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.