I’m sure it once was.

A big pleasant surprise was the appearance of Watermelon Slim (above), an Okie who mostly writes truck driver songs, who recently moved to the Delta. There was a flat board set on sawhorses on the stage. First he got out a mojo bag filled with various talisman – a feather, a little stone figure, some glass pieces – it was mostly too small to make out; then he laid out his steel acoustic guitar and played it horizontally with a slide in a style all his own. Slim’s voice is also something you’re not likely to confuse for anyone else. Plus I had a chance to chat him up for a couple minutes before his set. Great. I gotta get me a mojo bag.

Biggest surprise: Mark “Porkchop” Holder, a singer, guitar and harp player. You can watch him play here for now, but I plan to tell a little story about seeing him at the New Roxie in a later post.
Man in audience: “You awesome ‘chop!”
Porkchop: “You should talk to my old lady. (pause) Hell, I should talk to my old lady.”

Second biggest surprise: that we could stay in a motel that made the Uptown look like the Clarksdale Ritz Carlton. We stayed at the Budget Motel this year. Buzzard had to brush a cockroach from my hat at breakfast yesterday. But during the festival you have to take what you can get. Big Jack’s entourage stayed there Saturday night – or at least his mini-bus did. There were some new shacks at Hopson’s Plantation, but it’s too far out of town.

Clarksdale is home of “The Bigs.” Big Jack, Big George, and now two Big Reds: the owner of the juke joint of the same name, plus a big lady singer with a wild mane of red hair and a voice like Sapphire. She was really good.

There were a lot more people there this year. Oxford is just 45 minutes down the road and a couple hundred Ol’ Miss kids came over on Saturday. They added a little energy and eye candy to the festivities, but made it tough to get into the most popular venues, so Buzz, Rocket* and I worked the smaller joints as much as possible.

A young, white, wannabe bluesman, in a hat, shirt and soul patch supplied by central casting was in line ahead of us for breakfast at Big Red’s rib wagon Sunday morning. He got the rib platter.
Red: “$11”
YWWB: (disbelief in his voice) “$11!?”
Red: “Where you from?”
YWWB: “Memphis. Atlanta. Denver. Miami.”
Red: “See, that’s your problem. You from too many places.”

We spent a lot of time in Tricia’s this year. They have a high tolerance for flasks. Last year it was an empty shell with sheetrock walls. Now it’s an Italian restaurant with plastic grapes hanging from the ceiling. I think I liked it better last year, but Action Jackson and her band were great, especially the big ol’ farm boy on harp who could move like a man half his size.

We had perfect weather. The beverages of choice were Crown Royal Black (who knew), Bushmills and $2 Buds, but you can only drink so much beer.

They are building condos on the top floor of the old Woolworth’s Five & Dime downtown. I’ll try to get a price point for those of you interested in having a second home in the Delta.

Our record is intact: we are still the only white people we’ve seen in Annie Belles. While waiting in the Memphis airport yesterday we stopped in the Blue Note Café for an eye-opener. Our waitress grew up in Clarksdale so we had a fun time relating the event of the weekend. She couldn’t believe we visited Annie Belles: “You mighta danced with my mama!”

We couldn’t get Rocket’s cousin’s Imperial this year but we rented the ultimate bluesmobile – a Ford Flex. That’s how we roll baby.

It takes a while to learn to speak Delta.
Lady on the street to us: “Hey how yall?”
Buzzard: “We’re good. How yall?”
Lady: “Ain’t nobody but me but I’m good.”

Well, that's the news from Clarksdale where all the music is great and the ribs are all above average.
There picture on the right are still good. Clarksdale doesn't change much year-to-year.


* The artist formerly known as McRik. I had to further disguise him so as not to totally cripple his square life.

Goin' to Missip

I’m leaving for Mississippi tomorrow and I’m just too excited and focused on that to think about much else. Thank you all for your kind words and encouraging comments on “Taxi driver.” I’m spending a lot more time trying to write that sort of thing these days. Plus, Coach Lou and I have our weekly Life 3.0 post for What’s Next. Once those are done I find the DB competing more and more with my loafing time, and loafing is going to win that one every time. I’ll try to do better when I get back from Clarksdale. Maybe the trip will provide a good story or two. Perhaps I’ll even see the Devil-woman again – although I hope not.

You may recall that I was wishing I had a demographic picture of the Tea Party (not the tea-baggers which I recently discovered is something completely different!). Well, just this morning the New York Times obliged with a New York Times/CBS News poll that shows that they are older, wealthier, and better educated than the average American, and they really don’t like President Obama. It’s pretty interesting reading.

By the way, the Indians have been officially eliminated from the American League playoff picture, the first time this has happened prior to May 1st.

Taxi driver

It was the summer of 1971, and I needed a job. I had just graduated from college but had made no effort to find one until the last party ended. There was a nasty recession, and I looked like a roadie for an unsuccessful rock band. My prospects were limited.

I had a line on a government job, but that was going to take some time, and meanwhile, I had to have beer money. I had the proletariat spirit, but a series of jobs over the previous summers -- digging ditches, spreading hot asphalt, painting houses and shucking steel -- had me longing for something different. I wanted one where I could talk to someone other than the mope standing next to me, breaking rocks in the hot sun.

A couple of high school pals had driven cabs the summer before and that sounded right up my alley. First of all, the job was performed sitting down. That was a major plus right there. I imagined myself driving businessmen to the airport in Youngstown, or maybe even Cleveland. I’d probably be picking up divorcees at cocktail lounges and taking them home to their little apartment someplace, where they’d invite me in to…oh well, just a young man’s fantasy.

The reality was somewhat different. First of all, the full-time, older drivers got all the airport runs, and they also worked the night shift when business was brisk (and the divorcees were at play). That left me to sit and bake in an un- air-conditioned Checker under the summer sun.

This was in Warren, Ohio, a city of 65,000 people; 30,000 of whom worked for General Motors. The only people who didn’t have cars were communists and the truly poor. Most of my trips were to take older women to the grocery store or the beauty parlor. The fares were small and the tips meager. Carrying six bags of groceries up to the top of the duplex was an expected part of the service, which might win you an extra quarter.

The cab stand was on Park Avenue, across from Courthouse Square and in front of Vogue Records, but I can’t remember anyone ever walking up to the cab and asking for a lift. All our rides came from the radio dispatcher, a gruff, middle-aged woman named Joyce who weighed about 250 and smoked two packs of Chesterfields a day. She was the one who decided what driver got which rides and respect had to be paid.

A measure of how much Joyce cared for me can be taken from an account of my most memorable day behind the wheel at Yellow Cab. It came late one very hot August afternoon when she radioed to send me to Coleman’s, a working man’s bar down in the flats next to the Republic Steel open hearth. Coleman’s was a legendary joint, but I’d only been inside a couple of times. I’d turned 21 the year before, and prior to that could only legally drink 3.2 beer. Colman’s wasn’t the kind of place that served piss-beer, or the kind place to get caught underage either. Truth-be-told, I was more than a little intimidated by the place.

I walked in the front door and looked down the long bar for my fare. The place was crowded with mill hunks just off day turn. About 40 faces, mostly black, turned to look at me. The bartender was black, about 35, and processed NFL proportions; his neck was the size of one of my thighs, and his biceps looked like someone had hacked a bowling ball in two and glued one half to each arm. There was no hint of humor on his face, or in his voice, as he looked me in the eye and asked, “You the cab driver?”

“Yeah.”

“Down here,” he replied as he pointed with his massive head towards the far end of the bar.

A few drinkers glanced up from their shots and beers as I made my way deeper into their world. About half way down the long bar I saw him: a scrawny, pathetic-looking little man passed out face down on the bar, motionless, silent and drained of color.

“I’m not taking this guy anyplace,” I said with much more confidence than I felt.

“The hell you say?” the bartender responded. “The only way you leaving here is with this white muthafucka in the back a your cab.”

There were no further negotiations.

The bartender and a customer lifted the little man under his arms and carried him out to my cab. His feet never touched the ground. They opened the back door and tossed him in. The bartender turned to me and said, as he slammed the door closed, “Have a nice day friend. Be careful. He’s a mean one.”

I looked down at the little man passed out on the floor of the Checker, which was the size of a double bed mattress but not nearly as soft. I tried to get him to tell me where he lived but all I got were some mumbled incoherencies.

I rode around the block past the hulking mill, trying to decide what to do. I called Joyce to explain the situation. The ever-sensitive Joyce instructed me to, “Throw him out, and if he won’t get out take him to the nearest police station.”

Neither option was compatible with my recently acquired liberal education. I rode around the block again, talking over my shoulder to him, asking him where he lived. After a few minutes he mumbled, “Niles,” which is a mean little mill town about five miles downriver. I updated Joyce.

“Outta town is a flat rate – ten bucks to Niles. Collect it in advance.”

I already knew that, and I knew just as well that I wasn’t going to get ten bucks in advance from this guy. The Coleman bartender wouldn’t have thrown him out if he still had money to pay for drinks. But he was mumbling that his wife would pay me when we got to Niles so I decided to take a chance.

“Hey buddy -- where in Niles?” I asked repeatedly over the next ten minutes as I headed south on Main. I kept making unnecessary turns to keep him rolling on the back floor, which was bringing him closer to being sober enough to answer me. He couldn’t tell his address, but he managed to pull himself up to the seat and wave me left and right until we arrived at a run-down duplex near the glass works. At which point he curled up on the back seat and went back to sleep.

I went up to the house and rang the bell at the downstairs apartment. A middle age woman with a thick eastern European accent took a quick look in the cab and said, “Dats Mrs. Connelly’s man.” As she pointed to her upstairs neighbor’s door.

I got Mrs. Connelly to come down, but reluctantly. “He ain’t my husband no more,” said told me. “Not for five years.” She was probably 50 but looked older. Very thin. All bone and sinew. A tough woman with sad eyes. She looked like the subject in a Walker Evans photo. Her dialect gave away her mountain origins, and the sad carcass in the back of my cab hinted at the kind of life she’d lived.

“Thomas please get out of the cab,” She pleaded. “How much does he owe you?”

“Ten bucks ma’am.” I backed away and let her talk to him in privacy for ten minutes, imagining how many similar conversations she must have had with him over the years. I was struck by the tenderness in her voice, but I suspect she never had much success with talk. I didn’t know him well, but Thomas was clearly not the kind of man who responded well to kindness.

Ten minutes stretched to twenty. Mrs. Connelly gave up. “I don’t know what to tell you to do. He’s a very stubborn man and he says he won’t get out.” She was crying.

Joyce knew exactly what to do. “You didn’t get any money upfront? You big sucker. That is theft of service. Take his ass to the nearest police station now, and then get back here. You’re already late to turn the cab over to the next shift.”

So, off to the Niles Central Police Station I went. The cops had a good laugh over my story. Two of them walked out to the parking lot with me to fetch Mr. Connelly.

“Come on Murphy,” the first cop shouted as he opened the cab door and stepped half way in to grab Connelly by the collar. Before he could get a grip, Connelly gave the cop a sharp kick in the face with the bottom of his foot while bracing his back against the nexus of the floor, seat and door.

The cop flew back out of the cab holding his bloody, broken nose. This was the day I learned that it doesn’t pay to hit cops. They run in packs and quickly got reinforcements. Connelly fought like a demon, screaming unintelligible epitaphs, holding on to anything he could grab in the cab. It took four cops several minutes, but they eventually extracted him. “Oh God, he shit himself,” I heard one say as they dragged him away, giving him repeated shots to the ribs along the way.

The always compassionate Joyce greeted my return: “What the hell took you so long?”

“I had to stop to clean the back of the cab.” I told my tale as Joyce looked at me like a sap who had just rescued a sack of feral kittens from the river. I didn’t just fail to make any money for the last couple hours of my shift; this adventure had actually cost me money. Yellow Cab and the driver split the fares 50-50, and I paid for the gas from my half. I’d called in the trip to Niles, so I owed the company their five bucks even if I hadn’t collected the fare in advance, as Joyce had warned me to do. I dreaded telling her more than losing the money.

I handed her my ride log and the money bag and stood sweating in the airless office while Joyce checked the math and counted the cash. She handed me back a five dollar bill.

“Next time don’t be a dumb shit.”

That was the lesson I learned. I tried not to be a dumb shit from then on.

What’s going on?

I recently discovered that I always put my left leg into my pants first, and find it nearly impossible to put my right leg in first. I nearly fell over trying this morning. This is the kind of thing that one only has the time to discover in retirement.

The Republicans are taking their donors to lesbian bondage/strip clubs, the president of Afghanistan is threatening to join the Taliban, Tiger Woods is allowing Nike to use his dead father’s voice in an ad in a counter-productive attempt to rehabilitate his public image, John McCain has declared he is not, in fact, a maverick after all, people are threatening to kill their Congressmen, Butler’s last second shot did not go in…and yet, I have nothing to say right now. I think I’m paralyzed with sensory overload.

Here’s another example. I just read a terrific new book, “The Age of the Unthinkable” by Josh Ramo, only to discover that Glenn Beck thinks it’s the most important book of the year. Now what am I supposed to think?

Mostly I’m now in training for a return to Clarksdale, Mississippi and the Juke Joint Blues Festival, which starts April 16^th. It’s like training for anything else; it this case that means I need to be drinking more liquor in the coming days, because if I go straight from my rather ascetic Florida lifestyle to drinking corn likker, in quantity, from old Pepsi bottles, it could get ugly early. McRik and Buzzard will be there too.

I left last year’s festival hat (purchased from the Super Soul Shop in Clarksdale) in New York, but have purchased something new for this year’s event from Gus’ Clothing & Collectables here in DeLand. I hope to have pictures soon.

Of course I’ve been listening to a lot of blues. “Champaign and Reefer,“ by the Mannish Boys, is my new party anthem. “Treat Me Right” by Peter Karp and Sue Foley is another good one. Ruth Greenwood singing “Happy on Top” will make your blood boil. I’m lovin’ Nick Moss, Watermelon Slim, and the new Joe Lois Walker CD, “Between a Rock and the Blues.”

Can somebody tell me why the blues make me feel so good?

Thanks to the Schu for introducing me to P.D. James, a middle aged Englishwoman you might call the thinking man’s mystery writer. I recommend “Devices and Desires.” Here’s a quote I can’t get out of my head: “We need, all of us, to be in control of our lives, and we shrink them until they are small and mean enough so that we can feel in control.” Not something you’d expect from this genre.

Thanks also to Birdman who lent me “My Losing Season” by Pat Conroy. I’ve loved his books and really enjoyed this one as well; it’s an account of his senior year basketball season at the Citadel, but that’s just the framework for a deeper exploration of his coming of age.

It’s funny how generations flow one to another. Conroy is only four years older than me, and while I recognize the world he describes it made me realize (not for the first time) that someone my age probably has much more in common with someone tem years younger more than he does with someone three or four years older. (Except in the case of certain socially precocious older readers of this blog – of course.)

I would really like to offer you something more relevant today, but not nearly as much as I would like to finish this quickly and go to the beach.

Adios.

Dumb jocks, the NCAAs and my fear of glaucoma

Let’s start with sports. Who is stupider? Ben Rothlesburger or Shawn Rogers? Hanging around college bars trying to pick up 19-year-olds when you are 27 and a famous, rich athlete is pretty damn stupid but I’m going with the Brown’s Rogers for trying to bring a loaded handgun in his carry-on bag onto a flight out of the Cleveland airport yesterday, for the near 100% chance of getting caught.

I’m going with Michigan State all the way in the NCAA Tournament. I see an MSU v. WVU final, and I can live with either as the victor in that one. If it is a Butler-Duke final I’d say the over/under on percentage of people rooting for Duke will be about 10. Feel free to get your opinions in before tomorrow’s tip off.

Sticking with the NCAA, which I have always believed was the third most evil, self-serving and stupid NGO in America (after the Democratic and Republican political parties); leave it to them to decide to radically change the tournament for next year immediately on the heels of the most exciting tournament they’ve ever held. It’s all about the jack – Jack.

I see Astra-Zeneca is permission to market Crestor to people who don’t have high cholesterol, with the goal of keeping them from developing high cholesterol. I never worry about cholesterol, but I have a deep and abiding fear of developing glaucoma. If only there was something I could use daily to prevent me from developing glaucoma I’d be a happy camper. Any ideas out there for a palliative?

Are you guys familiar with Prizm Clusters? It’s a marketing research tool that divides people into 66 social segments with names like “bedrock America,” “shotguns & pickups,” and “urban achievers.” I’d really love to see a Prizm analysis of Tea Party members. I have a feeling the segments would be a lot different than the stereotype. It feels like the U.S. is being slowly, but unstoppably pulled into two camps that are only able to shout at and call one another names. I find this both sad and frightening. It also provides a daily reminder that half of the population is of below average intelligence.

I want to go on record as not needing an i-Pad.

A big shout out and thank you goes to our recent guest bloggers, Ken Whitaker, Hank Schiffman and Bill Brent. They did a great job and I’m hoping a few more of you will take up the challenge. We could use some diversity, which reminds me…where are the women? We need the female point of view. All you have to do is pick a topic of interest to you and write between 500-800 words, which is less than a full page. Let me know if you are interested: dennisblank@hotmail.com.