tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89882197318242100302024-03-13T15:31:10.066-05:00Mt. Zion Memorial FundAbandoned Cemeteries, Serious Research, Blues Memorials since 1989DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.comBlogger452125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-14905678594116522042022-05-13T20:51:00.002-05:002022-05-13T20:55:46.717-05:00Restoration of a Bluesman's Legacy in California<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="#">Donell Delta Bailey</a><span> and </span><a href="#">Gabriel Soria</a><span> are working with the Mt. Zion Memorial Fund to organize a celebration of Rube Lacy in Bakersfield, California. Since we never organized a proper dedication ceremony, we plan to restore the marker by painting the lettering black, organize the dedication of the restored marker, and reinvigorate awareness of Lacy's legacy.</span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="#"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">We also hope to promote the renewed initiatives of the Mt. Zion Memorial Fund</span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-e9IlRA6-4duhKXn2omfAUS0sEIaOcyX0KO0apwgjWGnkXBEOX2EMe-5pE3dVPt-k_-iqqjVnLzfRFPQX3WW-S-JpTHehnEREhf0_KOIJ5hbCJdZaYlQ20i8yX-b69NLuacb0zBpGKAxnPuuWmL5Wi2N_ToyU6iF6gH2ewvcZARp449vSVVe945deA/s546/21150230_10203866107129352_744290795010161169_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="546" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-e9IlRA6-4duhKXn2omfAUS0sEIaOcyX0KO0apwgjWGnkXBEOX2EMe-5pE3dVPt-k_-iqqjVnLzfRFPQX3WW-S-JpTHehnEREhf0_KOIJ5hbCJdZaYlQ20i8yX-b69NLuacb0zBpGKAxnPuuWmL5Wi2N_ToyU6iF6gH2ewvcZARp449vSVVe945deA/w640-h366/21150230_10203866107129352_744290795010161169_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">To read more about the memorialization of Rubin Lacy in Mississippi and California, please see the previous MZMF article, <a href="#">Reconciling the Blues King: Rubin Lacy and the Importance of Inclusive Memorialization Processes</a> (February 21, 2020)</span></div></span><div><br /></div><div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="true" frameborder="0" height="314" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?height=314&href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fblackandbluescemeteries%2Fvideos%2F3236706826614175%2F&show_text=false&width=560&t=0" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="560"></iframe></div></div>ADeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-25065355306763684922021-10-17T14:58:00.003-05:002021-10-17T14:58:41.943-05:00What Happened on Highway 61? - Part 5: Memphis, City of Kings and Conquerors<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A Blog by A Tyke Dahnsarf</span></span></div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: right;">To read Part 4 of this blog series, please go <a href="http://mtzionmemorialfund.org/2021/09/what-happened-on-highway-61-part-4.html">HERE</a></div></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">"Well that's alright mama, that's alright for you</span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That's alright mama, just anyway yo' do</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And, that's alright."</span></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;">Arthur "Big Boy" Cruddup, 1946</div></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcfOWR5wIFzrQrT7zCAjcyQmPxTgioPldOoxFGD5IMqjKDAoO54qef1QSYcsWwTSiL7zNlabLhkiiUs4C6rAn7aAi-ByrTljaEjm7vZginiUnZ6X0iposMK8hEwhTOUFdJD5y2qCslDz4/s2048/121212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcfOWR5wIFzrQrT7zCAjcyQmPxTgioPldOoxFGD5IMqjKDAoO54qef1QSYcsWwTSiL7zNlabLhkiiUs4C6rAn7aAi-ByrTljaEjm7vZginiUnZ6X0iposMK8hEwhTOUFdJD5y2qCslDz4/w300-h400/121212.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>Had René Cavelier started his river exploration from the Rocky mountains and not Lake Itasca, the Missouri would now flow all the way to New Orleans. Thus maintaining the convention of naming mighty rivers after the water course flowing longest from source to sea. The Mississippi is it's given name because a Frenchman was ignorant of the western extent of this great watershed.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">In spite of this erroneously named waterway, Tom Sawyer would still have had his adventures, Chicago's killing floors would continue their grisly business and iron ore still smelted by black immigrant labor from further downstream. A gauche boy in crisp shirt, dyed black, slicked-back hair, with a patrimonic would commission a recording of him singing his mother's favorite song. Marion Keisker, Sun Studios' factotum would be sufficiently enamored to champion him to her boss. Seeing that behind the perfectly preened persona and coy checking out of his mojo here was a man uniquely talented and intent on realizing his ambition to become a king. A king soon to beguile baby-boomers and make the god-fearing fearful.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNz8zIBIWHmTLeWoovHDkNXApolr3fmS8M8q2PwqR2mBtn2uyvKwo9kgBTIinvnYh86eWQ3SJys8LE09NVLzYNp17ObT4OxSafx8NJrLgbr-xaqF9XusUhtfFf-LXD7_Gp2uFkDgIirjE/s2048/121213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNz8zIBIWHmTLeWoovHDkNXApolr3fmS8M8q2PwqR2mBtn2uyvKwo9kgBTIinvnYh86eWQ3SJys8LE09NVLzYNp17ObT4OxSafx8NJrLgbr-xaqF9XusUhtfFf-LXD7_Gp2uFkDgIirjE/s320/121213.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>So, Memphis is not located on the longest US river as that of it's Egyptian city namesake but that of a pretender and the January wind blew cruel across its watery expanse. We were ensconced a block away from the mighty Mississippi and inclement weather was a small price to pay to be located a stone's throw from Beale. Our apartment was opposite the Chisca hotel from where was the song that changed the world was first broadcast. To our right, a now a derelict hotel where reputedly, the King conducted furtive dalliances with those in thrall to more than his velvet vocal chords.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Beale Street is much narrower, shorter and brasher than that of my youthful imaginings. No less so perhaps, than that experienced by North Americans when they first visit Piccadilly Circus or Leicester Square in London. A few hours is all that is needed get the drift of it's shiny froth. Further down this famous thoroughfare, on the way to Sun studios, is the house of WC Handy. A worthwhile diversion, his modest home and contents are in contrast to Graceland 's down-home-mama's-boy-made-good-ostentation.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQgeBJHi7bMvS66rzSLWy-TZb4Ihzyy7CMpGPkRwBE2fqGst55DSo4e5XuE2svnwC7VmxlnOeO8pMRxDPbG-D_d5xrQXoVF1pQEoAsci0YxjJfbQ0LcMNFc9nRhv57vH9ToucuR5-QFLr/s2048/1212133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQgeBJHi7bMvS66rzSLWy-TZb4Ihzyy7CMpGPkRwBE2fqGst55DSo4e5XuE2svnwC7VmxlnOeO8pMRxDPbG-D_d5xrQXoVF1pQEoAsci0YxjJfbQ0LcMNFc9nRhv57vH9ToucuR5-QFLr/s320/1212133.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Sun" is an obvious port of call, where "the" discovery was made. Often overlooked in this tale of serendipity (something of a theme running through the Memphis story) is that, had it not been for a fruitful, fortuitous meeting two years earlier. Elvis Presley might possibly have continued a career behind the wheel of a Kenwood rig.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When a saxophonist and pianist born and shaped on the musical anvil that was Clarksdale, made an appointment with Sam Phillips, he thought them another Blues act, like many he had recorded before. Destined at best to make a showing in the "Race Record " Charts, as Howling Wolf had done earlier. When the "Delta Cats" swung the self-penned "Rocket 88" in a tempo that became Rock and Roll, Sam Philips the hitmaker was born. Jackie Brenston and Ike Turner's self-penned cross-over hit proved to be pivotal in securing both his business's viability and reputation as Star maker.</div></span> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJQgsjfccP1E03rKez7sAKScO9vhkbnVZ3VOTqJyLq5TPC8HdvnAIxZpA3jBGT2LvETDxFkfB-XFAGol_QZeMrnr8LtREK5WCCYZhaaGuPP_d5crsapbXWPEHblISpKddIwr5CJ6igrb1/s2048/12121333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1240" data-original-width="2048" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJQgsjfccP1E03rKez7sAKScO9vhkbnVZ3VOTqJyLq5TPC8HdvnAIxZpA3jBGT2LvETDxFkfB-XFAGol_QZeMrnr8LtREK5WCCYZhaaGuPP_d5crsapbXWPEHblISpKddIwr5CJ6igrb1/w400-h243/12121333.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Southside, Memphis is home to "Soulsville USA." Once another recording studio that shaped the world. Again it was adventurers with good fortune to be in the moment and more important who grasped the opportunity provided by an abandoned cinema next to the record shop they owned. Jim Stewart and Estelle Axon's dream to emulate Sun in recording and promoting home grown talent, proved to be just as successful.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">With the nearby Booker T Washington Academy supplying a steady stream of talent and multi-racial house band, Satellite studios became better known by one of it's labels. STAX is now a museum, in which a serious researcher into soul music could spend many more hours than we joyously spent there.</div></span> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN0vQVT_IDAwnscsmC_FJTQJJDDX8M_4zLZCgi8fMU9mCJNcJzlt9-p943Pf0MTf5hJPT4CGcwhOsVA-AXuogsIltOIx6hKc5Wr7XLJ8xaWUV5Y6_RV7LIG8U4pq1TKGPlwUpMl3OMN5c/s2048/121213333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN0vQVT_IDAwnscsmC_FJTQJJDDX8M_4zLZCgi8fMU9mCJNcJzlt9-p943Pf0MTf5hJPT4CGcwhOsVA-AXuogsIltOIx6hKc5Wr7XLJ8xaWUV5Y6_RV7LIG8U4pq1TKGPlwUpMl3OMN5c/w300-h400/121213333.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">For more photos, please click <a href="https://photos.app.goo.gl/xRTqmJYCBjs2ToTs7" target="_blank">HERE</a></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Memphis has more museums celebrating its musical legacy than you can wave a baton at and if tried, your arm would soon tire. They vary from pretty good to excellent but it is the National Civil Rights Museum located at the Lorraine Motel charting the black struggle that is Memphis ' jewel in the crown. What better opportunity to visit than Martin Luther King day but thwarted by the queues to enter, imbibed the many events and musical performances staged in the South Main District celebrating the great doctor's life. Visiting a day later, seeing the exhibits charting the struggle against oppression, it became ever apparent the importance music plays in articulating inequity in all societies. Elegy sung in a minor key is universal and predates that with African American roots but it is that variant which gave birth to the melodies heard by my generation.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps, more than any, Memphis became a place where songs of sorrow, longing, ire and irony converged into the dominant popular form that endures universally today. Again, serendipity is central to it's story. When Sam Phillips first realized his tape recorder was running during the "The Blue Moon Boys" sound-check song, even as spools spun, he knew then that magic was in the making and that a country boy from Tupelo with a matinee idol looks, was the magician.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">This takes the narrative of my journey to trace the Daddy of modern music almost full circle. To the shrine where for many of my generation, it all began - Graceland. A place which epitomizes a rags to riches story and that of a trillion dollar industry that this house's occupant, was it's Firestarter. A conflagration that gave rise to many imitators and innovators too, as Lennon and McCartney were inspired to be, and countless others also. Western popular music continues to evolve but it's roots, like all it's performers and audience, from wherever they hail, were once African.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBUH3Us1K3co6Z5XDEVQAYPm-fgJLZy0cQ89S3FKsnUCxSBIhU5by0BKCisT0AW9IZPlM2ETFYWVJxBPCoK2dwkyM1X-e95bFthXpGwcIG-S2HnwNaO-KooG-Znq3PRLPvtCcL1_qPMMb/s2048/1212133333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBUH3Us1K3co6Z5XDEVQAYPm-fgJLZy0cQ89S3FKsnUCxSBIhU5by0BKCisT0AW9IZPlM2ETFYWVJxBPCoK2dwkyM1X-e95bFthXpGwcIG-S2HnwNaO-KooG-Znq3PRLPvtCcL1_qPMMb/w300-h400/1212133333.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Memphis may not be the hub on a great river confluence but it is from here that it's music flowed in all directions. If New Orleans was it's port of entry, then Memphis was where the musical genres met, morphed and were dissipated around the world. FedEx is now the economic drive of this great city and it is fitting that consolidation and dispatch should continue worldwide, albeit now commodities more than just musical. This city would be the starting point for another musical odyssey altogether, one which I have yet to make. It would be to where the music was made electric to be audible above urban din. North to the Great Lakes, West to where longhorns and iron donkeys share space and East to the heart of yet another American musical genre. This is for another time.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">So, my story comes to an end sharing my reflections when airborne above MIA, that of in many visits to the US, this had been the first to Southern states. It's where I left my heart and where I hope to return. Although, often troubled and yet to be reconciled with its turbulent past, the ordinary folk that populate this great land, are some of the warmest anyone could hope to encounter. The racial divide that still exists in a country built by those seeking refuge, fleeing injustice or disadvantage or enslavement is an enigma I hope soon to be solved. Perhaps, only an outsider looking in can see that too many still, are prisoners of their own recent history. A history sad enough without the grotesque version thrust forefront by the resentful and fearful, aiming to poison all with their irrationality. The prison bars from behind which they are voluntarily imprisoned, forged in another time, fail to prevent light shining through and just as easily, could be slipped through. As music in it's many forms illustrates - our preference for harmony over dissonance is innately human and in that, are we not all equal?</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I hope that my heart rests in the right place, for my love affair with the Southland has yet to end.</div></span>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-8266823929383147422021-09-30T07:37:00.003-05:002021-09-30T08:56:21.854-05:00What happened on Highway 61? - Part 4: White Castles and the Camino to Liberty.<div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By A Tyke Dahnsarf</span></span></div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: right;">To read Part 2 of this blog series, please go <a href="https://www.mtzionmemorialfund.org/2021/09/what-happened-on-highway-61-part-iii-on.html" target="_blank">HERE</a></div><div><br /></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b>"Ah woe, fare ya well, never see ya no mo'</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b>Why don't ya hear me cryin'</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b>Ah woe, smokestack lightnin'</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b>Shinin', just like gold."</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b> - Chester "Howlin' Wolf" Burnett, 1956</b></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1CO7IlavEtKa_HRYDRP6PdfPuLmqyiD5O0hjgQieDHio1TVpZh4dptmesQvEQL4F9Y9qI1gdMLdFue4HUoAw2d88LUUc1DXF7xmWOv8ZWQvGgxh8drbF30o7AueBpJ0RaXpg4-EXBBth/s2048/h2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1031" data-original-width="2048" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1CO7IlavEtKa_HRYDRP6PdfPuLmqyiD5O0hjgQieDHio1TVpZh4dptmesQvEQL4F9Y9qI1gdMLdFue4HUoAw2d88LUUc1DXF7xmWOv8ZWQvGgxh8drbF30o7AueBpJ0RaXpg4-EXBBth/w640-h322/h2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It's ironic that many Palladian plantation palaces of the South emulate an Athenian ideal. The much vaunted democratic seedbed, ancient Athens, was a democracy for the few, sustained by the enslaved. It was a society that was doomed by design, for it was built on fear - both oppressed and oppressor lived in dread. Just as Doric columns of alabaster could not prevent Athens' collapse, those fashioned from mere Cottonwood contained the very spores that ensured eventual rot from within. Even as this precarious system of wealth creation in the South was made increasingly unsustainable by an industrialized world outside*, the enslaved became currency. Lest we forget, this system was in place, not in another millennium but in recent history - in a land founded on liberty for all, in a written proclamation, held high for all to see. A very Black history it is too, with the question of what to do when the slaves** are freed, long unconsidered and perhaps, still to be answered. So what happened when the river Jordan was finally crossed, if at all? Many of the newly emancipated trekked North, to seek a new beginning, taking their music with them.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My leaving New Orleans was a sad severance. A piece of me still remains but I console myself that departing was but physical. Continuing our odyssey, our next encampment was Indianola, proclaimed hometown of the Blues Boy.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1egPGOQD-Cjkqvw6IXa9137OpYv7TWu_lYrG6XsGcfN_IY9QikVZg6JLwpjhHDwAwacHLvGDGj-7O9HXIYQHfrDCbInxCC8ATzPu4My6M9NSQG8pp7yYYOqtubwk_R1L6jhCPaQm0Tj2M/s2048/h.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1758" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1egPGOQD-Cjkqvw6IXa9137OpYv7TWu_lYrG6XsGcfN_IY9QikVZg6JLwpjhHDwAwacHLvGDGj-7O9HXIYQHfrDCbInxCC8ATzPu4My6M9NSQG8pp7yYYOqtubwk_R1L6jhCPaQm0Tj2M/w344-h400/h.jpg" width="344" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Although born in Itta Bena, he made Indianola his own. It is here that he is buried and Riley King's ossuary is as regal as his namesake. He was clearly mindful, when considering his legacy, of the fate of many of his peers and mentors' final resting places at the hands of rapacious developers. It is only with foresight and charitable intervention, that some of the grave sites of these luminaries continue to be commemorated and preserved for posterity.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The B B King museum itself, newly built and airy, has some refreshingly unexpected exhibits documenting his life. There are of course, the clichés, including ubiquitous versions of "Lucille" to remind us that, while the trill is gone the guitar remains. Perhaps, it is a somewhat sanitized portrayal of this fascinating artist, for he was not always the man he seemed. Nonetheless, very interesting and with hindsight gained by subsequent visits to other Blues expositions, better than many. If a fan, then it's a must - If it's pizza you're looking for in Indianola, then I can safely advise that you drive on.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Clarksdale has taken the Blues story to an altogether different level. You can throw a plectrum in any direction and it will land where many a Blues Journeyman (and woman) was born, buried or busked. A roost in the great migration on the route to the firey chimneys of the North, it was our penultimate stop-over before Memphis. Taking the advice of a newly acquainted jolly Mississippian, Morris Burns, we eschewed the Shack-Up Inn in favor of loft accommodation closer to Clarksdale's attractions. It was there that our native musician host provided insider recommendations to add to our to-do list and an oil-can guitar, thoughtfully tuned to open G. Fortunately, a porch with rocking-chair was not a feature in this particular hostelry on which to render my version of "Stones in my Passway" Much to the relief of neighbors.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Ground Zero" is to Clarksdale what "Oyrish" pubs are to cities throughout the world and equally ersatz. However, Mississippi's current most famous son, Morgan Freeman, is at least modest and respectful enough not to erect a shrine to his thespian achievements. He instead spreads his largesse in providing a venue to venerate his earlier forebears' musical artistry and one in which current exponents of their musical legacy might perform. Artfully placed, sawdust rustic and turns abound - it is more metaphor than perhaps the reality of Juke joints of old but that said, the burgers aren't half bad. And, the deliciously named Lucious Spiller did a decent turn on the open mike night. He managed to coax a Slash wannabe on stage whilst keeping a watchful eye on the volume control of his Fender Champ amp. After leather-clad renditions of Guns 'n Roses set-list had ensued, Lucious trawled the audience for more appropriate interpreters of the musical genre that made Clarksdale famous. Alighting on me, decided that with my English accent, that I must be Phil Collins!? Had he mistaken me for "Albert" I would have been flattered but then sufficiently concerned about his myopia, to alert his employer to his obvious impairment.<br /><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RBu_cUFLuv5lkF9AlhQ0hY0bgjgZIfvS64zF6UsQArXEJOnQAIxbs8NVm3mMHvommVtHCa8XbZSCgOlphhNttGhk9Q7qZEJq7LE5ByB6ejFAqZNtsTZT55L4ue987LE4zX_DqQ4YqPRG/s2048/bb.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RBu_cUFLuv5lkF9AlhQ0hY0bgjgZIfvS64zF6UsQArXEJOnQAIxbs8NVm3mMHvommVtHCa8XbZSCgOlphhNttGhk9Q7qZEJq7LE5ByB6ejFAqZNtsTZT55L4ue987LE4zX_DqQ4YqPRG/w480-h640/bb.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A more "authentic Blues experience" is to be had at "Red's", where entertained the following night. Testament to this was the tarpaulin stretched across the ceiling and where the strategically arranged buckets served an additional purpose other than receptacles for the band's tips. This is a shabeen, literally located the wrong side of the tracks. There is even a taller Ike Turner look-a-like, dressed entirely in red with matching fedora, there presumably, simply to dot "i's" and cross "t's." I mused that he might have been a less fortunate colleague of the eminent Morgan Freeman who, in between resting, might be playing the role of Red? Perhaps, much in the way that Jay Hawkins played the anchor man in Jim Jarmusch's film, "Mystery Train?"</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Delta Blues Museum provides a somewhat tired, monochrome offering, made more so by subsequent visits to such venues. And, of course, no visit to this illustrious town is complete without browsing Cat Head record store's shelves for past recorded gems and the fruit of current Blues young bloods.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Clarksdale 's Cafes too offer reasonably priced, decent fare. A local Alderman introduced himself to us in one of them, gifting us badges to remind us of the specialness of his hometown. Later, introducing us to visiting (State?) officials as having "travelled all the way from London," we imagined that we might have been enlisted as bit-players to help in his tugging at purse-strings for some sort of subvention. Clearly assiduous in his role as elected representative, we hope that if this was indeed was his ruse, that we helped him succeed.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Also informative, is to take a detour along the actual highway 61, that still exists, not far outside Clarksdale. There is a world as described by the aforementioned Morris, little different to the Mississippi of yore.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Just as Stratford upon Avon in the UK mines the gold of it's native son, so it is hoped that Clarksdale can continue to do the same from it's equally talented offspring. My first impression (albeit in January) was that it may be over-reliant on the Baby-boomer dollar. Perhaps a little reinvention is required and done so, without losing it's homespun charm. A notion actively being considered maybe? We loved Clarksdale, warts and all, just the same.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Next, we're off to Memphis, the real crossroads where souls were bought (and sold.) TO BE CONTINUED...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-family: courier;">* Adherence to Habeus Corpus
made Slavery illegal under English Law. Trade in Slaves made illegal 1807 and
finally, in 1833 abolished in the British Empire. The latter, resulting in no
small part by the Abolitionists and not least for economic considerations. In
our system, a much cheaper, more efficient system existed. That of a kind of
indentured and child labor, which together with machination might easily be
be seen today, as enslavement. To secure abolishment, the Slave Compensation
Act 1837 was passed, not as the name might suggest but to indemnified British
Slave OWNERS for their loss! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A total of
approximately 27.5 million dollars paid by the British tax payer, the final claim
by their descendant finalized in 2015.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-family: courier;">** One of the world's oldest
traded commodities, it is a sad fact that a market in human bondage for forced
labor should still exist today. And, an awful indictment of humanity, that
this extreme exploitation of our fellows should persist. Human trafficking, forced
marriage, and tied labor is slavery by another name.</span></span></p></div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-164786719101831712021-09-19T06:11:00.002-05:002021-09-19T06:11:39.010-05:00Lynching At The Courthouse: Lamar Smith Deserves A Courthouse Marker In Brookhaven<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">By Dick Scruggs</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">August 28, 2021</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">Originally published in the <i><a href="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/15311/lynching-at-the-courthouse-lamar-smith-deserves-a-courthouse-marker-in-brookhaven/" target="_blank">Mississippi Free Press</a></i></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>Shortly before 10 o’clock on the morning of Saturday, Aug. 13, 1955, <a href="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/15380/buried-truth-unresolved-disregarded-lamar-smith-murder-haunts-lincoln-county/">Lamar “Ditney” Smith got a phone call asking him to come to the Lincoln County Courthouse</a> in downtown Brookhaven. Smith, a successful Black farm owner, businessman and World War I veteran, was one of the few African Americans registered to vote in the county.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><figure aria-describedby="caption-attachment-15224" class="wp-caption alignright" id="attachment_15224" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; float: right; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 5px 0px 20px 20px; max-width: 100%; width: 422px;"><img alt="Lamar Smith and wife Annie Clark Holloway Smith" class="wp-image-15224 lazyloaded" data-ll-status="loaded" height="523" sizes="(max-width: 422px) 100vw, 422px" src="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Lamar-Smith-and-wife-Annie-Clark-Holloway-Smith_cred-Mary-Byrd-Markham-Photograph-Collection-242x300.jpg" srcset="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Lamar-Smith-and-wife-Annie-Clark-Holloway-Smith_cred-Mary-Byrd-Markham-Photograph-Collection-242x300.jpg 242w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Lamar-Smith-and-wife-Annie-Clark-Holloway-Smith_cred-Mary-Byrd-Markham-Photograph-Collection-824x1024.jpg 824w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Lamar-Smith-and-wife-Annie-Clark-Holloway-Smith_cred-Mary-Byrd-Markham-Photograph-Collection-768x954.jpg 768w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Lamar-Smith-and-wife-Annie-Clark-Holloway-Smith_cred-Mary-Byrd-Markham-Photograph-Collection-19x24.jpg 19w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Lamar-Smith-and-wife-Annie-Clark-Holloway-Smith_cred-Mary-Byrd-Markham-Photograph-Collection-29x36.jpg 29w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Lamar-Smith-and-wife-Annie-Clark-Holloway-Smith_cred-Mary-Byrd-Markham-Photograph-Collection-39x48.jpg 39w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/Lamar-Smith-and-wife-Annie-Clark-Holloway-Smith_cred-Mary-Byrd-Markham-Photograph-Collection.jpg 966w" style="border-radius: 0px; border: none; box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="422" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text" id="caption-attachment-15224" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-size: 10pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.4; margin: 0px; padding: 11px;">Lamar Smith, a World War I veteran, ran a successful farm in western Lincoln County with his wife, Annie Clark Smith. He was murdered on the courthouse lawn in Brookhaven on Aug. 13, 1955. Photo courtesy Mary Byrd Markham Photograph Collection via Keith Beauchamp</figcaption></figure><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0.9rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Smith was working then to get local Black people to use absentee ballots to support challenger Joe Brueck for the Beat 5 supervisor’s race against incumbent J. Hughes James, both white men. Voting absentee, they wouldn’t be hassled at the polls.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That Saturday, Smith took his latest batch of absentee ballots to drop off as he drove downtown. At the courthouse, he walked up to the steps where he encountered three white men. They tried to block him, telling Smith he could not enter, and he argued back, leading to a physical altercation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Suddenly, prosecutors would later say, a man named Noah Smith pulled out his .38-caliber pistol and shot Smith in the ribs under his right arm at close range. Ditney Smith stumbled and then fell into bushes, where he soon died. He then was left lying on the ground for several hours.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sheriff Bob Case saw Noah Smith leaving covered with blood. He soon learned that Mack Smith and Charles Falvey were with Noah when they stopped him. All these suspects lived in Beat 5 in the Loyd Star community out in the county toward where Ditney Smith lived and farmed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite efforts by two district attorneys, E.C. Barlow in 1955 and the newly elected Mike Carr in early 1956, the three prime suspects never went to trial because not a single witness would agree to testify. Now all three accused men are dead.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But it is not too late for the community to commemorate the life of businessman and veteran Ditney Smith and memorialize his death in a respectful way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To that end, I am supporting an effort underway in Brookhaven to erect a historical marker that both honors Ditney Smith’s courage and acknowledges the brutal manner of his death. Thanks to the efforts of his descendants, a nationwide movement to memorialize lynchings, and local Brookhaven citizen groups, a promising biracial coalition, including myself, is seeking the approval of the <a href="https://www.mssupervisors.org/ms-counties/lincoln">Lincoln County Board of Supervisors</a> to place a historical marker on the courthouse lawn where Smith died.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">‘Some Race Trouble’ Downtown</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lamar Smith’s unresolved, unacknowledged murder has always haunted me. I was a boy of 9 growing up in white Brookhaven when, first, Smith was killed and then two weeks later on Aug. 28—66 years ago today—<a href="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/15273/emmett-deserves-justice-a-light-must-shine-on-grave-injustices-to-black-americans/">Emmett Till was murdered in the Delta</a>.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">On Aug. 13, 1955, like most summer Saturdays, I was about to ride my bike to the show—the movies at the Haven Theater on West Cherokee Street—when my mother got a phone call. She then told me I couldn’t go. When I pleaded for a reason, she said on account of “some race trouble” downtown.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After pressing her for more, she finally told me there’d been a “lynching at the courthouse.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><figure aria-describedby="caption-attachment-15313" class="wp-caption alignleft" id="attachment_15313" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; float: left; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 5px 20px 20px 0px; max-width: 100%; padding-right: 10px; width: 377px;"><img alt="School picture of Dickie Scruggs at Brookhaven Elementary School in 1958-59" class="wp-image-15313 lazyloaded" data-ll-status="loaded" height="542" sizes="(max-width: 377px) 100vw, 377px" src="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young-209x300.jpeg" srcset="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young-209x300.jpeg 209w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young-714x1024.jpeg 714w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young-768x1102.jpeg 768w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young-1070x1536.jpeg 1070w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young-17x24.jpeg 17w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young-25x36.jpeg 25w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young-33x48.jpeg 33w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/DickScruggs_young.jpeg 1427w" style="border-radius: 0px; border: none; box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="377" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text" id="caption-attachment-15313" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-size: 10pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.4; margin: 0px; padding: 11px;">Dick Scruggs was a boy when he heard about the lynching of Lamar Smith at the courthouse. Today he wants his hometown to commemorate the fallen veteran. Courtesy Dick Scruggs</figcaption></figure><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0.9rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I thought that meant that someone had been hanged, but she said no, that some men “from out in the county” had shot a colored man. The “county” phrase had special significance to me, because the kids I was in grade school with at Brookhaven Elementary “from out in the county” were somehow meaner and rougher than the in-town kids I usually played with.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Like adults in Brookhaven I know who kept quiet about witnessing Ditney Smith’s murder, I was afraid of people “from out in the county.” I still am.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">A Way to Help Heal and Educate</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">To this day, neither my hometown nor Lincoln County has honored or even publicly remembered the bravery and determination of a man who stood up for the ideal that all Americans are created equal. His execution at a place where laws were supposed to protect the county’s citizens occurred in the presence of numerous bystanders who customarily gathered around the courthouse on Saturday mornings; many are probably dead now.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The FBI later estimated that there were 50 to 75 potential witnesses, and not one would testify about what they saw, shamefully denying witnessing the crime. The FBI reopened the Lamar Smith case in 2008 as part of a <a href="https://www.justice.gov/crt/cold-case-initiative">new cold-case initiative for unresolved civil rights-era murders</a>. The agency examined the evidence and confirmed the identity of the three suspects—Smith, Smith and Falvey—but <a href="https://www.justice.gov/crt/case-document/lamar-smith">closed the case in 2010 because all three had died</a>.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This means real justice is not possible for Ditney Smith, but that does not mean his memory should die. The <a href="https://www.dailyleader.com/2020/01/07/dont-ignore-past-even-when-its-painful/">Brookhaven Daily Leader wrote in January 2020</a> that the Lamar Smith case must be remembered: “Some in Brookhaven would prefer to forget parts of its past, including the Smith murder. But in doing so, we are choosing to ignore a key piece of the state’s civil rights history. We are also choosing to diminish the sacrifice Smith made so that black voices would count.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">People must come together so the effort to erect a marker to Smith on the courthouse grounds will be successful. It may be especially challenging because relatives of two of the three men arrested for Smith’s murder presently hold influential political offices. But I still believe this can happen.</span></div><figure aria-describedby="caption-attachment-10075" class="wp-caption aligncenter" id="attachment_10075" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: #444444; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%; width: 866px;"><img alt="Emmett Till murder trial marker" class="wp-image-10075 lazyloaded" data-ll-status="loaded" height="577" sizes="(max-width: 866px) 100vw, 866px" src="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas-300x200.jpg" srcset="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas-1024x682.jpg 1024w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas-24x16.jpg 24w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas-36x24.jpg 36w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas-48x32.jpg 48w, https://www.mississippifreepress.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Emmett-Till-murder-trial-marker_cred-Deborah-Douglas.jpg 2000w" style="border-radius: 0px; border: none; box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="866" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text" id="caption-attachment-10075" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-size: 10pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.4; margin: 0px; padding: 11px;">This marker sits outside the Tallahatchie County Courthouse in Sumner where the murder trial for Emmett Till took place in 1955 with an all-white jury acquitting the murderers, who admitted the heinous crime later. Photo courtesy Deborah Douglas</figcaption></figure><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hopefully, passions and fears have waned since 1955, and local residents and county leadership will see the wisdom of first acknowledging and then turning the page on this sad chapter in the community’s past. Honoring a fallen veteran and a role model in the local quest for Black freedom and self-reliance is a way to heal, educate and show just how far the community has come since 1955.<br /><br />Please join this effort if you can. It’s important, and it’s time that we get this done. As the Daily Leader wrote last year, “Don’t ignore the past, even when it’s painful.”<br /><br />Also read what Donna Ladd discovered about Lamar Smith murder, his murderers and other lynchings in Brookhaven, in her in-depth historic piece on his murder, “<a href="https://www.mississippifreepress.org/15380/buried-truth-unresolved-disregarded-lamar-smith-murder-haunts-lincoln-county/">Buried Truth: Unresolved, Disregarded Lamar Smith Murder Haunts Lincoln County.</a>“<br /><br />Learn more about Lamar “Ditney” Smith in MFP Advisory Board member Keith Beauchamp’s documentary, “<a href="https://player.vimeo.com/video/146500639">Murder in Black and White: Lamar Smith”</a> and more about Emmett Till in “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvijYSJtkQk">The Untold Story of Emmett Louis Till.</a>“</span></div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-43273414320897501162021-09-18T06:18:00.003-05:002021-09-18T06:18:59.159-05:00What happened on Highway 61: Part III: On Highway 90<div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By A Tyke Dahnsarf</span></span></div><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: right;">To read Part 2 of this blog series, please go <a href="https://www.mtzionmemorialfund.org/2021/09/what-happened-on-highway-61-part-2-big.html " target="_blank">HERE</a></div></span></div></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-large;">"Laissez les bons temps rouler"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZgxj4smY2KPaxRD3rJB76gG8gn8TyTEmK7YzG371pq1VyQdjGo837jbciuxuZqYr1bD3uSWRt8AcNkMasSFbDSZ0xbmkrxZeJfGHRnAOPHJBH4qvwDZwbxxic-Lk2MQA8LTeBCm3gV4WE/s2048/222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZgxj4smY2KPaxRD3rJB76gG8gn8TyTEmK7YzG371pq1VyQdjGo837jbciuxuZqYr1bD3uSWRt8AcNkMasSFbDSZ0xbmkrxZeJfGHRnAOPHJBH4qvwDZwbxxic-Lk2MQA8LTeBCm3gV4WE/s2048/222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZgxj4smY2KPaxRD3rJB76gG8gn8TyTEmK7YzG371pq1VyQdjGo837jbciuxuZqYr1bD3uSWRt8AcNkMasSFbDSZ0xbmkrxZeJfGHRnAOPHJBH4qvwDZwbxxic-Lk2MQA8LTeBCm3gV4WE/w400-h225/222.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">What does the Bayou have to do with the Blues Trail?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am fortunate to live in both the UK and Southwest France, in Occitanie. A region deriving it's name from the language which, until the aftermath of the First World War, was widely spoken. My adopted Gallic home, a wild, mountainous land, was once a separate fiefdom, subsumed into France at sword point. It still enjoys a distinctiveness of it's own. There are other regions of France, remote from Paris, often historically turbulent, where cultures differ. When opportunity across the Atlantic presented itself, the more intrepid or desperate, disparate people settled in this "Acadie," in hope of better lives led of their own choosing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is this background, curiosity, love of music, and a recommendation, that led me to the Cajuns of Louisiana's swamps. A persecuted diaspora often holds dear it's culture, faith and especially, music, when an <i>Acadien </i>promise proves to be yet more "les haricots ne sont pas salés." An old French idiom (unsalted beans) meaning hard times, possibly corrupted to "Zydeco" - song of lament and Blues by any other name?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, with friends, we set out from New Orleans to Lafayette and beyond, turning right across the flat lands to Eunice, where our accommodation awaited. Eunice is home to American manufactured accordions what Nazareth is to Martin guitars and as equally venerated for their tonal quality. And, a squeeze-box made by Savoy Music is the ultimate Acadian instrument, due as much to it's beautiful construction and portability as to it's sound and thus, to Eunice's claim of being at the heart of Cajun music. This boast may or not, be true but it is Mamou and Fred's Lounge, which is it's beat and the ultimate destination in our quest for the real deal.</div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4VeDjoY3M1Xgk7j2rlyCw4BvZ7FlZFVpJdbfvlFh_-HULNRirbwnrAaoqG4QLFYcaN4U-J1WwShFHNbyK39EhKopcyn6TYJPNDRqYYz5uOeVhjCMXdu-n8rD1YsgH2wOqRIs8qHP_q9R/s2048/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4VeDjoY3M1Xgk7j2rlyCw4BvZ7FlZFVpJdbfvlFh_-HULNRirbwnrAaoqG4QLFYcaN4U-J1WwShFHNbyK39EhKopcyn6TYJPNDRqYYz5uOeVhjCMXdu-n8rD1YsgH2wOqRIs8qHP_q9R/s320/12.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As many readers of this blog series may know, Fred's is an institution in the region, which broadcasts weekly, live Cajun and Zydeco music at it's very best.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Remaining with Eunice and people of the South in general, for a moment. I am still amazed at the welcome we received during our visit which paradoxically, belies much of their reputed intolerance of difference. Our accommodation would merit number 11 on the Booking.com scale, if such a rating existed. On our arrival, our hostess, Sandra provided a Gumbo only someone with French blood could conjure and a mighty breakfast to boot. All with a smile as wide as Lake Pontchartrain. So it was, with great difficulty in fastening seat belts, we set off very early to secure a ring-side seat at Fred's Lounge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A hostelry with "lounge" in the title envisions, at least, an expectation of a degree of comfort and ambience conducive with relaxation. Fred's is devoid of even a hint that it may have been anything other than a spit 'n sawdust male refuge, designed squarely for copious consumption of alcohol. Despite paucity of amenities and furnishings, it makes no false claims. For lounge you can - either on the rustic bar or few benches, chairs and tables scattered in corners. Hence the advice to arrive early. At the center of the room, on the barest timber floor, is a space reserve for performance. Stage, lighting, and obvious sound system are absent, only a priest hole of a place provided in which, to squeeze the show's compere.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">From our commandeered seating, we observed the arriving minstrels, identifiable by instruments they carried, haphazardly depositing these and themselves on their amplifiers. When all finally assembled, a rudimentary sound check ensued and without any preliminary rehearsal, the band was ready to rock. A BBC broadcast this was not! And, it would have caused the <i>boffins </i>charged with the sonic fidelity of that corporation's entertainment output, to suffer collective tachycardia at the spectacle. At precisely 9 O'clock with the announcement, "Welcome to Fred's Lounge..." began the most fantastic euphony and looking around, I saw the place was packed by a moved-by-the-groove throng. They and me amongst them, were totally transported by the joyous immediacy of this musical genre.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrSchdRCWkGWh-4lmT0ruvC-X9wTu-z5WtNOjmT2B5NKpiuo5cWdqAGkRXjgs8Z2xmE0-dViGU0PkEpZ4KyecIwx5l5yYdie1Jk_14jiSwbK9U4fvl5P1jhMV4T4ixnDHfm4YlDZHG4ZU/s2048/13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrSchdRCWkGWh-4lmT0ruvC-X9wTu-z5WtNOjmT2B5NKpiuo5cWdqAGkRXjgs8Z2xmE0-dViGU0PkEpZ4KyecIwx5l5yYdie1Jk_14jiSwbK9U4fvl5P1jhMV4T4ixnDHfm4YlDZHG4ZU/w300-h400/13.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>The highlight of the stay was followed by visits to shrines to all things Cajun. A Folk Museum, Gumbo cooking lesson, a demonstration of fiddle and accordion syncopation in the diatonic scale. Time restraints fortunately, prevented a visit to an Alligator Farm, the wild ones converted into <i>saucisson </i>long ago. Those few still free to roam now apparently, protected from this fate. Our sojourn culminated in a visit to a Roadhouse involving further Cajun delicacies including dismembered parts of hopefully, incarcerated Gators and not their wild cousins. And, yet more death by Gumbo! The House Band's entertainment fare, like the comestibles, could have been better cooked. Not exactly Fred's Lounge but nevertheless, made enjoyable by the company.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We were loath to leave these proud folk and their caring, close knit world - for our lives were made better by the experience. Also saddened to observe a lifestyle, that in some of the few places we visited, like the banks of the Bayou, seemed fragile. Admittedly, a view formed in our very limited immersion in the culture. However, the music seems alive and as vibrant as ever but think that we'd all be the poorer for an entirely Anglicized Cajun songbook. With the will and the positive State intervention in place, take up of French language may yet increase?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just as the Occitans are no less French, so it is that Cajuns are no less American. Spice is for life, as well as the food - vive la differénce!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next, the river road plantations, cradle of slavery in America and the smokestack lightnin' route to emancipation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To be continued...</div></span> </div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-73302225830653781382021-09-06T11:31:00.001-05:002021-09-07T07:51:12.391-05:00What Happened on Highway 61 - Part 2: The Big Easy<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;">By A Tyke Dahnsarf</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">To read Part 1 of this blog series, please go </span><a href="https://www.mtzionmemorialfund.org/2021/07/what-happened-on-highway-61.html" style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;" target="_blank">HERE</a></span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">"Baby please don't you go down to New Orleans, you know I love you so. Baby please don't go."</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">--</span><i><span style="font-size: large;">Big Joe Williams (1935)</span></i></span></div><br /><div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There are cities you can't help falling in love with. They have that intangible something, an aura, a magic that permeates the very air that surrounds them. New Orleans is such a City and I was smitten from the moment the A300 touched tarmac at Louis Armstrong airport.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We were billeted in the French quarter, where tourism is displayed in Technicolor and Dolby surround sound. Often, careworn and grubby, it clings precariously to life, held together only by the Blutack of collective will; it's magnificent patina a magnet to many. It has no pretensions, displaying it's light firmly placed before the bushel and heart worn proudly on it's sleeve for all to see. At once cosmopolitan and provincial, conservative and carefree it is a haven to the deviant and dispossessed, embracing diversity as a mother would an itinerant but talented, favorite child. Yet, and for good reason, the Big Easy's citizens live in the now; tomorrow is an indulgence only the tourists can afford. Enjoying the moment is the raison <i>d'etre </i>of the natives of Nola and all-comers are welcome to join them in their hedonism. And, what better way to jig than to a tune of the Devil's making?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was indeed, the music created in this great city which was the primary drive to begin my odyssey. A cradle to all the greats so, inevitable that I should visit all the places chronicling their lives and to experience some of the vibe of the Petri dish where their talent was nurtured. The French quarter bars look as though they might be constructed in a studio back-lot in Burbank and transported to Bourbon Street, but convey something of how it might have been. In any case, troubadours hustling tourist dollars for song requests is in keeping with this great city's tradition.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Amongst the wealth of museums and exhibits celebrating New Orleans' gift to the world, is the Katrina Exhibition. Not that the descriptives of celebration or gift can be applied to this tearful, moving experience, which documents a human catastrophe on a Pompeiian scale. However, the resulting outcome, with its message of optimism for the future and can-do attitude is, at least uplifting. At the of risk of this particular Limey telling grannie how to suck eggs, I would urge that you include this in your itinerary if planning to visit. It probably says as much about the fortitude of this fascinating city, and determined inventiveness of it's people as any musical construct of 12 bars. More on the pride the citizens take in their heritage, later in this missive.</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Another most surprising and rewarding experience in New Orleans was that provided by the Ranger Service.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-w8qkumW8hvbrruusJIiEi3s_wHa1oR69nxyF4mBb17cZIEl3a9D2gpEAs61OVu8WZYB4roOeNjRM56eObPr0kcrJ7CUJf7oMGzrcEv33U6SEerueOPJfz6_UbCvM3BBzsx1VzwPVVekx/s2048/Tyke+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1211" data-original-width="2048" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-w8qkumW8hvbrruusJIiEi3s_wHa1oR69nxyF4mBb17cZIEl3a9D2gpEAs61OVu8WZYB4roOeNjRM56eObPr0kcrJ7CUJf7oMGzrcEv33U6SEerueOPJfz6_UbCvM3BBzsx1VzwPVVekx/w640-h378/Tyke+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></span><span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Britain, Rangers range over ranges, are little seen and seemingly, purposed only with the task of overseeing the fauna and flora in their care. In the US, they are interactive, not just custodians of green spaces but of public buildings of note where they also act as guides, historians and (in New Orleans anyway) musicians.</span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I can recommend a visit to the New Orleans Jazz National Historical Park near the French Market where free concerts are given. Provided by, not only, the excellent resident Ranger band but also, by extraordinarily gifted musicians performing music of the current scene. The lectures (also free) provided by erudite Rangers are exemplary, as the talk attended on the post-Antebellum period and resulting social consequence to the region proved to be. Certainly, it gave music of the South, Mississippi Delta and Blues music in particular - a further historical perspective otherwise unknown to me. As did my introduction to T Dwayne Moore, who had a rendezvous to interview a musician friend accompanying us on our trip. Dwayne's outstanding knowledge of the music, history underpinning it and his work in preserving churches, burial grounds and gravesites of great Blues artists was equally revelatory to me. More on grave matters in my latter scribblings.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Also, on a subject not entirely unrelated to the music of the South - Mardi Gras, a European festival transported to but made uniquely New <i>OrleanIan </i>- it too, can only truly be appreciated after visiting the city. Originally, a Pagan festival in the hope of, and celebration of survival, it became the more poignant in the aftermath of Katrina. It was the very Krewes participating and competing in this huge event, that coalesced to help re-build the city after this terrible disaster. To their credit, It was largely the resilience and tenacity of the people, not State or Federal intervention that ensured New Orleans didn't share the fate of Pompeii. Much damage remains but you can only admire them for their proud stoicism and continuing, welcoming, bonhomie in the face of such adversity.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Next, the Bayou and beyond - how a Catholic France and Canada's loss became Louisiana's gain.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">To be continued...</div></span><br /> <span><!--more--></span><span><!--more--></span><span><!--more--></span><span><!--more--></span></div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-4285400838937805552021-08-14T07:52:00.003-05:002021-09-07T07:55:27.188-05:00What happened on Highway 61? - Part 1<p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b>A Blog Series by A. Tyke Dahnsarf</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">"Now I'm a man, way past twenty one, I tell you honey child, we gonna have lotsa fun."</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">--Bo Diddley (1955)</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, I finally made it. The trip I'd promised myself for decades; the Blues trail up the delta to see the birthplace and stomping grounds of the musical hero's that informed my youth.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Like the millions of ingratiate Baby-boomers raised in post war Britain, the land of hope and glory was not our sceptered Isle but country on the far side of the Atlantic. A place portrayed on 9 inch screens, in black and white. A tableau peopled by the square jawed and white, with teeth to match. Beneath wide-brimmed hats, they rode Palominos or running boards of Chevy's - able to discharge firearms with amazing accuracy, considering the speed that their chosen mode of transport often travelled. Females were portrayed as victims who screamed a lot and got rescued from precarious situations by the square jawed. Uncannily, their coiffures and make-up always survived the ordeal where their captors or protagonists often did not. In this safer real world, that our parents had bravely sacrificed their youth to make possible for us, there were no Colts, neither with 4 legs nor 6 chambers. Nor Stetsons, Borsellinos or Chevrolets. It was a world in reality, as Black and white as that projected onto screens or via a cathode ray tube. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, we went further in embracing this perfect, mythic continent by imbibing it's music so that it became the soundtrack of our youth. Rock n' Roll was it's name and the more our parent's hated it so, we loved it the more. Then, when a home-grown, watered-down, insipid, mish-mash was offered once a week for an hour by Aunty Beeb (BBC TV) as a sop to the youth (and an establishment with an eye to future voters.) Some of us were audacious enough to seek out the itinerant father of Rock n' Roll - the Blues. Our parent's hated this even more. A number of those who had "discovered" this music also realized that the Devil had contrived to make it a musical genre (apparently) easy enough for whites to emulate. And so, some did just that, even I, but more of this later...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, my informative years, like many in that post-World War II cohort, were first shaped by photogenic all American white boys--only just out of school--who regaled us with songs of love lost or gained. The most original and influential of them was one hailing from Texas and the other from Mississippi. With not a few ditties in their repertoire, a pastiche of songs from an all-together older generation, with very different life experiences, the raw immediacy of these ditties was not lost on us, even if the context of where and how they originated was. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One of these "oldies" was Chuck Berry, who along with perhaps Cliff Gallop launched a thousand guitar wannabes. Berry was not one to waste a good riff on one song when it could be applied to further telling of fast cars and even faster female. His witty couplets succeeded in making subsequent refinements somehow different, and I could not accuse Berry of lazy, moon in June lyrics in his telling of trysts with the opposite sex. I loved him then and still do. Keef, Mick, Eric et. al., also felt the same too. Along with adulating Messrs. Morganfield, Burnett, Hooker and many a King, they helped pave the way to resurrecting the careers of many these Black American Blues artists, catapulting them from cult following into the mainstream. But they were not solely responsible for my getting acquainted with Blues music. Nay! It was another champion, Chris Barber. A noted UK jazz band leader, it was he who first introduced me and thousands of others to these great performers, via TV--together with a Glaswegian banjo player and Parisian born guitarist, both members of Barbers band. The former with the moniker of Lonnie Donegan and the even more exotically named, Alexis Korner. Together they guided our musical journey and their example launched an untold number of Rhythm 'n Blues Bands.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCdUYuqTl_W_opwqjqlmDfE0QbqArE6wN150aHApPGcU9pAhYgaK5W-MkU1w9pNjGPw4hNO7VtD5ka8Vp2rGe-Li7euaGaangyvETqLPz-oUh1HlpzwnuWdEPEdYxec1PBlLUlcbYJibB/s2048/denyms.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCdUYuqTl_W_opwqjqlmDfE0QbqArE6wN150aHApPGcU9pAhYgaK5W-MkU1w9pNjGPw4hNO7VtD5ka8Vp2rGe-Li7euaGaangyvETqLPz-oUh1HlpzwnuWdEPEdYxec1PBlLUlcbYJibB/w640-h480/denyms.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><u><b>The Denyms</b></u></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Far too young to be performing in this sort of place, but not to0 young to confess carnal inclinations toward one little Queenie, who was far too cute to be a minute over seventeen and </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">standing by the record machine. ("</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Queenie" described an unattainable female of regal bearing in those innocent times.) Their teachers knew nothing of these extra-curricular activities.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This convoluted background to my retirement bucket list journey, oft told by many, takes me to what was actually asked of me by the erstwhile and learned <a href="https://www.facebook.com/tdewaynemoore/" target="_blank">Tyler DeWayne Moore</a>. Which was to share my experience from a British perspective of the Delta Blues trail.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">To be continued...</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">For Part 2 of this series, please visit <a href="https://www.mtzionmemorialfund.org/2021/09/what-happened-on-highway-61-part-2-big.html" target="_blank">HERE</a></span></p>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0France46.227638 2.21374917.917404163821153 -32.942501 74.537871836178851 37.369999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-572138596820182022021-08-10T08:59:00.006-05:002021-09-07T08:57:51.616-05:00Mt. Zion Memorial Fund with RL BOYCE PICNIC Presents Walk Like A Big Blues Mane Workshop Weekend w/ RL BOYCE <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkeSgBC6EiYEYMi9hZhf_yC4XvyTdjUFx-jdhmyFxmbLdSGNbB2050szEdKsZGJou04EhYO4OTGt_BN0oIQkuLVdbpcMOgJU3lXKWITw6x5x4E9svabMACmCSkhx1-cL0qUjpoSfdLmueg/s898/R.L.Boyce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="898" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkeSgBC6EiYEYMi9hZhf_yC4XvyTdjUFx-jdhmyFxmbLdSGNbB2050szEdKsZGJou04EhYO4OTGt_BN0oIQkuLVdbpcMOgJU3lXKWITw6x5x4E9svabMACmCSkhx1-cL0qUjpoSfdLmueg/w640-h356/R.L.Boyce.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmAVOiffBS1hnsqy2-SjKmV-eAPN3FDOzCp7vVmOD5JdL6NbBad3qa-kXTsKTmpC3KgJMLmHmE5EcR2k7F3LW9iFZFxjoWzpzeS5CtwakfVETfa4MbR7Z7hDM9EHSSLv4-QhjFxgSZIs6/s597/IMage+4.bmp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="597" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmAVOiffBS1hnsqy2-SjKmV-eAPN3FDOzCp7vVmOD5JdL6NbBad3qa-kXTsKTmpC3KgJMLmHmE5EcR2k7F3LW9iFZFxjoWzpzeS5CtwakfVETfa4MbR7Z7hDM9EHSSLv4-QhjFxgSZIs6/w640-h364/IMage+4.bmp" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><b>Plan to Get DUSTY in Como, MS</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><b>Oct. 16 & 17 2021</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">BOOGIE w / RL BOYCE Live </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://rlboycepicnic.com/" target="_blank">https://rlboycepicnic.com/</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">RL BOYCE, Living Hill Country Blues Legend gathered the best of Mississippi Blues players for his 2019 family picnic. Recorded live in Como, RL's newest release is 60 minutes of unfiltered, raw and rocking hypnotic electric Blues from North Mississippi A complication of astounding artists show-cases the wide range of unique sounds happening in Mississippi today. All players were inspired by the traditional music making methods RL BOYCE has employed for the last 50 years. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Crowned King of the Hill Country Boogie RL BOYCE closes the disc with a transcendent jam that takes you HIGHER! </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">Come celebrate in person with the Big Blues Mane. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Grab yourself a copy at the <b>RL BOYCE PICNIC </b></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Walk like A Big Blues Mane Workshop Weekend Oct. 16 & 17, 2021</b>, Como MS. RL will have a mess </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">of copies on hand, and ready to sign. CD ONLY limited release available on WoodB Records. Recorded SEPT. 1, 2019, RL BOYCE PICNIC, COMO, MS. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">These recordings were made possible with generous support from the <b>Mississippi Arts Commission</b>. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">RL BOYCE was awarded a Mississippi Arts Commission 2021/22 Individual Project grant for his </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">RL BOYCE PICNIC Walk Like a Big Blues Mane Workshop Weekend. This grant is a portion of the </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">$1.3 million in grants the Commission will award in 2021 /22. RL will use his award to cover the overhead cost of his workshop weekend event. These grants are made possible by continued funding from the <b>Mississippi State Legislature</b> and the <b>National Endowment for the Arts</b>. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: courier;">The Mississippi Arts Commission, a state agency, serves the residents of the state by providing grants that support programs to enhance communities; assist artists and arts organizations; pro-mote the arts in education and celebrate Mississippi's cultural heritage. Established in 1968, the Mississippi Arts Commission is funded by the Mississippi Legislature, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Mississippi Endowment for the Arts at the Community Foundation for Mississippi and other private sources. The agency serves as an active supporter and promoter of arts in community life and arts education.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXdzEiOv-iglTqu6uws1dDeYegXDniKjfujKuN6hSc2mJkAzQKOpL3INtGNeWBSvsKe7KBr624zgv5pFIU4Br7m3eXGGCj7akOzY5CC5Hf2aF7RTC9vk-PgV7B3QAV8XZp-EKPHmCnBEc/s1244/image+7.bmp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="1244" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXdzEiOv-iglTqu6uws1dDeYegXDniKjfujKuN6hSc2mJkAzQKOpL3INtGNeWBSvsKe7KBr624zgv5pFIU4Br7m3eXGGCj7akOzY5CC5Hf2aF7RTC9vk-PgV7B3QAV8XZp-EKPHmCnBEc/w640-h136/image+7.bmp" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span><b style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;">Come on thru, and Shake 'em on down with RL BOYCE! </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://rlboycepicnic.com/" style="font-size: xx-large; font-weight: 400;" target="_blank">https://rlboycepicnic.com/</a></b></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Living HillCountry Blues Legend RL BOYCE is waiting on you, and U n YOU! </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Join GRAMMY Nominee, American musical treasure RL BOYCE. "Walk Like A Big Blues Mane WorkShop Weekend" offers a chance to meet up with RL BOYCE for the weekend in his hometown of Como, MS. Hang out with the Mane his self and learn from the Legend. A unique opportunity for anyone to place one selves in the shoes of a true Mississippi Bluesman's experience. RL BOYCE PICNIC 2021 "Walk Like A Big Blues Mane WorkShop Weekend provides an immersive unfiltered unique cultural experience only found in North Mississippi. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">RL Boyce's history with Blues music from North Mississippi runs deep. RL has played Blues music for 50 years. He began on drum in 1970, and played with his Uncle Otha Turner's traditional Fife and Drum band for 30 years. In the 1980s David Evans of High Water Records approached RL about recording with the SheWolf herself, Jessie Mae Hemphill. A couple years later RL picked up the guitar and developed his own style "Hill Country Boogie" after Mississippi All Star star Luther Dickinson dared RL to learn how to play guitar </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In its fourth year <b>RL BOYCE PICNIC</b> joined forces with <b>MT. Zion Memorial Fund</b>, a recognized Non Profit organization, dedicated to research and respect of American Blues traditions and musicians allowing for RL BOYCE PICNIC to accept awarded public funds. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A harmonious union President Annise Bradley is a Young Family descendant. The Young Family Fife n Drum Band Ed, Lonnie Sr., and Lonnie Jr. were first recorded by Alan Lomax in 1959. Great Uncle Lonnie "Buster" Young Jr., Lonnie Sr.'s youngest son will demonstrate how a Cane Fife is made, and share the oral history of their fascinating Mississippi African American family, traditions, and art. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEvHxLk0UAJIkPSJZiQ6ZCpoCGipMKGkzJC_qbX2_S1ATgMgmauZUOz36t5p5zC5JgfHDjtwd8AD3e5vLxf0AB3pdpgDvQm_tOijV2BqFI4Z3Xr9uRU5o5vDqWqwqy3LQb9aIjzMKJOtuU/s636/image+3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="636" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEvHxLk0UAJIkPSJZiQ6ZCpoCGipMKGkzJC_qbX2_S1ATgMgmauZUOz36t5p5zC5JgfHDjtwd8AD3e5vLxf0AB3pdpgDvQm_tOijV2BqFI4Z3Xr9uRU5o5vDqWqwqy3LQb9aIjzMKJOtuU/s320/image+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Abe "Keg" Young with his bass drum<br />Photo © Bill Steber</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><b><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Hosted by Shanquisa Boyce & Sheila Birge</b></div>SAT. Oct. 16, 2021</b><br />Greg Ayres Guest Room<br />6830 HWY 51 N @ Old Panola Rd.<br />First Left after "In A Hurry"<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://rlboycepicnic.com/" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;" target="_blank">https://rlboycepicnic.com/</a> <br /><br /><b>11AM</b><br />Guitar Fife & Drum Workshop w/ RL Boyce, Lightnin' Malcolm, David Evans, Annise Bradley Learn the tricks, licks, and lore from the legend himself. RL is joined by the Electric North Mississip-pi musician Lightnin' Malcolm. Folklorist Dr. David Evans of UM High Water Records, author of Big Road Blues, Tommy Johnson. Annise Bradley is a direct descent of Ed, Lonnie Young Sr. and Lonnie Jr. whose Fife and Drum Band was first recorded by Alan Lomax in 1959. Along with G.D. Young, and Abe "CagHead" Young who is Annise's Grand father. <br /><br /><b>11AM - 4PM - LIMITED to 25 - $100 </b><br /><br /><b>4PM</b><br />Cane Fife Demonstration and Young Family history with Lonnie "Buster" Young Jr.<br />Annise Bradley's Great Uncle will demonstrate how a Cane Fife is made, and share the oral history of the Young family's music which dates back to the end of the civil war, when Fife & Drum Bands became exclusively Black. Lonnie "Buster" Young Jr. was first recorded by Alan Lomax in 1959.<br /><b>$25 </b><br /><br /><br /><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU-xB4rYjKLyBDT23nq9JsNMuzRPb7CcfDjcEMMOYbxdFHl-Ro8RnXfgIl0W5sbRIQ_Sl1ISpR2c8jpitmAEKfvK6a1ezrE-VUr47J22a2GTRAl-XsMqt7_nZLaDYYWN26Diw7TK2M_Xmf/w400-h268/image+2.jpg" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>5 PM<br />Yard Party Jam w / the Big Blues Mane<br />Workshop Students join the legend his self, RL Boyce in the yard.<br />w/ RL BOYCE, Lightnin' Malcom, Duwayne Burnside Band, Travis Hullette, Young Family Members Fife & Drum Band, Kody Harrell, Guitar Lightnin' Lee & His Thunder Band<br />If you plan to jam, please bring your gear.<br />$10<br /><br />Sunday OCT. 17, 2021<br /><br />11AM<br />Big Blues Mane HillCountry Guided History Tour<br />RL BOYCE and Annise Bradley lead guests to a variety of locations pertinent to RL's musical legacy, and incredible life. Also learn about the Young family's Fife & Drum connections to so many from the North Mississippi Blues community. Each guest is provided with a printed map. Questions and discussion are encouraged. Stop by spots like where Fred McDowell's trailer stood, LPs Ball Field, Hunter Chapel Church, Compress Rd. And the gravesites of Fred McDowell, Otha Turner, Sid and Jessie Mae Hemphill, Napoleon Strickland, Calvin Jackson, Ed, Lonnie Sr., Abe Young and more.<br />$25<br /><br />TICKET DEALS<br />VIP Ticket (Limited to 25) $150<br />Includes all weekend events plus<br /><br />SAT. 10 AM<br />Meet RL BOYCE at Southern Menagerie Shoppe in downtown Como for fresh brewed coffee and homemade baked goods. RL will escort guests to the Blues Markers on Main Street and Emily Pointer Library. Where one can view the permanent photo collection of HillCountry Blues musicians. The display includes photos by famed folklorist George Mitchell, Tennessee photographer Bill Steber, and Como resident Yancey Allison.<br /><br /><br /><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGBYFXgjtnSyn0IEt6VFbAbFyva3W3khhOGqCuQ1vaq5qtX76stYESFxm0s-ei_ghK4ze2e68jP7RJbUwTQe_fm6ia2X-c0b3fN3LRSmSIijBPKY0BbD39A0vgeECAcTTmLoNEIA5J0Bbs/w400-h265/image+8.bmp" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Ready Ticket $ 50 <br />Fife n Drum Demo<br />Yard Party Jam<br />HillCountry Guided Tour <br /><br />Sponsors<br />MT. Zion Memorial Fund<br />Mississippi Hills National Heritage Area Mississippi Arts Commission<br />Visit Mississippi<br />FANCY!<br />WoodB Records<br /><br />Partners<br />Ms. Dorothy's Food Pantry<br />Southern Menagerie Shoppe<br />Deli 51<br />Home Place Pastures<br /><br />Friends<br />Emily J. Pointer Public Library<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUlp5tSISa-oQb_2w_fk4DhTkdvAh_-SuRqifM4Cz3iB3t4DHRiGI1OUsDCaMjsMrAmsbHcNiz11Q916t7C3G_R-q5zQUw-w0eRh8nrXSc2hc1D8_ziJl9PnA9g85O776In5DEFpGbSuem/s1244/image+7.bmp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="1244" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUlp5tSISa-oQb_2w_fk4DhTkdvAh_-SuRqifM4Cz3iB3t4DHRiGI1OUsDCaMjsMrAmsbHcNiz11Q916t7C3G_R-q5zQUw-w0eRh8nrXSc2hc1D8_ziJl9PnA9g85O776In5DEFpGbSuem/w640-h136/image+7.bmp" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-73933183453054026152021-08-09T11:56:00.003-05:002021-08-09T15:24:00.638-05:00The History of Race and Memorialization in the United States: Resources from the Mt. Zion Memorial Fund<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLa6iGFKaDjg70Yqxs2xM5cwPWLbi3hP4OtmLfF3p8O4IDiyc4kVzYI0-BanhU0w8DM2044U4OwYAcaL8bIgtn4bXbJHCS69cwDIvbDXv7K6boiw-7Al2UeOErnZFKEYhT9CP6zrA4j1_2/s1080/IMG_3300.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="1080" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLa6iGFKaDjg70Yqxs2xM5cwPWLbi3hP4OtmLfF3p8O4IDiyc4kVzYI0-BanhU0w8DM2044U4OwYAcaL8bIgtn4bXbJHCS69cwDIvbDXv7K6boiw-7Al2UeOErnZFKEYhT9CP6zrA4j1_2/w640-h336/IMG_3300.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>In response to ongoing issues of race and memorialization in the United States, we have compiled a list of resources for teachers to use in classrooms to help students understand the history of the present; journalists can draw on them to provide historical context for current events; researchers can draw on them to inform future scholarship. <br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“A Juneteenth Dilemma: Freedom and Self-Determination”</a> by Channon Miller and T.J. Tallie (Perspectives on History, 2021)<div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“Erasing History or Making History? Race, Racism, and the American Memorial Landscape,”</a> a Virtual AHA webinar featuring David W. Blight, Annette Gordon-Reed, and James Grossman (YouTube, 2020)</div><div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“A Monument to Black Resistance and Strength: Considering Washington, DC’s Emancipation Memorial”</a> by Chris Myers Asch and George Derek Musgrove (Perspectives on History, 2020)</div><div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“Named for the Enemy: The US Army’s Confederate Problem”</a> by Ty Seidule (Perspectives on History, 2020)</div><div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“Rumors of War Arrives in the South: Changes to Richmond’s Monumental Landscape”</a> by Ryan K. Smith (Perspectives on History, 2020)</div><div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“Setting the Lost Cause on Fire: Protesters Target the United Daughters of the Confederacy Headquarters”</a> by Karen L. Cox (Perspectives on History, 2020)</div><div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“Can We Right the Past? Memory and the Present”</a> by Caroline E. Janney (AHA Today, 2018)</div><div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“Monumental Effort: Historians and the Creation of the National Monument to Reconstruction”</a> by Kritika Agarwal (AHA Today, 2017)</div><div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“The Struggle to Commemorate Reconstruction”</a> by Sarah Jones Weicksel (AHA Today, 2018)</div><div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">“What Should We Do with Confederate Monuments?”</a> by Dane Kennedy (AHA Today, 2017)</div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-23270387156929388132021-05-31T09:01:00.003-05:002021-05-31T09:05:18.428-05:00"They Say Drums was a-Calling": African-American Music from the Mississippi Hill Country<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">By Bill Steber, 1999</span></b></span></div><span style="font-family: courier;"><br />All Photos from the Alan Lomax Collection</span><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSOeM0W2pY3Q-cRY8dJWrfcO4-kIPDKqmbaEcaz1PG0TK2ZBbxTNHmXilCsdJUFfsJjwXOlmMPXXje1yLIk9tDOkjD9OL1E-Qw3jrjBDU_YfieRf7Yj6UJVgihKdSIe4mrhl_TBhIm8Gmm/s480/hqdefault.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSOeM0W2pY3Q-cRY8dJWrfcO4-kIPDKqmbaEcaz1PG0TK2ZBbxTNHmXilCsdJUFfsJjwXOlmMPXXje1yLIk9tDOkjD9OL1E-Qw3jrjBDU_YfieRf7Yj6UJVgihKdSIe4mrhl_TBhIm8Gmm/w400-h300/hqdefault.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ed Young and Lonnie Young, 1959</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">On a small, nondescript farm in rural northeast Mississippi, between the towns of Senatobia and Como, is one of America's last and most tangible links to its African musical past.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's here, at country picnics in the community of Gravel Springs, that 92-year-old Otha Turner still performs on the homemade cane fife as younger family members beat out African-based rhythms on drums, and members of the local community gather to dance, drink corn whiskey, and eat goat sandwiches just as they have for well over a century.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Otha Turner, known by friends as "Gabe," heads the last African-American fife and drum band in a region that once supported more than a dozen. And like the archangel of the same name, when Otha blows his instrument, it's a rallying cry linking the community to its ancestors. Dancers yell, "Blow it, Gabe" as they encircle Otha and his drummers, moving in harmony to the hypnotic rhythm of the drums as parts of a larger organism.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">African-American fife and drum music can be traced back to British and early American military music. Thomas Jefferson's personal body servant even organized a small band to help rally the revolutionary war effort. But in the hands of slaves and their progeny, the stiff, formalized music used to direct military movements was transformed by the same African syncopations and poly-rhythms that eventually gave birth to jazz and blues.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a time when drumming by slaves was strictly forbidden for fear of illicit communication, the fife and drum was an acceptable outlet, even used by confederate armies during the civil war.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today, the fife and drum music performed by the Turner family has more in common with the music of West Africa than the Spirit of '76. These musical ties are reinforced by the dancers, who "salute" the drums with pelvic movements not unlike traditional dances still seen in Africa, Haiti and the West Indies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Folklorist Alan Lomax, who was the first to record fife and drum music in 1942, considers it one of his greatest discoveries in a lifetime of research. In his 1993 book, "Land Where the Blues Began," he wrote: "in vaudou ceremonies, dancers make pelvic gestures toward the drum to honor the holy music that is inspiring them. I never expected to see this African behavior in the hills of Mississippi, just a few miles south of Memphis."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When asked about the origin of the fife and drum, Otha Turner replies "How old it is? I don't know. They said it's African, back in African times, that's what they say, I don't know, I wasn't thought of. And they say drums was a-calling. If a person ceased, and you carry them to the cemetery, loaded in the wagon, all them drums get behind them and marched, just like it was a hearse, and they brought them to the cemetery, playing the drums."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the North Mississippi hill country of Tate, Panola and Marshall counties, the traditional venue for fife and drum music was the summer weekend picnic. Following an afternoon baseball game, fife and drum and black string band music was performed late into the night. Rural blacks heard the drums from miles away and were directed by the sound, arriving by foot or wagon.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Annie Faulkner of Abbeville remembers when her father Lonnie Young played: "If [daddy] was playing somewhere close around, like this time of evening [dusk], when he hit that drum we could hear it from our porch from across the river over there, a long ways away."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dr. Sylvester Oliver, an ethnomusicologist from Rust College in nearby Holly Springs, sees the drums as the historic cultural centerpiece of Hill Country music. "I have interviewed several elderly individuals who told me...they would not start their picnic unless the drums came and kind of sanctified the area. They always wanted the drums to come and bless the area."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today, the picnics held on Turner's farm in late summer and early fall are the last link to that tradition. The picnic begins with the slaughter of one or more goats early in the day that will be barbecued and served as $3.00 sandwiches along with beer and soft drinks, sold from Otha's picnic stand. People begin arriving at dusk as Otha, followed by two snares and a bass drum, begin performing the "Shimmy She Wobble", (a standard fife and drum tune named for the type of dancing it often inspires), and snake their way slowly across the farm lot usually inhabited by chickens, dogs, horses and goats.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In his younger days Otha could play for hours without stopping as dancers kicked up clouds of dust late into the night. Now in his nineties, he allows himself frequent breaks and augments the picnic entertainment with performances by local blues musicians like "Rule" Burnside, R.L. Boyce and Luther Dickinson. In the last few years, he's also brought in a DJ to provide music for the younger crowd. But the focus of the picnic is, as it has always been, the drums.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Otha's daughter, Berniece Turner Pratcher, still plays drums for her father and remembers the picnics of her youth. "Back then you could hear fife and drum pretty much whenever you got ready too," says Pratcher. "The picnics died out as the people died out. My daddy is about the only one who still has a picnic."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Annie Faulkner recalls attending picnics where her family's fife and drum band played: "The picnics that I went to, it was exciting. People would be kicking up dust. They'd be down on the ground. Kicking that dust, have dust flying. Both feet would be white with dust."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Otha Turner learned the fife by observing older local players like John Bowden, who used to perform at picnics when Turner was a teenager.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"He'd get on that fife man, it'd get late over in the evening, folks was running, hollering, ‘Blow it ,John,'" recalls Turner. "That son of a gun would get to blowing, kept his cap sideways, and I'd be walking along behind him, that son of a bitch would blow it for them."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bowden, who at age 95 is the oldest known living fife player in the state, has long since retired from playing, but still recalls his glory years. "It's all gone," recalls Bowden. "Used to be a good time in them days. I didn't want to miss nothing. I'd hear a drum hit, and man I just, Whew!, I'd have a fit."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Turner acquired his first fife from a neighbor, R.E. Williams, when he was a teen-ager. "He was out there to the lot feeding his hogs," says Turner. "Fife in his pocket, he'd pull it out, he'd walk around there and blow, standing around and look at the hogs, he'd walk and blow.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I said ‘Mama!' [She said] ‘What?' ‘I hear that man blowing that thing, I want to go up there mama.' She said ‘All right young man, I tell you what, I'm gonna let you go up there a little while and don't you stay long. Don't let me to meet you.' I went flying, I run every step up there, I had to go.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"‘Mr R.E.!' He looked around, ‘What?' I said ‘What is that you blowing?' He said ‘That's a fife son.' I said ‘A Fife?' He said ‘yeah.' Well I thought a fife was a dog. I said, ‘Mr R.E., will you make me one of them things?' He said, ‘If you be smart and industrious and obey your mama and do what she tell you, I'll make you one.'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"About a month after that he called me, handed it to me, said ‘Here's your fife' I said ‘THANK YOU! THANK YOU!' I said, ‘What's the price?' He said, ‘You don't owe me nothing.' I said, ‘I sure do thank you.'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"He said, ‘You ain't going to blow it'. I said, ‘I'm gonna try'. He said, ‘That's the best words you spoke, don't nothing make a fail but a try, son.' He said, ‘If you try and want to blow it, you gonna blow it, but if you never try, you never will blow it.'"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The sound of his early musical attempts annoyed his mother, so he was forced to practice on the sly. But his persistence eventually paid off.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"When I learned how to note that cane, I said, ‘I got it now!'" recalls Turner. "I learned it good. Sometimes I'd walk, going to visit somebody at night, I'd blow my cane all the way over there and back. [People] would hear it, ‘Man, you sure was blowing that fife last night.'"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">His reputation got him jobs at picnics playing for men like George "Pump" Toney, and Will Edwards, who ran a racehorse track and provided barbecue and music for his guests.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was at these gatherings earlier in the century that the fife and drum often alternated with a now-defunct musical form that equally characterized the unique music of the Hill Country: the black string band. These bands performed ballads, reels and old-time music on instruments like the fiddle, mandolin, banjo, string bass and guitar – playing in a style that many now think of as exclusively white in origin. Ironic, considering one of the primary instruments of white folk music, the banjo, is an entirely African-derived instrument.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Little is known about these early bands, since few recordings exist from the period, but Dr. Sylvester Oliver notes that the location of the Mississippi hill country helped create a unique regional mixture of "Southern Appalachian culture and the Mississippi Delta" within the black string band tradition.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Black hill country string bands played for white as well as black audiences all over the region, at movie houses, formal gatherings and private parties until their commercial potential was diminished by the Jim Crow laws of the '20s and '30s, according to Oliver.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSQASr0G-di2pQJ_-N8lR0QK9qLnWlYKXQYwcTLuHnyVL178zp-DXmAbeyHl6ei-vJRkar0bU-CIq8WEpNJ2KFvdoQ9llmCFQr0vGUZDmLcpwQnXb9u9o2doC15D3Nq7pcsOZX2nmfcriU/w274-h400/Sid_Hemphill.jpg" width="274" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">Sid Hemphill, 1959</div></td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps the best known of these musicians was Sid Hemphill, who was born in 1878 and was the master of nine instruments, but was primarily known locally as a hot fiddle player. Hemphill was recorded by the Library of Congress in 1942 and again in 1959 performing ballads, break-downs, and fife and drum music: a cross section of 19th century black folk music pre-dating the blues. Most surprising was Hemphill's performances on the "quills," an ancient instrument heretofore unknown in black folk music with ties, according to Lomax, to Romania, ancient Greece, South America the Pygmies of Africa.</div></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sid's granddaughter, famed female Hill country blues guitarist Jessie Mae Hemphill, remembers a time when "country music" had a decidedly darker hue. "That white guy what play that fiddle about ‘Turkey in the Straw,' all of that come from my granddaddy," says Hemphill. "Wasn't no white band playing nothing like that. What they playing now, all that come from my granddaddy."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And just as blues from the Delta gave birth to rock and roll, the music of the North Mississippi Hill Country predates the Delta blues.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dr. Oliver notes that the rhythms and percussive drive of fife and drum music had a "strong influence" on the development of Hill Country blues guitar, since most early bands performed fife and drum, string band music and/or blues – depending on the occasion and desire of the audience.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The most famous guitarist typifying Hill country blues was Fred McDowell, who, beginning in the '60s, often left his home in Como to play festivals where he became the darling of the blues and folk revival circuit. But Oliver considers the late David "Junior" Kimbrough to be "the last bastion of what Hill music was all about from a Folk perspective."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Kimbrough, who died in January of 1998, was a social and cultural institution in Marshall County. His house parties, and later his juke joint on Highway 4, provided the central gathering place for many blacks in the extended Hill country community since the late 1950's. He personally trained, or at least influenced, most blues musicians in the Marshall County area, including the late rockabilly legend Charlie Feathers, whom he taught to play guitar.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"[Junior] was like a magnet," says Oliver. "It was his university. He could draw musicians young and old. He didn't do a whole lot of talking with them but he would allow them to experiment. He would allow them to add their uniqueness to whatever he was doing."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And the complexity of what he was doing was often difficult to follow. Junior's son and long-time drummer Kinney Kimbrough remembers "It took me a long time to learn how to feel his music. He played his bass line and his rhythm all at the same time. See, other bands have their changes every 6 bars or so, but daddy [would] have his changes, this one on 3 bars, next time on 10, this time on 1 or 3. See, you have to know him, you have to feel him to know how to play with him."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Junior adapted hill country traditions into his own original compositions and style of playing that had a profound effect in the area. And like the fife and drum, Kimbrough's music had a propulsive, hypnotic quality that inspired people to dance. As he played songs like "All Night Long" and "You Better Run" with repeating guitar riffs, a song could stretch on for a half hour as dozens of bodies moved as one in the stifling summer heat of his country juke joint.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"People loved the rhythm of his music," remembers Kinney Kimbrough. "It makes them move. You know it's like a hill country funk blues or something."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite Junior's death, Kinney still opens his father's juke joint every Sunday night for crowds that have hardly diminished. "I really kept it open because I know how many people loved him," says Kimbrough. "And I know that that's the only way that they can feel kind of close to him. Some think of the place as their home away from home. It makes them feel good."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Junior's music lives on through Kinney and his brother David Kimbrough Jr., who combines his father's guitar sound with modern influences, but can play "Junior" like no one else. "It's just by the grace of God that I inherited playing music with my brother David," says Kinney, "So we could keep it going."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Junior Kimbrough's longtime friend and music partner R.L. Burnside still plays at the club on Sundays when he's not on tour across America or Europe promoting his latest album. Both Burnside and Kimbrough have become hill country blues phenomena over the last five years on the strength of critically acclaimed releases on the Oxford, Miss., blues label Fat Possum.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Kimbrough's first Fat Possum release, "All Night Long," was the recipient of a rare five-star (classic) album review in Rolling Stone magazine. In 1996, he did a two-week tour opening shows for punk/shock-rocker Iggy Pop.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Burnside, who first recorded his traditional hill country blues in 1967 for the Arhoolie label, has achieved even greater success in the wake of collaborative musical efforts with post-punk noise rocker Jon Spencer of the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and tours opening for acts like the Beastie Boys.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But similar to collaborations in the '60s of African-American blues men like Sonny Boy Williamson and Muddy Waters and various British and American rockers, the results do more to increase the bluesman's name recognition and earning power than for creating memorable (or even listenable) music.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I didn't like it when I first heard it," says Burnside of his latest Fat Possum release featuring dance remixes of his powerful, grungy hill country blues. "I thought it was coming out just like we did it, you know. And then it come out remixed. I didn't like it. But it's selling."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Burnside's music, though marked by the same propulsive, repetitive rhythms that distinguish hill country guitar, is a link between this tradition and post-war blues sound of John Lee Hooker and Lightning Hopkins.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Burnside learned guitar from Hill country musicians like Ranie Burnette, Son Hibler and Fred McDowell, but he spent his formative years going to the picnics where fife and drum music was performed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When asked if fife and drum music influenced his playing, Burnside responds: "Yeah, I think it did. A lot of people say that the blues sounds like fife and drum music. All the blues, they say, started from fife and drum bands."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If Burnside's music, like Junior Kimbrough's, lives on, it will be through the musical efforts of his sons, especially DeWayne Burnside, who plays in a style closest to his father's.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But what of the mother of all Hill Country music, fife and drum? Who will evoke the spirit of Pan and inspire future lines of drummers to musical abandon? Who will keep the centuries-old tradition alive?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Most folks in the Gravel Springs community put their hope in the hands of Otha's precocious 8-year-old granddaughter Sharde, who made her musical debut at age 5 and continues to be the highlight of every picnic.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Sharde's gonna be good," beams Otha, "She just needs somebody to keep pushing her, be with her, boost her up."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the night of the picnic, everyone is waiting for Sharde to perform and they crowd around as she hits her first tentative notes on the fife to let the drummers know she's ready. As the snares begin their roll and the bass drum drops in, she leads the drummers with a seriousness and confidence that belies her 3-and-a-half-foot frame.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After playing a few phrases on the fife with authority, she breaks down into a dance that causes the crowd to erupt into cheers, laughter and shouts of encouragement. Her grandfather, Otha, stands close by, his hand hovering near her shoulder, a look of utter joy on his usually stern face for the first time tonight.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Take your time," he calls to her, "Blow that thing!" She magically coaxes notes from her primitive cane fife that cut through the shouts and drum rhythms into the night air. All eyes are on her, but she is unshaken by the attention. She feels her grandfather's presence and is buoyed by his gentle encouragement. "Take your time."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When she blows her final notes and raises her fife into the air, counting out the final three beats of the song to end the drums, the crowd exhales a cathartic cheer. Someone emerges and embraces her. Adults laugh loudly and slap each other on the back, "That little girl is something else!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Otha beams quietly, watching his granddaughter receive her praise with grace, confident in the knowledge that his legacy is in good hands.</div></span>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-52218380734219184602021-02-19T15:31:00.003-06:002021-02-19T16:01:05.892-06:00The Meaning of "Panther Burn"<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
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In the book <i>It Came from Memphis</i>, Robert Gordon forwards one explanation behind the band name for Tav Falco and the Panther Burns: </div>
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<li>“The band’s name reflected the lore surrounding Panther Burn, Mississippi. This town was menaced by an elusive wild beast that, when finally cornered, was set aflame. Its dying shrieks so horrified the citizens that they named the community for it. The moniker was appropriate for” Tav Falco’s assembly of musicians, The Panther Burns.</li>
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It's not clear at all where this supposed lore came from--perhaps the mind of Falco himself, or Gordon's own exaggeration--but the town of Panther Burn has plenty of actual historical information related to the naming of the town. Here is one news item from the <i>Vicksburg Whig</i> in 1860 that explains how the town got its name.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Population in 1987: About 100 families<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Industry: Panther Burn Co., a plantation with about 6,500 acres of farmland growing cotton, soybeans, rice and wheat. The plantation employs 60 to 150 people, depending on the season. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Settled: 1832 Government: The area is not incorporated so there is no local governing board. The area is under the jurisdiction of the Sharkey County Board of Supervisors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of Note: The last reported panther sighting near here was
about five years ago by farmers. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption"><div style="text-align: center;">(Jackson, MS) <i>Clarion Ledger</i>, Nov 1, 1987.</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: courier;">On February 17, 2021, I posted a link to the above blog post on a Facebook post containing an interview with Tav Falco [<a href="https://www.ledocument.com/issue-fourteen/tav-falco-talks-to-harry-pye?fbclid=IwAR0bO0z_cAc3w1gB-JcP0rwZ2S_r1vtsWuBzxS3d8K0Cxy3RGis_Q8euOec" target="_blank">click here for the interview</a>], and I was fortunate enough to get a lengthy response from Mr. Falco himself, who not only took the time to correct a couple of grammatical errors in my post--namely that I hade misspelled Vicksburg as "Vickburg" as well as got the name of the newspaper incorrect; instead of the Herald, it was the Whig. Both have now been corrected in the above post. I find Mr. Falco's response both enlightening and informative; thus, I republish it here for your reading enjoyment!</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">"Thank you for your comment. You have written, "It's not clear at all where this supposed lore came from--perhaps the mind of Falco himself, or Gordon's own exaggeration--but the town of Panther Burn has plenty of actual historical information related to the naming of the town. Here is one news item from the Vickburg Herald in 1860 that explains how the town got its name."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;">One might wonder how many panthers in Mississippi were shot down, trapped, maimed, or burned alive inadvertently or otherwise. I should imagine lots of them, esp. during the times when the wilderness was being cleared for cultivation of crops. Murdered and destroyed along with legions of other august creatures such as bear (Mr. Faulkner attested to that), bobcats, wild boar, foxes, and so on. That item Mr. Moore has cited appears to be from the Oxford Intelligencer 1860, yet it is credited to the Vickburg (does he intend VickSburg?) Herald 1860, while that newspaper did not begin publishing until 1897. Was this item a reprint 37 years later? Anyway, the point is that among the endless slayings of grand creatures of the wild, this instance of the slaughter of the 'treed varmint' may not have even been reported - as I suspect most were not - had the hunter not been a so-called "gentleman" who removed the paw of the animal and had taken it to a doctor's office for the public to view as the veracity of his claimed exploit. Does this newspaper item account for anything more than panthers were killed in the area?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This paragraph by Nick Nicholas, PhD in Linguistics from Melbourne University appears relevant to the topic:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"The English equivalent of “burn” in Scots/Scottish-English isn’t “burn” in the sense of “be consumed/damaged by fire”, it is “bourne” which has pretty much the same meaning of “stream” and is found in lots of place names like “Bournemouth” or “Holborn” in London. Both come from Anglo-Saxon, the ancestor language of both Scots and English, so it’s not that there has been a change in meaning, more that the term has survived in Scots and Scottish English, but fallen out of use in England, except where it has been fossilized in names."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, we could surmise that in the Scottish dialect supposedly spoken around the Panther Burn area, the term 'burn' may - by a stretch - have described "swampy" conditions as alluded to in the note the Jackson, MS <i>Clarion Ledger</i> published in 1987. Swampy because many 'streams' in Mississippi are not flowing streams at all, rather they are swamps of brackish water.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If one happens to read my book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-Behind-Sun-Splendor-Memphis/dp/1840681810">Ghosts Behind The Sun: Splendor, Enigma, and Death</a></i>, there it is written how Tav Falco learned of the Panther Burn legend. A Memphis musician, the late Sid Selvidge, had been reared - so to speak - in the planter society of Greenville 34 miles distant from the community of Panther Burn. It was he who had related the legend to Falco to satisfy his curiosity. Mr. Moore is right in that 'it is not clear at all where this supposed lore came from.' Yet we have a reality that is irrefutable. We have the reality of a legend. As legend where concrete historical dates, names, and charters can only be implied, inferred or imagined. A reality that will forever remain a mystery and as such a legacy for which we can be grateful. Are we too eager to assault our minds and lives with purported historical facts, figures, and statistics in our quest to gleefully proclaim fiction over fact?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What is passed on by word of mouth and escapes the scrutiny of microscopic, analytical, methodical, deconstructive interrogation, might be that ineffable, elusive "rara materia" from which poetry, music, and art are created. When spoken stories do become legend, they become larger than life. One might howl: superstition! shadowy Romanticism! Well, yes. There are particles of these in all tales and legends. Yet legends loom larger than textbooks. We must approach legends on their own terms for they are larger than we are. We can perversely try to pick them apart and to deflate them, but they will always return. They will return because, in the end, you find that legends are drawn from fact however obscure; otherwise they would not exist. Nor would their supra-reality be one that lives and breathes across time, fashion, class, and culture.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The choice is ours. We can disregard legend, allow ourselves to be oppressed by it, or to be imaginatively stimulated, or allow ourselves to be inspired by it, or to charge off in all directions trying to live out legends. One thing is for sure. Legends loom larger than FATE itself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As a final aside, the Memphis (b. Earle, Arkansas) artist, Carroll Cloar, entitled his painting on the legend as "Panther Bourne."</div></span></td></tr>
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DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-56517315056979034592021-01-21T22:24:00.105-06:002021-01-25T08:20:42.370-06:00Blues Experts Forensic Reviews of recent Robert Johnson Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_ZK1JWVpIZ9yJxU0YFZuwoVKnvlrJJ0aNOJHE4FCz_15mV_8Iqe4z05U9Pipm1FqpAS0c4i1Zv97fbwk_kIUYcguuJnPv3ef7Yl7FmxnA97a9NMmC2aODve40rfnn7TExPcna-m_1tRm/s975/22859747_1471608086227782_6345925880717430867_o+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="975" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_ZK1JWVpIZ9yJxU0YFZuwoVKnvlrJJ0aNOJHE4FCz_15mV_8Iqe4z05U9Pipm1FqpAS0c4i1Zv97fbwk_kIUYcguuJnPv3ef7Yl7FmxnA97a9NMmC2aODve40rfnn7TExPcna-m_1tRm/w640-h386/22859747_1471608086227782_6345925880717430867_o+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In January 2021, I posted a promotional article about the book Brother Robert on Facebook, and I received some interesting responses. First, Bruce Conforth tells us what' he thinks about Lauterbach's instant classic, and then ethnomusicologist David Evans details his thoughts about <i>Up Jumped the Devil</i>. It should be a fun ride!</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><u><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bruce Conforth Reviews <i>Brother Robert, </i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">January 18, 2021</span></u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Brother Robert: Growing Up With Robert Johnson</i> by Annye Anderson and Preston Lauterbach has gotten considerable media attention since it is the recollections of Johnson’s “step-sister” (she was actually no blood relation) about the blues musician and provides a legitimate third photo of Johnson. Greil Marcus wrote a review of it in the December 3, 2020 issue of the New York Times Review of Books. Based on his and other reviews many in the general public will be purchasing and reading this book not as a memoir, but for biographical information about Johnson. And indeed Anderson does provide some details about Johnson’s favorite foods and entertainers, brands of tobacco, and pomade. Beyond that, however, there is scant new information about Johnson and more about Anderson’s life and her resentment for not being able to take advantage of Johnson’s considerable estate. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Most reviewers of the book rightfully consider it a memoir and not a biography and seem to have little or no knowledge of Johnson’s life or blues scholarship. They therefore tacitly accept the stories she tells without question: stories that quite frequently are completely factually wrong. They also give her credit for busting myths about Johnson that any Johnson scholar knew were busted years, or even decades ago. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For instance, most reviews state that the book does away with the crossroads and other myths about Johnson, but that was already accomplished by numerous authors over the years. It is no revelation to hear that Johnson didn’t sell his soul to the devil. But since this book is about a relatively recent historical figure, a giant figure in blues history, it needs to be treated as more than a memoir, and the stories Anderson tells need to be fact-checked by someone who does know Johnson’s life and blues scholarship. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is time that someone more familiar with the life of Robert Johnson review Mrs. Anderson’s book and points out some of the glaring errors and omissions that are in it. Errors that are proven to be so because of facts, not opinion. This article will do just that and will discover just how much is factually wrong within its pages.</div></span></div><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">1) Mrs. Anderson is wrong about the house she claims Robert was born in. </div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">On page 17 of her book, she says Robert was born in the house Charles Dodds/Spencer built. On pages 145-147, she repeats the claim that she went to Hazlehurst to visit the house Robert was born in. She may have visited the house that Hazlehurst was going to claim was Robert's birthplace and use as the center for a tourist attraction, but they quickly gave up on that idea as local historians proved that it could not be Robert's birthplace. In our biography, Up Jumped the Devil: The Real Life of Robert Johnson, we discuss how it is a matter of record, as found in the Copiah County Chancery Office, that in 1906, five years before Robert’s birth and twenty years before Mrs. Anderson’s birth, Charles Dodds defaulted on indebtedness and the house was lost (p. 28). Julia was evicted from that house for non-payment of taxes before Robert was even conceived, let alone born, and the house was turned over to one L. E. Matthews (p. 30). There is no conceivable way that Robert Johnson was born in the house identified by Mrs. Anderson.</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">And that's not even counting Rosa Redman's recollection of Noah Johnson's shack on the Mangold Plantation, where she lived as a child, as Robert’s actual birthplace.</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">2) Mrs. Anderson is wrong about when Robert left the Spencer family in Memphis to live with his mother and stepfather Dusty Willis.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">On pages 25-26 of her book Mrs. Anderson says that “Brother Robert was becoming… mannish… In his teens, Brother Robert learned that my father wasn’t his real father. This is how I interpret them sending him back to his mother. My father sent him there.” And on page 157 she states: “He (Robert) was a teenager when he left my father.” “He was fourteen when he left my father. Then he went to his mother’s house.”</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">This is completely wrong and again was something that took place almost 10 years before Mrs. Anderson was born.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Robert was not sent away for being an unruly teenager. He wasn't a teenager and he was "collected" by his mother Julia to come work on her new husband's farm BEFORE he was a teenager. The 1920 census record shows Robert living with Julia and Dusty in Arkansas. He would have been 9. How does Mrs. Anderson account for that? The 1920 census DOES NOT show Robert living in Memphis with the Spencers. How does Mrs. Anderson account for R. L. Windum, Wink Clark and other childhood friends of Robert recalling playing with him and going to school in Commerce as a child? Or the Indian Creek school records in Commerce, Mississippi that show Robert attending school there when he was 12 and 14?</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">3) Mrs. Anderson is wrong that Charles (the father) taught Robert the rudiments of music and guitar.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Robert’s half-sister Carrie was on record as saying it was the son (who Mrs. Anderson calls "Son") Charles who taught Robert some music. That's a simple mistake I think. Mrs. Anderson mistook one Charles for another since she wasn't alive to actually see it, only hear stories. She even admits (p. 24) that “When he was teaching Brother Robert, I hadn’t been born. I got that from Sister Carrie. Evidently, my father quit music when he married my mother.” Carrie, on the other hand, described the son Charles as teaching Robert some music, and that she helped Robert make his first cigar box guitar, and then, in 1927 she helped him buy a cheap guitar with only 4 strings. Wink Clark recalled that Robert’s earliest musical endeavors were on a diddley bow he built on the side of the Willis shack.</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">4) Mrs. Anderson is wrong about Robert's height.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Robert may have looked tall to a child but he wasn't. On page 66 of her book, Mrs. Anderson says that Robert "was tall." Every adult who knew him, including his girlfriends, said he was little. All accounts make it clear that Robert was "at most" 5'8" and weighed 140 pounds.</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">5) Mrs. Anderson is wrong that both Julia and Dusty used to visit them in Memphis.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Carrie said that Julia after taking Robert was not welcome in the home.</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">6) Mrs. Anderson supports the idea that Robert actually wrote a deathbed confession.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Yet she offers no real evidence other than it was supposed to be part of Robert's belongings. According to who? Not very convincing.</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">7) Mrs. Anderson makes no mention of Callie Craft, Robert's second wife.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Mrs. Anderson would have been 7 years old when Callie died, certainly old enough to remember her. If she knew Robert so well why is there absolutely no mention of her?</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">8) Mrs. Anderson makes no mention of Robert having any illness that caused Carrie to force him into going to see the doctor before he went to Greenwood.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Carrie told many people (including Mack McCormick and Steven LaVere) that Robert was sick prior to leaving for Greenwood and that she forced him to go to the John Gaston Hospital to see a doctor where he was diagnosed with severe ulcers being ultimately responsible for his death. Mrs. Anderson would have been 11 at the time and this would have been a big event: Robert was ill. Why is there no mention of that?</div></span></blockquote><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">9) Mrs. Anderson makes no mention of Carrie and the family having Robert exhumed and reburied in a proper coffin.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: white;"><div style="background-color: black; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">The undertaker who was hired to exhume and rebury Robert was interviewed and his records found. Why is there no mention of this?</div></span></blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">10) Mrs. Anderson supports the idea that Robert actually wrote a
deathbed confession.</span></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">Neither Anderson nor anyone else has ever offered any real
evidence to support this claim other than the belief that it was supposed to be
part of Robert's belongings. Other stories state that it was found in a Bible
in the house of a sharecropper where Robert died. Any claim that the note is
legitimate is highly questionable. </span></span></p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">11) Mrs. Anderson is wrong when she claims that Johnson’s death
certificate says that Johnson died of syphilis.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">This is another attempt to discredit Claud Johnson from being
Robert’s son, for she claims that if he had syphilis he would have been infertile
and unable to father a child. In fact the death certificate list No Doctor as
the cause of death. A note on the back of the certificate states that “The
plantation owner said it was his opinion that the negro died of syphilis.” This
statement was made to avoid a murder inquest. Luther Wade, the white
representative of the plantation who made the statement, in all probability
never even met Johnson.</span></span></p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">12) Mrs. Anderson makes no mention of Carrie and the family
having Robert exhumed and reburied in a proper coffin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;"><span>The undertaker who was hired by Carrie to exhume and rebury
Robert was interviewed and his records found.</span> </span></p></blockquote><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">12) Mrs. Anderson claims she never knew Robert to be a drinker or blasphemer.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: white;"><div style="background-color: black; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Every other single person who knew Robert as an adult (Johnny Shines, Robert Lockwood, Honey boy Edwards, Calvin Frazier, Henry Townsend, Memphis Slim, etc) all said that Robert drank more than he was sober. When asked as to whether Robert drank Shines laughed and said "Don't ask IF he drank, ask what he drank! " Likewise no one who knew him as an adult ever knew him to go to church and many said that he blasphemed so badly that when he would start cursing God everyone would leave for fear of being struck down. Her stories are the recollections of a little girl who only saw Robert when he visited family and was probably on his best behavior.</div></span></blockquote><span style="color: white;"><div style="background-color: black; text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia;">13) Mrs. Anderson claims she never knew Robert to be a drinker
or blasphemer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">Every other single person who knew Robert as an adult (Johnny
Shines, Robert Lockwood, Honey boy Edwards, Calvin Frazier, Henry Townsend,
Memphis Slim, etc) all said that Robert drank more than he was sober. When
asked as to whether Robert drank Shines laughed and said "Don't ask IF he
drank, ask what he drank! " Likewise no one who knew him as an adult ever
knew him to go to church and many said that he blasphemed so badly that when he
would start cursing God everyone would leave for fear of being struck down. Her
stories are recollections of a little girl who only saw Robert when he visited
family and was probably on his best behavior.</span></span></p></div></span></blockquote><span style="color: white;"><div style="background-color: black; text-align: justify;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia;">14) Anderson is wrong when she invokes her anger at Johnson
contemporaries Johnny Shines, David "Honeyboy" Edwards, Robert Jr.
Lockwood as men who sold often spurious information to an eager and careless
press.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">Anderson’s claims here are simply vitriolic and unfounded.
Shines and Lockwood, in particular, knew Johnson far better than Anderson ever
could have and their information about Johnson has been verified and
cross-checked against other information. They told the truth about him and
frequently did so for no financial remuneration. </span></span></p></div></span></blockquote><span style="color: white;"><div style="background-color: black; text-align: justify;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia;">15) Why did no one fact check any of Mrs. Anderson’s stories?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
</div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">Neither her co-author, Preston Lauterbach, their editor, nor
anyone else chose to fact check information that could have easily been
disproven.</span></span></p></div></span></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">There are numerous other errors and omissions, but I think Mrs.
Anderson was absolutely correct when she said "I don't know, I didn't have
him in my pocket" as a way of explaining that she really didn't have many
facts about what Robert did or didn't do apart from the few times she saw him
when he visited the family in Memphis.</span></span></p></div></span></blockquote><span><div style="text-align: justify;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">Anderson saves her greatest animosity for Johnson’s acknowledged
son Claud Johnson. She spends six and a half pages attacking Claud and his
family as the rightful heirs to the Johnson estate and in the process makes
numerous erroneous claims. In general <i>Brother Robert</i> is filled with some
legitimate recollections, but primarily with Anderson’s factual errors and
anger at anyone who dealt with Johnson before her. Her frustration and anger
over what Steve LaVere did to Carrie and how he basically defrauded her of a
fortune are warranted, but her attacks on the Johnson family are simply crude
and uncalled for. She also basically refutes and/or tries to denigrate the work
of anyone who ever did any research about Robert Johnson.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="color: white; font-family: verdana;"><i style="background-color: black;">[Editor's Note: The story of how Crystal Springs attorney Jim Kitchens, who also represented Klan assassin Byron de la Beckwith, managed to convince a Mississippi Judge to award his client (60% and therefore his law firm receives 40% of) the royalties for the music of Robert Johnson is very curious (click <a href="https://www.mtzionmemorialfund.org/2017/07/how-claud-johnson-won-royalties-of.html" target="_blank">HERE </a>to read all about it), and even the descendants of Claud Johnson have now turned on the Kitchens firm (click <a href="https://www.mtzionmemorialfund.org/2020/02/family-of-robert-johnson-turns-on.html" target="_blank">HERE </a>to read all about that), an interesting development that may, in the end, prove to attract curious attention to the case.]</i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: georgia;">Many of the champions of this book have been quick to mention
that Mrs. Anderson is a sweet 94-year-old. That may be the case, but it does
not excuse her for the many errors and attacks she makes in her memoir. Brother
Robert is a reminiscence that tells us what this woman thought about Robert but
the keyword is "thought." Let the buyer beware: most of Anderson’s
stories are about what she “thought,” what she believes she was told or heard,
and as such there are just too many factual errors (not my opinion, but
provable, empirical facts) to make Brother Robert of any definitive value.</span></span></p></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZqVaU4hyae38z-yzjNn6NptGDjWz0bMmbGsv4jWY2zCFSbQfEM-x4bhPbFNa7GJ9Wi38uTmPb-EQ-zaYB-5YtR1TpYUk7D5A3niEPfUssimhAQ-eJTLwmy70v-J9-sbdAB33BITww2_a/s975/22859747_1471608086227782_6345925880717430867_o+%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZqVaU4hyae38z-yzjNn6NptGDjWz0bMmbGsv4jWY2zCFSbQfEM-x4bhPbFNa7GJ9Wi38uTmPb-EQ-zaYB-5YtR1TpYUk7D5A3niEPfUssimhAQ-eJTLwmy70v-J9-sbdAB33BITww2_a/s975/22859747_1471608086227782_6345925880717430867_o+%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="975" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZqVaU4hyae38z-yzjNn6NptGDjWz0bMmbGsv4jWY2zCFSbQfEM-x4bhPbFNa7GJ9Wi38uTmPb-EQ-zaYB-5YtR1TpYUk7D5A3niEPfUssimhAQ-eJTLwmy70v-J9-sbdAB33BITww2_a/w400-h241/22859747_1471608086227782_6345925880717430867_o+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><u>By Bruce Conforth</u></span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Okay, Bruce. Thank you for giving your ten cents about <i>Brother Robert.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-large;"><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">Up Jumped the Blues</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">: A Review</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><u>by David Evans</u></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Bruce Conforth is correct in most, if not all, of his criticisms of Annye C. Anderson’s </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">recently published book, <i>Brother Robert</i>. The book does indeed contain factual </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">errors that Conforth points out, and Ms. Anderson, although she was a member of </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Robert Johnson’s family, because of her youth at the time, was not in a good position </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">to know a lot of factual detail about Johnson. Nevertheless, I think Conforth is too </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">quick to reduce the value of Ms. Anderson’s book to a new photograph of Johnson </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">and “some details about Johnson’s favorite foods and entertainers, brands of </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">tobacco and pomade.” For one thing, the book also contains a reproduction of a </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">postcard that reveals Johnson’s signature and handwriting. The latter could be </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">compared with that of Johnson’s alleged “deathbed confession” to see if it matches. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">But beyond the factual biographical details, there is a wealth of information about </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Johnson’s family (one branch of it at least) and his physical and social environment </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">in Memphis where he partly grew up. The book definitely serves to humanize </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Robert Johnson and make him more than just a musician who recorded twenty-nine </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">songs and died tragically at an early age. Conforth also criticizes Ms. Anderson for </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">downplaying Johnson’s time spent living with his mother and stepfather in and near </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Robinsonville, Mississippi, and instead exaggerating his time spent in Memphis with </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">his other stepfather’s (and Ms. Anderson’s) family. I don’t think we can ever </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">accurately determine how much time Johnson spent with each branch of his family, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">but by the time he was in his mid or late teens, he was very likely in a position to go </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">wherever he wanted to. He was also beginning to play music in public by this time. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Memphis and Robinsonville are only about twenty-five miles apart, and one could </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">easily travel between them by bus, train, bicycle, hitchhiking, or even walking. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Although Robinsonville may have been his “official” home most of this time, he could </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">easily have gone into Memphis on weekends and on summer and holiday breaks </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">from school. It’s not at all uncommon for black children not raised in a strict nuclear </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">family (and even some who are) to experience a lot of visiting and “passing around” </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">among relatives. Similarly, Conforth’s assertion that Ms. Anderson had no basis for </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">claiming a share of Johnson’s considerable financial estate is based solely on laws of </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">inheritance established by the western European legal tradition and disregards </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">customary understandings of family, kinship, property, and inheritance in African </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">American culture.</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Reviews of both Ms. Anderson’s book and Conforth and Gayle Dean Wardlow’s recently published Johnson biography, <i>Up Jumped the Devil: The Real Life of Robert Johnson</i>, have mostly been highly favorable. Conforth criticizes the reviewers of Ms. Anderson’s book for not being “Johnson scholars with an eye to fact-checking the work.” That may be the case, but I wonder how many reviewers of the Conforth/Wardlow book are “Johnson scholars.” The fact is that most reviewers, except sometimes those who write in academic and specialist journals, are not very expert in the subjects of the books they review. I don’t know that I can claim to be a “Johnson scholar,” but I have devoted a lot of research to his type of music and blues from his general environment in Memphis and Mississippi, and I got to know pretty well at least two of Johnson’s fellow musicians, Son House and Johnny Shines and knew through interviews two other associates, Houston Stackhouse and Peck Curtis. My only substantial writings on Johnson have been some encyclopedia and handbook entries, most notably the one in Samuel Floyd, ed., <i>International Dictionary of Black Composers</i>, and my three-part exploration and interpretation of the supernatural references in Johnson’s songs in <i>Blues Revue 21-23</i> (1996). With that background, I’d like to offer a discussion of the Conforth/Wardlow book, which might be considered as a review of sorts. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">First let me state that, in my opinion, <i>Up Jumped the Devil</i> is the best and fullest biography of Robert Johnson to date, and for this, the authors are to be congratulated. I don’t think it’s the last word on Johnson’s life, however, and it does have some flaws. The operative word here is “biography.” In this respect, there is a wealth of new information on Johnson’s early life (i. e., before his recording career that occurred only in his last three years of life), and the authors have made extensive use of official documents and published and unpublished interviews of people who knew Johnson. There is, however, rather little discussion or interpretation of Johnson’s recorded songs. This is somewhat surprising, given the fact that his recordings are the main reason why anyone is interested in Johnson. The authors also largely avoid any detailed discussion and analysis of the other main reason why many people are interested in Johnson. That is Johnson’s relationship or attitude toward the supernatural, including the theme of an encounter with the devil at a crossroads. They simply try to rationalize the evidence or dismiss it as superstition. Whatever role superstition and the supernatural played in Johnson’s real life, it is an overwhelmingly pervasive theme in his songs, unmatched in its percentage of occurrence in the repertoire of any other blues singer, with the possible exception of J. T. “Funny Paper” Smith, where it occurs frequently but in a far more comic and less intense manner than in Johnson’s songs. Along with Johnson’s extraordinary musical talent, it’s one of the main things that makes him so distinctive a personality. It’s especially surprising that the authors downplay this theme while at the same time using it for the title of their book! They also ignore a number of statements made in interviews by others about Johnson’s life that could not be corroborated or verified but yet are plausible or worth considering. Conforth has claimed that he and Wardlow were forced or pressured by their publisher to cut a number of pages from their manuscript that examined some of these biographical byways and other non-biographical and interpretive </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">themes, but I’m sure most readers would have willingly paid the few extra dollars to </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">see this discussion in their book.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the interest of future Johnson biography or the possibility of a revised and expanded edition by the same authors, I offer the following commentary on some incorrect or questionable passages in <i>Up Jumped the Devil</i>.</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A frequent trait of their writing that I found annoying was the practice of creatively reconstructing and describing in some detail scenes from Johnson’s life, including his thoughts on various occasions. I noticed this on pages 9-10, 19, 75-76, 88, 95-96, 110, 115-117, 124, 128, 152, 154-155, 156, 162, 210, and 247. This practice may make the book more “readable” and seem less like a dry academic account, but it also pushes it in the direction of historical fiction. In my opinion, the authors should have resisted any impulse or pressure to adopt this style of writing. In fact, I found it rather jarring when it did occur since most of the book attempts to stick to the facts.</div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal_8eAk3D1fTSC_TfWsXCz8M-ScM80pe1AqwFnJdwDZrHdMXZFn6GpkG1uFrzXTbFyigBL0dFIxKvxpiID9krHNfScMnNuQ3htEr2Kvd3CtykOuKPAwwJMSB23lRhtZ9a-xSIHWo9Xu-c/s300/s-l300.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal_8eAk3D1fTSC_TfWsXCz8M-ScM80pe1AqwFnJdwDZrHdMXZFn6GpkG1uFrzXTbFyigBL0dFIxKvxpiID9krHNfScMnNuQ3htEr2Kvd3CtykOuKPAwwJMSB23lRhtZ9a-xSIHWo9Xu-c/s0/s-l300.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>Up Jumped the Devil </i>is also<br />the popular title of other books.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>p.3 - It is stated that Gayle Dean Wardlow provided “the first factual information about Johnson’s life.” Wardlow was certainly on the case early in the 1960s and has provided a good deal of information through interviews and the uncovering of official documents, but he was not the first to investigate Johnson’s life. Not overlooking Frank Driggs’s notes to the first Johnson LP (1961) and the more speculative earlier accounts of Rudi Blesh and Samuel Charters, there was actual biographical research conducted by Alan Lomax way back in 1941-42, only a few years after Johnson’s death. This research is found in Lomax’s unpublished field diaries, which Conforth claims to have viewed but has dismissed as fabrications. It’s true that Lomax fabricated or “creatively reconstructed” from memory the findings of his early field research on Johnson in his 1993 book <i>The Land Where the Blues Began</i>, but there was no reason for him to do so in his actual diaries written some fifty years earlier at a time when there was hardly any public interest in Johnson. It was a small first step, but Lomax should be given credit for realizing that there was value in knowing about a blues artist’s life at a time when even jazz biography was in its infancy.</span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">p.6 - The authors claim that the Sony box set of Johnson’s complete recordings has sold more than fifty million copies in the United States alone. That would amount to a copy in about every third household in the country!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">p.8 - They state that “no book before this one has included all of the reminiscences of </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Johnson by the people who knew him personally.” That’s certainly not true, as there </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">are no statements from Houston Stackhouse and James “Peck” Curtis in the book. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">They also seem to have used only one or two of the many variant statements given </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">by Son House about his encounters with Johnson. Some of the variants contain </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">important details not found in other variants.</span></div><span><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJqLvrIWGuloOBvJS4cZ5UZ4zwauxD6ss11cF_p2ZT3Vmk36DHqoR_P4ZzDWDRWVEDgwaY8bsuayipkQRklMCroaCyP9cKR_jbdNzwikJa_HGIkh8eEpzHcZFqb1VCpzZpPhNA-kRF5MR/s1440/716Nzd6n1qL._SL1440_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Frank Stokes and Dan Sain did not play in a jug band." border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJqLvrIWGuloOBvJS4cZ5UZ4zwauxD6ss11cF_p2ZT3Vmk36DHqoR_P4ZzDWDRWVEDgwaY8bsuayipkQRklMCroaCyP9cKR_jbdNzwikJa_HGIkh8eEpzHcZFqb1VCpzZpPhNA-kRF5MR/w320-h320/716Nzd6n1qL._SL1440_.jpg" title="Frank Stokes and Dan Sain did not play in a jug band." width="320" /></a></div>p. 30 - The authors seem to mistake the notation “c” after Charles Spencer’s name in the Memphis City Directory as meaning “carpenter,” whereas it simply means “colored.”</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">p.39 - They call the Beale Street Sheiks a “jug band,” but they were merely a guitar duo.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">pp.44-45 - The authors state that “Johnson’s ability to read and write was atypical” and that “most of Robert’s musical contemporaries were largely functionally illiterate because they were black plantation children.” Even Son House, who was a decade older than Johnson, was literate (and claimed to be able to read musical shape notation), as were artists closer to Johnson’s own age, such as Johnny Shines and Robert Lockwood, neither of whom grew up on a plantation.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">p. 52 Henry Sloan is identified as possibly the guitarist heard by W. C. Handy playing in the knife style at the Tutwiler train station ca. 1903. Almost nothing is known about Sloan other than that he lived on Dockery Plantation and was an early influence on Charley Patton. Handy’s guitarist could have been anybody.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>[Editor's Note: We actually know quite a bit about Sloan's family and early life in Hinds County. His parents are listed in the US Census as Salome, and Henry lived in the same area as the parents of Charley McCoy, the Chatmon family, and the Patton family in 1900. Henry apparently moved to Dockery around the same time as the Pattons, but we have no documents proving this move actually occurred. Despite the serious research efforts of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/charles.roscopf" target="_blank">Charles D. Roscopf</a>, who found the death certificate of one Henry Sloan in Arkansas, and my own discovery of another Henry Sloan who was arrested in Helena in the aftermath of the 1919 Elaine pogrom, we have failed to trace this early influence on Patton after 1918.]</i></span></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">p. 88 They have Son House moving to Robinsonville in June 1930, but in fact, it was some time after House’s recording session in August of that year. On pp. 92-93 they also discount House’s claims that Johnson wasn’t a very good musician around this time. The fact is that we don’t know how good Johnson sounded at that time. We do know what House sounded like, and he set a pretty high standard!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">p. - 94 The authors print without commentary H. C. Speir’s stereotypical characterization of male blues singers (“low class . . . smelled a little and had to have a drink before he could play . . . he wasn’t going to work”). Playing music for money isn’t work?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">pp. 142-143 - They state that H. C. Speir was “responsible for the recordings” of Charley Patton, Son House, Willie Brown, Bo Carter, and Blind Joe Reynolds. This is simply untrue or unproven. Speir made a later test session of Patton with House and Brown, but there’s no solid evidence that he was responsible for their first recordings. He might have been involved in a later session by Carter but not his first, and Reynolds was from the St. Louis area, far from Speir’s territory in central Mississippi.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">p. 150 - They claim that Speir was involved, with Polk Brockman, in a 1928 Okeh session in San Antonio, yet none of the artists recorded at that session were from Mississippi or Brockman’s Atlanta base. This implausible information is said to come from an unrecorded 1964 interview of Speir.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">p. 162 They state that Johnson’s alternate takes of a recorded song were “almost identical.” This was sometimes true, but not always, as in the cases of “Kind Hearted Woman Blues,” “Traveling Riverside Blues,” “Cross Road Blues,” and “Come On in My Kitchen,” where there are some significant musical or lyrical differences. On pp.162-163 the authors even state that it was a general policy and practice of Johnson to perform his songs the same way every time. Robert Johnson was certainly more consistent than some of the earlier artists for whom we have alternate takes, such as Blind Lemon Jefferson, Tommy Johnson, or Charley Patton, but it’s clear that some of his songs were still in a state of flux when he recorded them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">p. 168 They claim that Mexican laborers in the Delta used the open G guitar tuning that blues musicians came to call “Spanish.” There’s no evidence, however, that this tuning is used in Mexican music, but there is plenty of evidence to suggest that the name of the tuning is derived from the guitar showpiece “Spanish Fandango” that was composed (not by a Mexican) with instructions to be played in that tuning. Mexicans did bring hot tamales to the Delta, and that’s likely where Johnson got the inspiration for his song “Hot Tamales,” rather than from where he had lunch at the time of his San Antonio recording session (p. 175).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">p. 200 It is stated that Blind Lemon Jefferson was “discovered” by J. Mayo Williams. Williams became his recording manager, but the best evidence indicates that R. T. Ashford or someone working for him in Dallas was the first to connect Jefferson with Paramount Records.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">p. 215 They claim that the refrain of Johnson’s “Stop Breaking Down” was earlier recorded by Luke Jordan and Dick Justice. This is untrue, although a variant of the song was later recorded by John Lee “Sonny Boy” Williamson.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">pp. 271-272 The listings of the other artists at Johnson’s sessions unaccountably omit blues pianist Black Boy Shine, the artist at these sessions whose music was the closest to Johnson’s.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are a number of other places where my disagreement with the authors is more arguable or where I think their interpretation has little or questionable support, but I won’t try to argue them here. I offer the above as an indication that there is still more to be said, and hopefully more yet to become known, about Robert Johnson.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><u>David Evans</u></span></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-35951225000318562042021-01-05T13:35:00.008-06:002021-01-20T20:25:23.037-06:00"Pimpin' The Blues": Systemic Racism, Heritage Tourism, and the Mississippi Blues Commission<p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier;">By Tim Kalich, editor of the <i>Greenwood Commonwealth - </i>originally published as "Vendor Selection Dissapoints Jordan" on Sept 17, 2019.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUknrc5QsCM6kVeZPVbOQXP9F9UdsG85k28rV7JquSWw3F8m8kxQa3GsXuS-pXUfZpLQA4o2_U-ipALslk9SwfF70g70gnw7DzyEnsY7U32oiyz2IEaOLZL_Cj8Gm89X6qFqrnDMCEjxn/s600/5b35970f4526b.image.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUknrc5QsCM6kVeZPVbOQXP9F9UdsG85k28rV7JquSWw3F8m8kxQa3GsXuS-pXUfZpLQA4o2_U-ipALslk9SwfF70g70gnw7DzyEnsY7U32oiyz2IEaOLZL_Cj8Gm89X6qFqrnDMCEjxn/s320/5b35970f4526b.image.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The Greenwood legislator who spearheaded the creation of the Mississippi Blues Commission is unhappy about how the commission selected its vendors. "When you don't follow bid laws, you cut off other people who could have had a slice of the pie," said Sen. David Jordan. The Democratic lawmaker was responding to the report released in the fall of 2019 by MS State Auditor Shad White that heavily criticized the spending practices of the Blues Commission. In the performance audit, White found that the commission--since it began operations 13 years ago--had paid out nearly $2 million to vendors without a valid contract on file and failed to retain documentation to support almost another $1 million in spending. It also questioned why Greenwood ad agency Hammons & Associates as well as some other vendors were awarded work by the commission without putting the business up for bid. </div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hammons, the project coordinator for the creation and placement of more than 200 Blues Trail historical markers, has been by far the commission's largest vendor. The ad agency has received a little more than $1 million of the $2.9 million the commission has generated largely from state and federal grants and private donations. The commission incorrectly designated Hammons as a "sole source provider," according to the audit. That finding, said Jordan, has rankled other African Americans who feel that Black-owned enterprises were not given the opportunity to benefit financially from promoting the music that originated in the African American community. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Hammons may have been the best bidder, but there's no opportunity for us to know when he was the only one that was selected," Jordan said. Allan Hammons, president of Hammons & Associates, said it is incorrect to suggest that his agency was "just handed the business" by the Blues Commission. Early on, according to Hammons, the commission was leaning toward hiring as project coordinator a Virginia firm that had put together a Civil War trail in that state. Hammons said his agency designed a prototype marker, including the concept of using a printed vinyl insert on the back to allow for illustrations as well as more text, and paid to have it cast before pitching it to the commission. "We competed for (the business) in my mind and actually invested in it quite heavily on the chance that we could convince them we could do this work," he said.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The "printed vinyl insert on the back" has since faded and peeled away in the Mississippi sun, causing the commission to address the widespread dilapidation of older markers.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Blues Commission was created in 2004 when Gov. Haley Barbour signed into law a bill on which Jordan was the lead author. Fred Carl Jr., the founder of Greenwood-based Viking Range, was named the commission's inaugural chairman by the Republican governor, although it was apparently two years later before the commission began its work in earnest. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0WSyJxdJbVMi6v0Cdphmf3IeU8ZDeoo6hulaO5190w8yFMx7JZKArLZlHz3GvTy_LdKDZTK-hmQf7UgnnmXmEP1UbsBTVg4dinGfxEGZ4IFiOkMEGziO2ND953Lm5dTrzo2nR6QorqVu/s2048/The_Greenwood_Commonwealth_Tue__Sep_17__2019_+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1874" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0WSyJxdJbVMi6v0Cdphmf3IeU8ZDeoo6hulaO5190w8yFMx7JZKArLZlHz3GvTy_LdKDZTK-hmQf7UgnnmXmEP1UbsBTVg4dinGfxEGZ4IFiOkMEGziO2ND953Lm5dTrzo2nR6QorqVu/s320/The_Greenwood_Commonwealth_Tue__Sep_17__2019_+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Jordan, Carl, and a predominantly African American delegation had actually gotten the idea of a blues commission rolling in 2003 while Democrat Ronnie Musgrove was serving as governor, the senator said. Ruben Hughes, president of Team Broadcasting, which owns Greenwood radio stations WGNL and WGNG, was part of that delegation that met with Musgrove. After the Democrat was defeated by Barbour in the 2003 election, "people like myself were pushed back ... and other people came in and took control like Mr. Hammons," said Hughes.</span></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sylvester Hoover, a blues promoter who is African American, said he has been displeased with the Blues Commission for a while, claiming it deviated from what those who initially advocated for its creation envisioned it to be. "It was supposed to enrich the neighborhood and teach the history of the blues here in the Mississippi Delta, but it didn't work out that way," said Hoover, who operates a blues museum in Greenwood's Baptist Town neighborhood and gives blues tours. "It went to the people that didn't know anything about the blues. They just took it over." </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He objects not only that Hammons & Associates got the bulk of the commission's work but also that Jim O'Neal of Kansas City, Missouri, and Scott Barretta of Greenwood were selected as the two main historians on the project. O'Neal co-founded the nation's first blues magazine, Living Blues, for which Barretta was a former editor. For their research and writing for the Blues Trail markers, O'Neal was paid $136,000 and Barretta almost $55,000, both as sole source providers. O'Neal and Barretta are white, as is Allan Hammons. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">"We said from the start they pimpin' the blues. They making money off the blues."</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KnJX2sBD6isEiGn_jeAOhEj6qsyOHs_PEHXazyzo08lXnUWAu6W3mYaV6wvviDWc8d6FVnqGJua-sjbjg537vraBHYTHuoGfm8KuSm_3bqj7tQkOnMmL0bcHdnRVYOXQQUvTB7snia3Z/s550/sylvester-hoover-knows.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="550" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KnJX2sBD6isEiGn_jeAOhEj6qsyOHs_PEHXazyzo08lXnUWAu6W3mYaV6wvviDWc8d6FVnqGJua-sjbjg537vraBHYTHuoGfm8KuSm_3bqj7tQkOnMmL0bcHdnRVYOXQQUvTB7snia3Z/w400-h268/sylvester-hoover-knows.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sylvester Hoover Knows all About Systemic Racism</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"We said from the start they pimpin' the blues. They making money off the blues," Hoover said of the Blues Commission and those involved with the creation of the markers. "That's not fair. They're not distributing money in the black neighborhood. None whatsoever. None. Zero." </div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In addition to questioning the commission's spending practices, White has recommended that it be dissolved and its responsibilities turned over to the Mississippi Blues Foundation, a private, non-profit organization that has contributed financially to the commission. The current chairman of the commission, J. Kempf Poole, is receptive to the idea. So is Jordan. A member of the Senate Tourism Committee, Jordan said he would want to know more details before support-ing legislation to make such a change, but he is open to considering it. "If that is going to lubricate the wheels and make it run better for everybody, sure," Jordan said. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9wVNPCrUKgms8dm4axOBiot6sJpWBV0Cvas8obP4wpKtBIchdRtPP_lW3J7YhocyZPv0V9bkrSMXgvdZ5K_yRPIubjPsSMsJwivNC3uLJgwGGHh2Y10o-zZPWk3h4a-xiXXSC49AFlaQ/s2048/The_Greenwood_Commonwealth_Tue__Sep_17__2019_.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1162" data-original-width="2048" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9wVNPCrUKgms8dm4axOBiot6sJpWBV0Cvas8obP4wpKtBIchdRtPP_lW3J7YhocyZPv0V9bkrSMXgvdZ5K_yRPIubjPsSMsJwivNC3uLJgwGGHh2Y10o-zZPWk3h4a-xiXXSC49AFlaQ/w640-h364/The_Greenwood_Commonwealth_Tue__Sep_17__2019_.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-46198357746487274452020-12-08T23:37:00.000-06:002020-12-08T23:37:19.141-06:00Prakash Slim is Nepal's Blues Power<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b>Ram Prakash Pokharel (aka Prakash Slim) is an international artist/performer and educator of the blues. </b></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCKEVFNtEpLKGWqIJMbujNmRPLshdr2W3tZ-kGyqvmd1E21vmU1MDuaAE8R-cgsVlbAZLNh-2Ny8AuwhjSfLFy3s9c4-cr4huNOIIIbgAGr-yiyv3YBcyyOlGbwVnUQnJErqeOfz1t7Zea/s1916/jj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1916" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCKEVFNtEpLKGWqIJMbujNmRPLshdr2W3tZ-kGyqvmd1E21vmU1MDuaAE8R-cgsVlbAZLNh-2Ny8AuwhjSfLFy3s9c4-cr4huNOIIIbgAGr-yiyv3YBcyyOlGbwVnUQnJErqeOfz1t7Zea/w640-h360/jj.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />He was
born in a field on June,17th, 1980. Yes, a field. It was during the rainy season, in a small
village called Lamatar, in the Lalitpur district, of Nepal. The village saw its
first electric light bulb in 1983, and its first motor car in 1995. Slim was raised
by a loving family of modest means, but his father died at the young age of 29, leaving his mother with three children to raise on her own. Slim had an older
brother and sister, and his mother worked in the neighbors’ fields, gathering what food she could get to feed her kids. Slim waited until the village's annual festival celebration, an important time in his world when his uncle would give him a set of new clothes. </span><p></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Unlike most early blues artists in the American South, Slim got to go to public school, but instead of desks and benches, his school had dirt floors and straw mats. When asked about his ambitions when he was young, Slim replied, </span></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"Ambition was a privilege that only rich kids had. </span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;">The only ambition I had was staying alive."</span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interested in music since he was a child. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Slim would use the wood and other materials around their house to fashion his own instruments, h</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">e'd play music by drumming against a gallon water jug. He'd also drive his mother crazy singing songs all day.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>Music became his world. </b></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It called out to him, and he could not resist. His most prized possession back then was a bicycle that his sister
gave him after she landed a job. Slim wanted to learn to play the
guitar but he did not have one, and he had no money to buy one. He bought his
first guitar by selling his bicycle. He told his </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">family that a friend had taken it for a few days. He lied.</span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7W6He1mpuWbE5_YkIaX0ZMTnAloFsizs8yb8pgOZEtGlLfhz7ymaIibox0WD94HkH2xeB0Yv5Afl3Hobw8KwL2Xn9jhnKA7s70xTwMKEZwelojiuXGClujW6kA5iALIE0Rv1erG0IjDT/s1279/FB_IMG_1601947988897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1279" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7W6He1mpuWbE5_YkIaX0ZMTnAloFsizs8yb8pgOZEtGlLfhz7ymaIibox0WD94HkH2xeB0Yv5Afl3Hobw8KwL2Xn9jhnKA7s70xTwMKEZwelojiuXGClujW6kA5iALIE0Rv1erG0IjDT/w225-h400/FB_IMG_1601947988897.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">For
two years, Slim gave up everything to search for a mentor who could
teach him what he needed to know about the guitar. He found a
teacher, a legendary musician named C.B. Chhetri, but he lived 10 kilometers away
from Slim. Nevertheless, Slim never
missed a lesson. It stormed; it rained, but he always showed up, usually ahead of time,
and ready to learn.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a little while, Slim became pretty good on the guitar, and he accepted Chhetri‘s offer to join a band. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">He cut his teeth </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">gigging in a circuit of
restaurants and playing rock music. At the same time, he started teaching
music in schools. </span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In
2008 he participated in a workshop entitled Teaching Music
Effectively" conducted at
Kathmandu Jazz Conservatory by the
US Cultural Embassy envoy, Dr. Gene
Aitken. He enjoyed playing in rock n' roll bands for all those years, but Slim's
thirst for musical knowledge, and a deeper musical experience, could not find satisfaction. The hole in his soul started to heal when he heard his first BB
King record. Overwhelmed by what he heard, Slim started to research the Blues.</span></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He became obsessed with Blues history. He also added </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Blues licks & grooves </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">to his existing
repertoire and gradually learned music theory. He developed a deeper
understanding of how chords and progressions were formed both physically and
numerically. From 2003 - 2015 he served as the lead and rhythm
guitarist, bass guitarist, and vocalist for various bands throughout Nepal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">At
2015, he received an invitation to attend a musical retreat at Walden School of
Music, San Francisco, California, USA. But a major earthquake hit Nepal in
2015. Buildings crumbled down to dust and Slim's hopes were shattered
as he was unable to attend the retreat. The devastation hit him deep and hard. For the next several years, fear and pain were constant in his life. The Blues became his solace, his best friend. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4m3xThmQwRtGP0O97HzqS6hmMdP6QSRASHpwamw-UWlvMYCnjbCP77wbPeXKUOOK72VFL94qNE3bVZe3isHqtmPRYHS4-b7_wtb5v_hKUJAxd3oLqYMeP-CT3zKadzV5pkKlgsvITYUXI/s2048/20200802_123141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4m3xThmQwRtGP0O97HzqS6hmMdP6QSRASHpwamw-UWlvMYCnjbCP77wbPeXKUOOK72VFL94qNE3bVZe3isHqtmPRYHS4-b7_wtb5v_hKUJAxd3oLqYMeP-CT3zKadzV5pkKlgsvITYUXI/w300-h400/20200802_123141.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">In
February, 2017, he fell sick and was confined to bed rest. While he was scrolling
through his news feed aimlessly, he came across a facebook page named “Acoustic
Blues Pickers." He was intrigued on seeing a world of blues lovers like
himself. There he listened to Robert Johnson’s “Me and the Devil Blues." He
practiced playing it for a week and shared what he played on the page. A
Facebook friend, on seeing his post on the page, offered to help him and
magnanimously sent him a resonator guitar and some slides.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">For
now, Prakash Slim is not only playing and doing research in Blues, but also
teaching BITS aka Blues in the schools. He's recently finished a Blues exhibition
for his school in Nepal. No doubt... he's committed to playing forward BITS
programs, and hence, is living, by example the axiom "keeping the blues
alive" in Nepal & beyond. </span></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He's now a recognized, internationally
affiliated Artist/Performer and Educator of the Blues with the Mt. Zion
Memorial Fund (Executive Director Dr. T. DeWayne Moore) since
January 2019. Slim is also active in a Blues mentorship program with T.J.
Wheeler, a long time pioneer, advocate, activist teacher/performer of Blues,
Jazz & related music and educator, from the USA. As a member of
International Singer and Songwriters Association (issasongwriters.com) Georgia,
USA Slim's own original Blues composition are also gaining him further
attention.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HvJSUNkGWEw" width="320" youtube-src-id="HvJSUNkGWEw"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b>Prakash Slim - "Villager's Blues"</b></span></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Prakash serves as a member of the </span></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">board of associates for <a href="www.mtzionmemorialfund.org" target="_blank">Mt. Zion MemorialFund</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Prakash
featured with American Blues Merchandise Wang Dang Doodle Tees, Illinois, USA. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Other
exposure has included, being mentioned in America's first and leading Blues
magazine - <i>Living Blues</i> in August 2019. A Nepali magazine called
<i>Yuwa Hunkar</i>, published his autobiography where he says that Blues can be a
music of healing for the people who’ve been through pain in life. His quote
"B.B. King globalized the blues" is mentioned by the Phenomenal
Scholar, Author and Storyteller Diane Williams in her new book’s presentation -
<i>The Life and Legacy of B.B. King</i> at Mississippi Department of Archives and
History - 22 January 2020.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed in<i> The Nepali Times </i>Australia magazine, Australia, October 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed by Tucson Unified School District teacher Patrick Brenan and shared
blues knowledge <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for 5<sup>th</sup> grade
students of John E White Elementary School Arizona USA in September 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed on <i>The Phoenix Radio</i>, Florida, USA with Big Low in September 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed on Kalakarmi Broadcasting & Media Production Company, Nepal in
September 2020.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed in <i>Blues & Co</i> magazine, France in September 2020 <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
featured in Washington Blues Society’s Bluesletter magazine, August 2020 issue.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed for Grateful Web media/news company, Colorado, America in July 2020.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed for <i>Down At The Crossroads</i>, Ireland <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by Dr. Gary W Burnett on 26 June 2020. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He represented
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nepal in International Blues Festival of
Lima, Peru and published his biography in Almas Raices Productions, Lima,
Peru.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He
played for the Crossroads Confined Countdown Festival (France) on 4<sup>th</sup>
June 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He performed
for 5<sup>th</sup> Posadas Blues Festival, Argentina, on 6<sup>th</sup>
November 2020.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He
played for Seventh Bleus Festival En El Rio, Argentina. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He has
played for “Blues for a Cause” Nepal. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>American
Blues Scene</i> magazine mentioned him “a living history of the blues” while
premiering his instrumental track “Blues Raga” in November 2020.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A major
Paraguayan newspaper <i>ABC Color</i> referred to him as a “Nepali Robert Johnson” and
published his interview in May 2020. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He played
for International Blues Festival of Asuncion, Paraguay (indoor)2020.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He
represented Nepal in “World Unity Open Mic” virtual event hosted by The Fire –
a legendary live music venue, Philadelphia, Pennylsilvania, USA on 18 May 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed for <i>American Blues Scene</i> magazine, Florida, America in May, 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
interviewed on Blues Radio International Viral Anti-Viral world Tour,Florida,
USA on 17 April 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
featured as an international blues educator in Central Iowa Blues society for
the month of Februrary, 2020 at Where in The World : A Blues Ambassador’s
Travel series.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was
featured on KFMG Radio 98.9 FM Des Moines, Iowa on 11 February 2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB">He was
interviewed for </span><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.blues.gr/">www.blues.gr</a></span><span lang="EN-GB">, Greek Blues Union with Michael Limnios
in October, 2019</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A
feature story on him was part of a Vicksburg Blues Society’s screening and presentation
at Vicksburg Blues Challenge held in September 29, 2019. This was presented by
Mississippi, Ambassador of Hall of Fame and president of Vicksburg Blues
Society, Shirley Waring. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">His
country blues originals and covers were aired on July 2020 and July 2019 for an
entire month on Blind Dog Radio (Blues Hall of Fame Radio) Ukraine, and
featured on Highway Blues 2NVR - FM 105.9 (2nvr.au.org), Australia on July 4,
2019.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His music is now increasingly
being heard by in different countries in the western world, like USA, UK, Australia,
Canada, Ukraine, Brazil, Israel, Chile, Ethiopia and in many others. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He did
collaboration with a renown Italian harmonica player, Grammy nominee Fabrizio
Poggi on Robert Johnson’s “Me and the Devil Blues”.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A
legendary blues artist Rory Block watched his interview on Blues Radio
International and congratulated Prakash for his wonderful slide playing and
International feel, in her home concert series on 21 April 2020.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Prakash
has it in his heart that one day, he will play the Blues with a national guitar
in Mississippi. For him it's the Mecca of the Blues ...the land that gave birth
to blues, the land in which<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he says 'is
sacred to him."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: georgia;">You
may find some of his country blues originals, covers <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and the "Blues in the schools" video
clips on his Facebook page, ReverbNation and YouTube channel - "Prakash
Slim".</span></span></p>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-42093306915156983452020-11-15T14:12:00.000-06:002020-11-15T14:12:01.389-06:00Furry Lewis - and some 'Religious Songs'...<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span>by Arne Brogger, organizer and road manager of the Memphis Blues Caravan in the 1970s, (<a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">blog post, </a><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">"</a></span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/11/furry-lewis-and-some-religious-songs.html" target="_blank">The Straight Oil From The Can: Tales from the Memphis Blues Caravan and other Stories</a>," </span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">November 1, 2009</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">)</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSf1JNI0vn9af6Yz0enH2l9pFO1Cdwd_kx2L619FgXJT6Q88ajzV77b2piQMck0Spt7cituTjFDJNgOAReVqAeworoYAsKlddDt7aMc_ZJVM52jBgHQXE-05AE5e32UUUqm8sIs1epjPw/s1458/furry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="© Norman Seeff, 1974" border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="1458" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSf1JNI0vn9af6Yz0enH2l9pFO1Cdwd_kx2L619FgXJT6Q88ajzV77b2piQMck0Spt7cituTjFDJNgOAReVqAeworoYAsKlddDt7aMc_ZJVM52jBgHQXE-05AE5e32UUUqm8sIs1epjPw/w640-h430/furry.jpg" title="© Norman Seeff, 1974" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: brandon-grotesque, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: start;">© </span><a href="https://www.morrisonhotelgallery.com/photographers/fptPoW/Norman-Seeff" id="_ctl0_cphMain_hlMainImagePhotographer" style="border: none; color: #999999; font-family: brandon-grotesque, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 700; outline: 0px; text-align: start; text-decoration-line: none;">Norman Seeff, 1974</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Walter “Furry” Lewis was born in Greenwood, MS in 1893, or so he claimed. It may have been 1900, or 1903, but who cares. He recorded his first side, ever, for Vocalion Records in Chicago in 1927. After some early success, he slid into obscurity and worked as a street sweeper for the Memphis Sanitation Department until he retired. He was 'rediscovered' in the late fifties and gained popularity in the early sixties through re-issues of his original recordings and new studio recordings.</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Furry and I met for the first time, as mentioned, in 1972 when I flew him up to Minneapolis to appear at the University of Minnesota's Whole Coffeehouse for a concert. We were close friends and associates until his death some ten years later.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Furry was about as 'authentic' as you can get. He lived a life, in the classic blues tradition, of hardship and joy. He never married and had no children. His closest relative was a niece, Roberta Glover, who lived in Memphis nearby his home on Mosby Street. He lived quietly and played for friends and acquaintances whenever asked. He was able to supplement his meager income through his artistry, but, most importantly, his music gave him an opportunity to express himself in a way that few ever get a chance to do. I came to find that Furry played for himself as much as for anyone else.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the first things to strike me about Furry was the fact that he never did the same song the same way twice. In all the hundreds of Furry Lewis gigs I witnessed, never, ever, did I hear an exact repeat. His music was always timely and unique, reflecting how he felt or what he was thinking at a particular moment. Oftentimes, the changes he introduced in his repertoire were done solely to entertain himself. As mentioned, Furry was always his own best audience.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He began his career playing on the Medicine Show circuit selling, among other brands, Jack Rabbit Liniment from flatbed runways in small southern towns. His job was to attract and entertain a crowd so that the more serious business of selling the goods could be done by the Pitchman. The style he evolved was one that did not depend on a microphone to pick up the nuance of his performance, rather it was one that played to the 'back of the house' in broad form, unaided by electronics. Later, after the Medicine Shows were history, he played for dances and picnics where the production values were often confined to a stage, raised two feet or so above a dirt floor. The result was that Furry never learned the fine points of using a microphone and his performances relied on the physical. Dragging his left arm across the top few strings of his guitar and moving it up and down the neck, while his right hand kept the beat (check out the video below to see what I'm talking about - albeit fueled by a bit too much Ten High bourbon...), oftentimes resulted in live recordings of questionable quality, but drove audiences to cheers. That was the effect he desired. Coming off stage, his vision clouded by cataracts, he would ask, “Are they standin' up?” Nine times out of ten, they were.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The hallmark of any Furry Lewis performance was the emotional intensity he delivered on stage. It was not unusual for him to 'lose it' - breaking down in tears. He was equally as likely to dissolve in laughter at one of his oft-told jokes or an incident that struck him as amusing. When he finished a set, part of Furry the man, as well as Furry the performer, had been shared with his audience. I remember one incident when Furry 'lost it'. Listening to some tapes jogged my memory. We were in Texas, playing to a very enthusiastic house, when Furry, close to the end of his set, launched into “When I Lay My Burden Down”. He always liked to close with “some religious songs” and this was one of his favorites. The chorus begins with the line” I'm goin' home to be with my Jesus...” On listening to the tape, I noticed a shrill and unusual tone to his voice as he began the second chorus. Suddenly he stopped. A chocking sob rose. A second later, he called my name. My hurried footsteps can be heard as I came from the wing to down center. Following is the verbatim exchange as caught on tape. Furry: “I done broke down.” AB: “It's okay...don't worry about it. What do you want to do?” [i.e. which tune do you want to do next] Furry: “I don't know, what should I do?” AB: “Pick “Old Rugged Cross” and we'll hang it up.” I remember thinking at the time that we didn't want to risk another vocal, that it was best to take the set out with an instrumental.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unaware of the details of this entire exchange the audience, to their credit had the good taste to applaud loudly and appreciatively. Furry picked the “The Old Rugged Cross” slowly and dramatically and, cane in hand, hobbled off stage to a standing ovation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Furry lost his left leg below the knee in a railroad accident in the late teens or early twenties of the last century. He told me he had been in Chicago and had hopped a freight train back to Memphis. The train was rolling through southern Illinois and was about be begin a climb up a long grade. Furry was riding between cars and lost his footing. His leg slipped into the coupling just as the train started up the grade and was crushed in the mechanism. He spent four months in the Illinois Central Railroad Hospital in Carbondale, IL, and was released with a wooded prosthesis which he wore until his death some sixty years later. I have often thought of Furry lying in that hospital, enduring the loss of a limb, alone and uncomforted. I think of it particularly in reference to an incident that happened in Houston, TX in the mid ''70s.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was attending a conference of music buyers from colleges and universities from across the country. As a part of this gathering, certain artists were selected to perform a thirty-minute 'showcase' of their talents for the benefit of these college entertainment buyers. Furry had been one of those chosen to perform. The only other traditional Blues performers so selected were Sonny Terry & Brownie McGee. Both Furry and Sonny & Brownie had been placed on the same bill, with Sonny & Brownie going on just before Furry. Evidently, the presenters of the conference thought such a pairing would result in a 'battle of the bands' among geriatric Blues performers. I thought it was idiotic. But what could we do?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had a meeting with some folks who were interested in presenting the Memphis Blues Caravan at a group of universities and was rushing to get to the auditorium to attend to Furry. In my haste, I fell and badly sprained my ankle. I hobbled into his dressing room. He was very concerned about what had happened to my ankle. I told him it was nothing to worry about and that he should go out there and knock 'em on their ass. He smiled and repeated a line I had heard many times before. “Don't you worry, when I get to pickin', I'm like a rabbit in a thicket...it takes a good dog to catch me.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After the show Furry would not leave my side. He offered me the use of his cane. He told me to lean on his shoulder for support. He insisted that we go back to my room so I could lie down. I was in no position to argue as the ankle was beginning to look like a small balloon.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It took us thirty minutes to clear the door of the auditorium because of the huge clutch of adoring fans. Furry worked the crowd like a seasoned politician. When we finally got back to my room, he sat on a chair opposite the bed. He said, “I ain't goin' nowhere. I'm gonna sit right here and sing you some religious songs that's gonna get you well.” He was without his guitar, it had been brought back to his room by one of my associates.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Furry Lewis sat with me and sang, a Capella, one hymn after another. The pain in my throbbing ankle slowly lifted and I fell asleep. I awoke an hour or more later. The room was dark. Furry was still sitting in the chair across from the bed...watching over me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I often wondered if anyone sang for him, in that hospital in Carbondale.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CCqbKdnHZTs" width="560"></iframe></div>
DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-29238778951589896232020-11-14T10:49:00.003-06:002020-11-14T10:49:18.601-06:00Alcohol and Violence Part II: "Time - and the OG"<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span>by Arne Brogger, organizer and road manager of the Memphis Blues Caravan in the 1970s, (<a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">blog post, </a><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">"</a></span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">The Straight Oil From The Can: Tales from the Memphis Blues Caravan and other Stories</a>," </span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">October 2009</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">)</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN9v-Yk3WjnCZJBEUfBVbz5rU3cknKdgNPMA4kdi_HkgDf9HZBuuUY-v_dqgzK9BLQyqPKqZ2G9__ds_Z9cbN7ULZ-Q0n3rWzjfziFfRST286FzxgZYTElrfHFk9hSJXlmQL3FSGn3ysLY/s400/maxresdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN9v-Yk3WjnCZJBEUfBVbz5rU3cknKdgNPMA4kdi_HkgDf9HZBuuUY-v_dqgzK9BLQyqPKqZ2G9__ds_Z9cbN7ULZ-Q0n3rWzjfziFfRST286FzxgZYTElrfHFk9hSJXlmQL3FSGn3ysLY/w400-h225/maxresdefault.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>He picked up the ringing phone. “Recovery House, Richard speaking.” The large black man with a scary demeanor listened, interjecting the occasional “un huh.” The story was an old one. He’d heard it many, many times. “Well, you called the right place. You want the pain to stop? Uh-huh…well, then you gotta do something about it. Why don’t you stopover, we can have a chat.” In an earlier time, where menace and threat were a way of life, invitations to chat had a darker meaning.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A Packard pulled to the curb at the corner of Broadway and River Streets. The Passaic River, swollen with the spring thaw, rolled silently a few yards away as it traveled to join the Raritan and the sea. The young man, who had been standing on the corner for the past fifteen minutes, slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. The car left Paterson, headed south for Newark.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Motioning with his head toward the back of the car, the driver said. “I got what you need in the trunk – you can get strapped before we head for the tunnel. We’ll stop in Quigquake Park - private.” The young man was nervous, his eyes darting. “The first day of school, eh?” The driver smiled. The young man said nothing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“You’ll be fine, kid. We gonna pick up Pops, get set up and head into Harlem. He doesn’t usually go on runs like this. Guess I wasn’t kidding about the school, huh. You got a name?”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Yes, I do,” the young man said. He looked hard at the driver. “It’s Richard.” The driver smiled.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“We’re going to Harlem? I thought this was a Jersey thing.” The driver stared straight ahead, “Spanish Harlem, to be exact. A gun makes as much noise there as it does in Jersey. A problem?”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The metal ribs of the Pulaski Skyway hummed underneath them as they, now three, headed for Hoboken and the tunnel. Once into the city, they turned left on Canal and then pointed north on to the West Side Highway, exiting on 110th Street. Just past the top of Central Park, they turned left, traveling north to 118th Street, stopping in front of a five-story tenement walkup.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Fifth floor, rear. 5C. We’re expected…” said Pops, a late middle age black man. “I’m getting’ too old for all this stair climbing shit.” Nodding to Richard, “You stay behind me on the way up, in front on the way down. Got it?” Richard, now wearing a trench coat, a sawed-off 12 Gage hanging from his belt, climbed out of the back seat. “And you,” said Pops, looking at the driver, “keep the engine on. This should be quick.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Richard had wanted the Marine Corps; a uniform, training, a purpose, but the streets, the ‘hood, his companions, all conspired in a perfect storm of trouble.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The oldest of nine, care for siblings fell largely to him. Both parents worked – father in a silk factory, mother as a domestic. “You ain’t got a lick a sense, boy! You never gonna amount to nothin’!” his father bellowed in an alcoholic rage. His mother, often with blackened eyes and a bloused lip, said nothing. The young man vowed someday to kill him.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Quick with his hands, the PAL gyms were a second home. He fought well, both in the ring and out. But prizefighting, and a way out, eluded him. The Marines – that was the answer. So he hoped. He was smart, and early on, he was a reader. “Put down that goddamn book, where’s your shine box?!”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As a youngster, the shine box, and customers wearing suits, smoking cigars, provided an introduction of sorts. “Take this envelope to Broadway and Water, see Tony in the tailor shop. Give it to him. These five’s for you…” Numbers, dope, money. Up and down the streets of Paterson. An education. Later, when the shine box was gone, he’d sing doo-wop with his pals on street corners, kid the girls, roll the occasional drunk. “Kick that useless wino, what’s the matter with you?” ‘Soft’ doesn’t play well on the streets. Something inside him hurt, he didn’t want to cause pain, to be without mercy. “Kick that motherfucker!” He swallowed big gulps of that hurt, pounded it down, deep. He kicked. He fought. By late adolescence, stints in a Who’s Who of Jersey reformatories had nixed the dream of the Marines. “We don’t take criminals,” he was told, and summarily dismissed when he applied.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fresh out of Jamesburg Reformatory, he met Pops.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Pops had had that name since he was in his late 30’s. Big, almost 300 pounds, he’d always seemed older than his years. He favored bespoke three-piece suits, starched white shirts, and perfectly knotted ties. Sometimes, a red carnation boutonniere appeared in a lapel. He had a presence, cultivated and nurtured. And had parlayed that presence into a lucrative career; numbers, then loan sharking and eventually, narcotics. Pops was always on the lookout for talent. Tough, strong, ruthless. He’d heard about a young man in Paterson and sent word to meet at a hotel downtown. Sitting in a high-backed chair in the lobby, the process glistening on his newly conked hair, Pops must have been an impressive sight. Richard shook his hand. He met a way out. He met his future.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The door to 5C opened before they got to it. Pops went in. Richard followed. An envelope was exchanged for a package about the size of a shoebox. Pops opened it, peered inside, then nodded. Outside 5C again, they headed down the stairs, Richard going first. Pops put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, whispering, “The motherfucker called someone, I can smell it. Let’s move fast.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the landing of the fourth floor stood a Hispanic man in his 30’s, arms folded. “What you fellas got there?” Richard stopped on the stairs, half a flight above him. “You best step out the way,” Richard said.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Out the way?” Sneering, the Hispanic man said, “Which way’s that? The Jersey way? Where you think you are?”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Richard pulled back the right side of his trench coat, his hand on the shotgun. “Any old way, so long as it’s out,” Richard said. His unblinking eyes riveted on the Hispanic man.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“What you got in the package there?” the man said, gazing up at Pops. Pops was silent. “Got some dope there? I think we need to have a chat. And I bet you Jersey fucks can’t even shoot straight.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As those words spilled from his mouth, the Hispanic man suddenly moved his hand toward his pocket. The shotgun swung from Richard’s belt, the muzzle flash lighting the semidarkness of the stairwell into bright, high relief. The Hispanic man’s left leg exploded and disappeared below the knee.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Oh God! Oh God, Oh God…!” he screamed. Blood and bone splattered over the corner of the landing where he lay, writhing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Richard walked down the stairs and stood over him.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“God’s not here, amigo. I’m the only motherfucker you got to deal with.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It would be awhile before God and Richard would enjoy any proximity. Forty years, long stretches in two state penitentiaries. Finally, standing on the second tier, in front of his cell at Arizona State Penitentiary, he looked out on a patch of desert. The same patch he’d looked at for more than two decades. “I’m a drunk and an addict. That’s why I’m standing here.” He’d been told for years that he had a problem. His standard response had always been, the only problem I’ve got, is you telling me I have a problem. For the first time, he told himself, they might be right. He stood quietly as that thought ripened in his consciousness. In time, that thought would grow; it would morph into kindness, gratitude, courage, and Richard, cloaked in perpetual amazement, would find what he had always sought - a purpose.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“No – it’s not a cult. It’s about improving the quality of your life,” he said, speaking into the phone for the first time in more than a minute. “The God stuff is up to you, whatever you want it to be.” He listened some more. Finally, “I’m not here to convince you of anything, partner. You want to chat, I’m here. You don’t have to knock. Just walk in.” He hung up the phone.</div></span>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-52288561610850253212020-10-16T02:42:00.002-05:002020-10-16T02:48:07.657-05:00Memphis Blues Caravan: "Rolling Through The Night"<span style="font-family: inherit;">by Arne Brogger, organizer and road manager of the Memphis Blues Caravan in the 1970s, <a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/rolling-through-night.html" target="_blank">blog post, <span style="color: black;">"</span>The Straight Oil From The Can: Tales from the Memphis Blues Caravan and other Stories,<span style="color: black;">" </span></a></span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/rolling-through-night.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">October 2009</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">)</span><div><div><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGbNEKtTix9nBjGEJqXznWEBUbbmBQ3rIPO40ltVoxxKMc53hzI29Yhtg7u3iUp1n7Vt3kk5K8v-BigiDXXR4tePEkbABAfM0xyOzFVBxxKl4VnwfhiYJg88RlbpTQl0BZsoSAm2jSZg9/s1000/LEABGDSC_0062-Copy791000.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGbNEKtTix9nBjGEJqXznWEBUbbmBQ3rIPO40ltVoxxKMc53hzI29Yhtg7u3iUp1n7Vt3kk5K8v-BigiDXXR4tePEkbABAfM0xyOzFVBxxKl4VnwfhiYJg88RlbpTQl0BZsoSAm2jSZg9/s320/LEABGDSC_0062-Copy791000.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Buddy Guy has quite a different backstage <br />experience than artists on the Caravan...</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Sometimes, when contiguous dates couldn't be routed, we were forced to make a 'hop' of several hundred miles to the next engagement. These were largely done overnight so that arrival would put us in at least six or seven hours before showtime. Generally, these overnight adventures were the exception. But we were not the Rolling Stones. We couldn't pick and choose which dates we would play. We took what we were given and made the best of it.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">On nights such as these, we would leave directly after the show and rack up a couple hundred miles before stopping for a late snack. Of course, 'Snack' was a total misnomer for what happened at the hands of the Caravan members in a diner. These guys could eat.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">One night we played Marion, Il, a town situated in the southern part of the state. The following night we were playing Charlottesville, VA, some 800 miles away. Leaving Marion at about 11:00, we eventually pulled into a truck stop in northern Kentucky called the Cross Keys. It was close to 1:00 AM. The establishment lay at the branch of Interstates 24 and 64. Ten miles before we arrived, the CB in the bus crackled with female voices promising all manner of delights. Each lady had a 'handle' descriptive of the services provided and was actively soliciting congress with truckers inbound to the Cross Keys. The interest level on the bus increased with each mile.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">The Cross Keys was huge. It held about four acres of 18 wheelers - parked one after the other. The whole scene was illuminated by mercury vapor lamps perched high atop poles scattered about. The air was gray with diesel exhaust. And hopping from cab to cab were the hookers.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">We pulled up to the front and walked single file into the restaurant portion of the complex. Heads, covered in Peterbilt, Mack, and Freightliner hats, turned as we made our way. Conversation stopped. For a moment, I felt like we were from Mars and had just made landing on some strange, bizarre planet. Slowly, we settled into booths and tables. Conversation resumed, heads turned back to coffee, biscuits, and gravy, or whatever. A waitress approached, "What kin ah gitcha, hon...?" she said to Furry, sitting at the head of a table.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We ate. And ate. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We drank coffee. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We paid the check. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We left.</span></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98YBGqIMU52r_ZSbixN8jsDyKN1A5XL26fxOC-gM8NACyCvgdHneTj-wLm3YErdppOejvkH1TVjb4fH77MhjHPcpklo0xNatp5nM9YfmsPi7j1-U16bzP03UwFjVIdzWujd2PrG1BpA6Y/s1600/truckin-jesus-novelty-embossed-metal_1_5a7e92cf4a056e00b22ab114399b0217.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1600" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98YBGqIMU52r_ZSbixN8jsDyKN1A5XL26fxOC-gM8NACyCvgdHneTj-wLm3YErdppOejvkH1TVjb4fH77MhjHPcpklo0xNatp5nM9YfmsPi7j1-U16bzP03UwFjVIdzWujd2PrG1BpA6Y/w320-h156/truckin-jesus-novelty-embossed-metal_1_5a7e92cf4a056e00b22ab114399b0217.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Walking back to the bus, past the hookers flitting from cab to cab, I was about to board when one of the ladies hopped down from a cab-over-Pete parked next to us. As the driver closed the door, I noticed what was written on its side, "Sawyer Transport". And underneath, in italic script, "Truckin' For Jesus."</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Stomachs full and back on the bus, we high-balled out of the Cross Keys, disappearing into the eastbound darkness. Our next stop would be somewhere past the Smokey Mountains in the first rays of dawn.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">The post-show adrenalin had pretty much dissipated and the hearty fare began to have a sedative effect. By twos and threes, the members ambled off to their respective bunks and fell asleep. Aside from myself, Furry and Red were the last two left conscious in the forward lounge. Furry was the first to drop and announced that he's like to stretch out. I helped him back to his bunk. Red sat slumped in a Captain's Chair, his great stomach taut against his T-shirt. Coe College it read. He wore it everywhere. With his hat still on his head, he closed his eyes and snoozed quietly. It was 2:40 AM.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">I climbed into the jump seat above and behind the driver. Looking down, I could see the soft green glow of the instrument lights and ahead, through the broad front window of the Silver Eagle, our headlights pushed down the Interstate. I asked the driver how he was doing. "Just fine..." Did he ever get tired on these long overnight runs? "Nope. Driving is what I do."</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">Okay...</span></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">The radio was tuned to KAAY out of Little Rock or, alternatively, to KDKA, the nation's first commercial radio station, out of Pittsburgh. These were the days of Clear Channel AM radio and the two-megawatt giants came in like a local station. As a young man in Minneapolis, driving my father home formwork on winter nights, we would listen to KDKA's National News at 5:00 PM. And in the mid '50s, XERF, nominally out of Del Rio, TX (but really out of Ciudad Chilla, Mexico) would blast 100,000 watts of Rock 'n Roll to eager young ears in the Heartland.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Music played on the radio.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The driver and I listened in silence.</span></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">After a time, I slid out of the jump seat and stood in the stairwell leaning hands-on-chin against the Silver Eagle's broad, padded dashboard. Half a moon shown in the southern sky and the dark fields rolled on, reflected in a faint silver luminescence. America passed under my feet. Mile after mile. Vast didn't come close. Years later at various times, I would tell newly arrived British musicians, as they made ready to embark on a first US tour, "Gentleman, you are about to have a new appreciation of the word 'distance.'"</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">The music from the radio played not just in our ears that night. It played in the ears of the thousands who listened, busy with business that kept them up as the hours passed. It was a tie that bound all; familiar, comfortable, entertaining. The music spoke to some, stirred memories or emotions in others, and assured the rest that they were not alone. American music, sailing through the night air.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">And here they were - a bus-load of dinosaurs. Country Bluesmen, the last living relics and purveyors of one of America's greatest musical traditions. Shining the light, declining the bushel. On their way to the next gig, just 800 miles down the road.</div></div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-35966506107707377012020-10-16T02:13:00.006-05:002020-10-16T02:46:50.817-05:00Memphis Blues Caravan: " A Day In The Life"<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">by Arne Brogger, organizer and road manager of the Memphis Blues Caravan in the 1970s, <a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/day-in-life.html">blog post, </a></span><span style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">"</a></span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/day-in-life.html" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">The Straight Oil From The Can: Tales from the Memphis Blues Caravan and other Stories</a>,<span style="text-align: left;">"</span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/day-in-life.html" style="font-family: inherit;"> </a><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/day-in-life.html" style="font-family: inherit;">October 2009</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">)</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvKQw0lK3GKLrpPgM_CVB9Jf5fwZQ8sHOs4LLIaRGQRNk5lCkQd0nwRGfIljzI7nNdPGz26sp5Gd6sgU46H73V5CVBADcIatg_LhSqm4PRccsgDY4JcH_pHCsrRGBXegwkXbYpJkR9lov/s417/Memphis-Blues-Caravan222.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="417" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvKQw0lK3GKLrpPgM_CVB9Jf5fwZQ8sHOs4LLIaRGQRNk5lCkQd0nwRGfIljzI7nNdPGz26sp5Gd6sgU46H73V5CVBADcIatg_LhSqm4PRccsgDY4JcH_pHCsrRGBXegwkXbYpJkR9lov/w400-h225/Memphis-Blues-Caravan222.jpg" title="The Caravan Logo" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Memphis Blues Caravan show flyer<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The Caravan was, in many respects, a party on wheels. It consisted of a group of co-conspirators who both enjoyed each others' company (for the most part) and shared a commonality of experience unique to a very small group - i.e. they were American Blues singers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The day would begin with breakfast, usually a hearty affair heavy on the fried side of the menu. This would occur anytime between 5:00 and 9:00 AM depending on when we had a 'bus call'. The 'bus call' was previously agreed upon time signaling the departure of the bus for the next gig. This call was inviolate and could not be missed. With very few exceptions, it was never a problem - most of the Caravan members were early risers regardless of when they got to bed the night before.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After check out and settled on the bus, the Caravan fell into a routine. Each member sat in their respective seat in the lounge of the bus (by the second date, each had claimed a favorite) and entertained each other as the miles rolled past.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the favorite pastimes was to play "the dozens" a rhyming put-down game where one member tried to top the other with a well-aimed jibe or an answer back in kind. The origin of the name of this game was something I wondered about over the years. Anyone I asked, including members of the Caravan, had no idea. The response to a casual insult was many times a curt "don't do me no dozens..." It wasn't until years later that I would learn where the term originated.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the antebellum South, when slaves became old or enfeebled or otherwise damaged (they were chattel), they were put in groups of 12 and sold as a lot at auction. Being 'in the dozens' was a situation to be avoided at all costs and carried with it a sense of shame. In modern-day, it had been softened to indicate mere discomfort at being "one-upped" by someone else. The king of dozens was, as mentioned earlier, Sleepy John Estes, the poet of the Blues.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At about 1:00 or 2:00 in the afternoon the call would go up to stop at a 'chicken store' to get some lunch. Simultaneously there would be a request to stop at the 'whiskey store' for fortification against the chill of the coming evening. The party had begun.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On reaching the gig, our first stop was the hotel. Check-in was always an experience, both from the reaction of the desk staff to the process of getting everyone sorted out and into their respective rooms. Red and Furry were 'roomies' as were the drummer and bass player from Joe Willie's band. Old partners for years, John and Hammy bunked together as did Stack and Joe Willie. Bukka and Clarence Nelson (Joe Willie's guitar player) had single rooms, as they desired.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dlTIuY1tDYnVAZCskxl9kjM4XfbexmMORgYckbPqY59mW866u-VpoODYyrSu0twANr9H4cRc-CesMGSVbxLh4GuyVrZiY1-ey95hSzoaIyI2zfFyJ26wdh-ZvCTWOU699fYp1PqQ-1yj/s640/Memphis-Blues-Caravan.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="431" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dlTIuY1tDYnVAZCskxl9kjM4XfbexmMORgYckbPqY59mW866u-VpoODYyrSu0twANr9H4cRc-CesMGSVbxLh4GuyVrZiY1-ey95hSzoaIyI2zfFyJ26wdh-ZvCTWOU699fYp1PqQ-1yj/w432-h640/Memphis-Blues-Caravan.jpg" width="432" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;">The Memphis Blues Caravan show flyer</blockquote></td></tr></tbody></table></blockquote><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></td></tr></tbody></table>After everyone was in their respective rooms, I would go over to the venue, Sound and lighting had to be checked out to be sure contract rider demands for production were met. I would also meet with the producer to see if there was any last-minute press that had to be done (this was in pre-cell phone days when none of this could be accomplished en route, as it can today). Soon it was time for a soundcheck. This would require the presence of Joe Willie's rhythm section - Joe Willie and Stackhouse, who were 'stars', didn't have to involve themselves with these details. Drums were set and mic'ed, lighting cues were discussed, the band would run through a couple of tunes to set levels and any last-minute details were attended to. All this was usually finished about an hour before "doors" (when doors were opened and ticket holders were let into the house). As the auditorium filled, I went back to the hotel to round up performers and head back to the venue. We usually arrived about ten or fifteen minutes before showtime.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some promoters felt this was a bit too close for comfort but they never had cause for concern. The Caravan never missed a curtain time. If we were supposed to hit at 8:00, we hit at 8:00.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The 'opener' for the Caravan was always Piano Red. He took great pleasure in his constant reminders to the rest of the group that it was he who had the hardest job of the lot. He also suggested that any enthusiastic response that the rest of the Caravan might receive was due largely to the warm carpet that his performance spread for them. He was, more often than not, at least partly correct. Bukka White followed next, then Furry Lewis. No one wanted to follow furry.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7CuIboQSN5VBSp_DFJhpWxfdhtSYQG-45SybEMfclMtg3jnYEYky7aCld3JDIxBXGEA9ORynoAM34GLOGmlESwG7uMY_V1GOIMrX1QkASlPDtGd1m4DPcfKqtySnGOW4hl03vdVmDahI/s640/11709594_10153433446546257_702658022205832093_n.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="470" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7CuIboQSN5VBSp_DFJhpWxfdhtSYQG-45SybEMfclMtg3jnYEYky7aCld3JDIxBXGEA9ORynoAM34GLOGmlESwG7uMY_V1GOIMrX1QkASlPDtGd1m4DPcfKqtySnGOW4hl03vdVmDahI/w294-h400/11709594_10153433446546257_702658022205832093_n.jpg" width="294" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lillie Mae Glover, known to <br /></span><p style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Beale Street patrons as Ma Rainey #2.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table>After Furry's set, we generally had an intermission and then opened back up with Sleepy John Estes and Hammy Nixon. They were followed, in many instances, by Ma Rainey (Lilly Mae Glover) backed by Joe Willie's band. Joe Willie and Stackhouse joined the band next and at the end of their set, went into 'The Saints' and were joined on stage by everyone in the Caravan.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After the show, it was party time in earnest. Backstage was usually clogged with people, a great many with guitars in hand, asking questions about everything from tuning techniques to the brand of whiskey preferred by respective performers. It was at this time that I had to be on my guard as well-intentioned youngsters badgered the performers with questions. The problem came when a few would try to cut one or two of the performers from the pack (usually Furry and/or Bukka) and spirit them away to some house or apartment for an after-hours songfest. Both performers were always game for an adventure of this sort but I had learned from experience that this meant trouble.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Though probably well-intentioned, the hosts of these clandestine get-a-ways did not have the best interests of the performers at heart. Fueled by copious amounts of booze and God knows what else, these get-togethers had the potential for real havoc. We didn't need any trouble, "a thousand miles away from home, standing in the rain..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After the backstage shenanigans, we went back to the hotel and usually gather in one another's rooms. The guitar would get passed from hand to hand, the bottle of Jack Daniels would slowly drain and by 1:00 or 1:30 AM, it was lights out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next morning we got up and did it all over again.</div></span>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-53964222066937955622020-10-16T02:06:00.002-05:002020-10-16T02:46:13.209-05:00Alcohol & Violence - "...knowing that most things break"<div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>by Arne Brogger, organizer and road manager of the Memphis Blues Caravan in the 1970s, (<a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">blog post, </a><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">"</a></span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" target="_blank">The Straight Oil From The Can: Tales from the Memphis Blues Caravan and other Stories</a>," </span><a href="http://thesilvereagle.blogspot.com/2009/10/alcohol-violence.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">October 2009</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">)</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"For soon amid the silver loneliness</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,</div></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Secure, with only two moons listening,</div></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Until the whole harmonious landscape rang --"</div></span></blockquote><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghZViVyN7W7Wn0cSRm2JT_VeWb6Ym2SDVQVJtBFDsNKeDOWR9-yYBMXbVqXLGZQxiTqzAV5zpQahcaWx_AgTYczTqXb26U87CfpdsmEu8-VtVIlsjlfz_CVU01S3qT43zN5gpXIfkDr5Nn/s1280/maxresdefault.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghZViVyN7W7Wn0cSRm2JT_VeWb6Ym2SDVQVJtBFDsNKeDOWR9-yYBMXbVqXLGZQxiTqzAV5zpQahcaWx_AgTYczTqXb26U87CfpdsmEu8-VtVIlsjlfz_CVU01S3qT43zN5gpXIfkDr5Nn/w400-h225/maxresdefault.jpg" title="Bukka White" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Booker (Bukka) Washington White<br />(Click <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_b0b4Wg_1eY" target="_blank">HERE </a>to listen to his "Vaseline Head Woman")</td></tr></tbody></table>Alcohol and violence were a constant in the lives of virtually every member of the Caravan. It was not unique to them, it was a byproduct of one other constant, poverty. If your life circumstances are shitty, alcohol provides an escape from those circumstances. Not that all poor people drink - or drink to excess. Far from it. The problem is, when some people drink, shit happens. And usually, it's not the shit that people want. Believe me, I know. Enough said.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Booze and music have always been co-ingredients in a roaring good time. Musicians have had a firm grasp on the power of the interplay between those two elements as well as an appreciation for the transformative escape provided by both. From the old song lyric, "If the river was whiskey and I was a diving duck, I'd dive to the bottom and never would come up" to the modern song title, "There Stands The Glass" - it's the same lick. Alcohol takes us someplace else. Away from where we are. Music does the same. Together, they can be a veritable magic carpet. But sometimes that carpet lands on the wrong side of the wall.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Bukka White was the only member of the Caravan to have served time in a State Penitentiary. None of the members, however, were unfamiliar with jails or the police. Bukka's crime was manslaughter and he would lager confide that his visit to Parchman wasn't his only experience behind bars. He had spent time also in the Shelby County Jail in Memphis for a similar crime. He never gave a definitive figure on the number of men he had killed. It was at least two, possibly more. He claimed that each incident was in self-defense and that he 'hated to do it.' Was he, or his victim, sober when these things happened? Probably not.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lJe3ybAjr4GPyweMt74fFJCBvjVsftmz0XZHFdQFvYDo2-sn4pUVBz-eCY0VOB0l40hVvpN6-eaFvrkyKSjcjjphCI0qJ7xrK4qKMlRo5hLiiPrUXEXTGGeWMdumMidvod03EIhBhAhb/s300/Piano-Red1-300x300.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lJe3ybAjr4GPyweMt74fFJCBvjVsftmz0XZHFdQFvYDo2-sn4pUVBz-eCY0VOB0l40hVvpN6-eaFvrkyKSjcjjphCI0qJ7xrK4qKMlRo5hLiiPrUXEXTGGeWMdumMidvod03EIhBhAhb/w320-h320/Piano-Red1-300x300.png" width="320" /></a></div>John 'Piano Red' Williams also had brushes with the law. While he never admitted to having been arrested, his conversation was rife with recollections of violent encounters. I remember one exchange, in particular, sitting with Red at the dining room table in my house in Minneapolis, where red was engaged in one of his winding stories of stream-of-consciousness descriptions of incidents experienced during his 80 or so years.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">At this telling, he described an encounter with a 'devilish rascal' who had crossed him (hmmm, was anyone having a drink?). Their exchange escalated into a full-blown confrontation, forcing Red to pick up an ax handle. At this point in the story, he asked if I knew how to 'han'el' someone through the use of such a weapon.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">"Ah, no..."</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Pleasant and friendly, Red continued in his innocent-sounding, high-pitched voice:</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><blockquote><i>"Well, first you him in the one arm. Him sharp, comin' down at an angle. You break they arm. Then you him on the other side, and break they other arm." Red paused, making sure that his lesson was getting through, perhaps expecting a question. "Then you take the axe han'el," he continued, in the same sweet voice, "and you hits 'em in they haid."</i></blockquote></span></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQee9BaWwFAGP_jgJU0EkuxcaM7VCdz4rBiCsNUkLGC3RLEl7uWexDRUNcVTL1ybkQTJcnNjpB5zALCF2Z0gdabqlYSsvVHeZhzfNqnlivBfmsaD_dXW0VFGoo-f4BWJQpSqvayrvVWbp/s264/download.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="191" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQee9BaWwFAGP_jgJU0EkuxcaM7VCdz4rBiCsNUkLGC3RLEl7uWexDRUNcVTL1ybkQTJcnNjpB5zALCF2Z0gdabqlYSsvVHeZhzfNqnlivBfmsaD_dXW0VFGoo-f4BWJQpSqvayrvVWbp/w289-h400/download.jpg" title="Joe Willie Wilkins" width="289" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Joe Willie Wilkins circa 1977</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Joe Willie Wilkins, a pacific and gentle soul, told me of a call he got from Muddy Waters in the late '50s informing him that he (Muddy) was sending his guitar player at the time, Pat Hare, back to Memphis. The instructions were that Joe was to arrange for Pat to 'lay low' for a while and not return to Chicago until he was sent for by Muddy. Pat had recorded for Sun Records in its early years and released a side ominously titled "I'm Gonna Murder My Baby" (re-released on Rhino in 1990). A few years later, in a jealous drunken rage, he killed a woman in Chicago and was under investigation for the crime, prompting the call from Muddy. Joe related that this was not the first time such a thing had happened to Pat Hare.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Hare's name was familiar to me as I remember reading an account of his crimes in the local paper years after his Memphis visit. Auburn 'Pat' Hare killed a woman in Minneapolis under similar circumstances. He also killed a policeman sent to investigate. Hare was roaring drunk at the time. Joe Willie allowed as Pat, sober, was a quiet and unassuming guy. Drunk, he was a homicidal maniac.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Auburn 'Pat' Hare died in Minnesota's Stillwater State Penitentiary in 1980. Had alcohol not taken him there, who knows where or when he would have died.</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Whiskey and fried chicken fueled the Caravan in its years on the road. From management to performers, Jack and Jim were constant companions. Looking back through the haze, it's a wonder nothing more serious occurred than a pulled knife and some threatening words (both courtesy of Furry, but more of that later).</div><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">No injuries, no cops, no blood.</div></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">With a nod to E. A. & Mr. Flood...</div></span></span></b></blockquote>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-61390422715198627062020-09-08T21:35:00.003-05:002020-09-10T11:01:34.177-05:00Blues and the Soul of a Man - A Blues Blog about Skip James<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: courier;">By Jeff Harris, February 23, 2020</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://sundayblues.org/?tag=blues-and-the-soul-of-man-an-autobiography-of-nehemiah-skip-james"><span style="font-family: courier;">https://sundayblues.org/?tag=blues-and-the-soul-of-man-an-autobiography-of-nehemiah-skip-james</span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA3bxc7G-QX4IUZ5hreZpzdeasExSnVzW7zeIt3J8GbaT3zqSeRjppNq5YsMG-wAv4Q15l8csuuev2iGhaX75lx0LBDNQolleJiHejvPj7AQFmRDEkpJqV_nlaMIg0hjRnPvqHaPAJi-e6/s761/3228571+%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="761" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA3bxc7G-QX4IUZ5hreZpzdeasExSnVzW7zeIt3J8GbaT3zqSeRjppNq5YsMG-wAv4Q15l8csuuev2iGhaX75lx0LBDNQolleJiHejvPj7AQFmRDEkpJqV_nlaMIg0hjRnPvqHaPAJi-e6/w400-h225/3228571+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Jeff Harris's radio show on February 23, 2020 focused on the music of Skip James, and the inspiration came from a new book issued by Stefan Grossman titled Blues and the Soul of Man: An Autobiography of Nehemiah “Skip” James. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The book is James's story in his own words culled from interviews done between 1964 and 1969 by Stephen Calt, who spent countless hours with the Bentonia native, with the intent of compiling an autobiography; instead, Calt published the flawed and controversial, I’d Rather Be the Devil: Skip James and the Blues. What Stefan Grossman did is take the raw interviews and shaped it into a compelling narrative, stripping away much of the subjective embellishments, and outright false story Calt pushes forward. On his radio program, Harris spins a batch of James's legendary 1931 recordings as well as some fine performances from the 1960s. In addition, he airs his interview with Grossman,.</div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.mixcloud.com/Bigroadblues/id-rather-be-the-devil-the-blues-of-skip-james/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO JEFF HARRIS' RADIO SHOW</span></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.wirz.de/music/jameskip.htm">Skip James</a> grew up at the Woodbine Plantation in Bentonia, Mississippi and as a youth learned to play both guitar and piano. The music of Skip James and fellow Bentonia guitarists such as Henry Stuckey and Jack Owens is often characterized as a genre unto itself. Notable for its ethereal sounds, open minor guitar tunings, gloomy themes, falsetto vocals, and songs that bemoan the work of the devil. Stuckey learned one of the tunings from Caribbean soldiers while serving in France during World War I, and said that he taught it to James, who went on to become the most famous of Bentonia’s musicians. Inspired by Stuckey, James began playing guitar as a child, and later learned to play organ.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In his teens James began working on construction and logging projects across the mid-South, and sharpened his piano skills playing at work camp barrelhouses. In 1924 James returned to Bentonia, where he earned his living as a sharecropper, gambler and bootlegger, in addition to performing locally with Stuckey. James traveled to Grafton, Wisconsin, for his historic 1931 session for Paramount Records, which included thirteen songs on guitar and five on piano. He was sent to Paramount by talent scout H.C. Speir who was impressed by James’ audition. “Hard Time Killing Floor Blues” alluded to the Great Depression, while the gun-themed “22-20 Blues” provided the model for Robert Johnson’s “32-20 Blues,” and the haunting “Devil Got My Woman” was the likely inspiration for Johnson’s “Hell Hound on My Trail.” According to Calt, James received only $40 for his 1931 recordings, and he soon quit the music business, bitterly declaring it a “barrel of crabs.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Ij8AZloTi0IEOS7ZeKeevyDrx9h25CFaKkMkZqfqgrJQVEsTK94LLgK9LL1YOUYk-dh4JAnYVbUdu62Uca5dvLDuHaLVgK_F4I3QVQtvTBz7xo7rqYEZHfaiyvGRUtm6KHLB-b9wQzyI/s2048/A1u-3B4fkAL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1525" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Ij8AZloTi0IEOS7ZeKeevyDrx9h25CFaKkMkZqfqgrJQVEsTK94LLgK9LL1YOUYk-dh4JAnYVbUdu62Uca5dvLDuHaLVgK_F4I3QVQtvTBz7xo7rqYEZHfaiyvGRUtm6KHLB-b9wQzyI/w373-h500/A1u-3B4fkAL.jpg" width="373" /></a></div>As far as Skip James Paramounts, collector John Tefteller told me: “There are about 20-25 that have survived, if you include the Champion release and 15 or less if you leave that one out. They are some of the rarest and most desirable 78 rpm records of all time. There are a couple of them for which only one or two copies in playable condition exist.” James’s records sold poorly, and later in 1931 he moved to Dallas, where he served as a minister and led a gospel group. He later stayed in Birmingham, Alabama, and in Hattiesburg and Meridian, Mississippi, occasionally returning to Bentonia. He returned to Bentonia in 1948 and sometimes played for locals at the newly opened <a href="http://msbluestrail.org/blues-trail-markers/blue-front-cafe">Blue Front Cafe</a>, although he did not earn his living as a musician.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The first resissue of Skip James was in the 40’s when John Steiner pressed a 78 from from Paramount test-pressings. One Side was Skip’s “Little Cow And Calf Is Gonna Die Blues” (Paramount 13085) and the other side was “Fat Mamma Blues” by Jabo Williams. (Paramount 13130). This is the first country blues to be reissued for the white collector’s market. In 1962 Skip’s “Devil Got My Woman” was reissued on the compilation Really! The Country Blues. Regarding Skip, the notes contained the following: “No details. Said to have been from Louisiana. Was proficient on both guitar and piano. Present whereabouts unknown.” The idea that he came from Louisiana came from his song “If You Haven’t Got Any Hay, Get On Down The Road”: “If I go to Louisiana mama Lord they’ll, hang me for sure.” It was Gayle Dean Wardlow who first found concrete information on James from <a href="https://sundayblues.org/?p=645">Johnny Temple</a>. “Yeah, I knew Skippy,” Temple said, “I learned guitar from him.” He also learned that James was from Bentonia, halfway between Jackson and Yazoo City. Wardlow headed down there and picked up a few scraps of information but no one had seen him for ten years. Temple had last seen him in 1960 or 1961 in West Memphis.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In later years skip lived in Memphis and Tunica County, where he was located in 1964 by blues enthusiasts who persuaded him to begin performing again. In 1964, blues fans John Fahey, Bill Barth, and Henry Vestine found him in a hospital in Tunica, Mississippi. On that same day Son House was located in Rochester, New York. On the same day as James and House were re-discovered civil rights workers Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner and James Chaney were murdered by members of the Ku Klux Klan and local police. Newsweek covered both rediscoveries in one story, rhapsodizing, “These two were the only great country blues singers still lost. No one knew whether they were alive or dead….The search for these old-time bluesmen has always had a note of urgency about it. Theirs was our finest and oldest native-born music, the blues, country-style, pure and personal, always one Negro and a guitar lamenting misery, injustice, but still saying yes to life.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the introduction to Blues and the Soul of Man, Eddie Dean writes: “The bedridden James seemed to expect the sudden appearance of these fans; in fact, he seemed perturbed that they hadn’t come sooner to pay him homage. …A few days later, the hospital discharged him, after the pilgrims had paid not only James’ medical bills, but also the money he owed his landlord. At his sharecropper’s shack, James picked up the borrowed guitar and began playing his old songs, which he hadn’t performed in years. He was rusty, but he still clearly retained his talent.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After his rediscovery James relocated to Washington, D. C., and then to Philadelphia to play folk and blues festivals and clubs. In Washington he stayed for a time with Dick Spotswood. “He really stood out from the mass of humanity,” says Spottswood. “If he had been raised in different circumstances and had some level of academic training, he could have been an original thinker in any number of fields. He had that brooding, inquisitive intellect that was never content to leave things unchallenged. I could have easily seen him teaching physics or philosophy. …I don’t think he had a lot more use for git-along Southern blacks than he did for the white oppressors,” says Spottswood. “He didn’t suffer fools or take no kind of shit.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A few days after arriving in Washington, James went further north, this time to the Newport Folk Festival, for his first major performance since his rediscovery. Of his performance, Peter Gurnalack wrote: “Skip James appeared, looking gaunt and a little hesitant, his eyes unfocused and wearing a black suit and a wide-brimmed flat-topped preacher’s hat that gave him as unearthly an appearance as his records had led us to suspect he had….As the first notes floated across the field, as the voice soared over us, the piercing falsetto set against the harsh cross-tuning of the guitar, there was a note of almost breathless expectation in the air. It seemed inappropriate somehow that this strange haunting sound which had existed ’til now only as a barely audible dub from a scratched 78 should be reclaimed so casually on an overcast summer’s day at Newport. …As the song came to an end, the field exploded with cheers and whistles.” James would go on to recorded several albums and gained new renown and royalties from the rock group Cream’s 1966 cover of his song “I’m So Glad,” but the somber quality of much of his music and his insistence on artistic integrity over entertainment value limited his popular appeal. “We had expected that we had another John Hurt on our hands,” recalls Ed Denson, another member of the Washington blues circle. “And in terms of public acceptance, that was not true, and that was too bad.” James died in Philadelphia on October 3, 1969.</span></div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-5379513661778974532020-09-03T12:19:00.002-05:002020-09-03T12:19:17.714-05:00Donate to Help Maintain Blues Memorials<!--Facebook Pixel Code--> <script>
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DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-87203956159529220932020-08-22T18:46:00.003-05:002020-08-22T18:46:50.467-05:00Cora Fluker Drops Bombs on the Devil<div>
<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">By Bill Nichols</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Your sons and daughters shall prophesy</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Your old men shall dream dreams</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Your young men shall see visions <br />Joel 2:28</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: small;">Photo: Bill Steber</span></td></tr>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Just as the Lord God spoke to the prophets Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezekiel, so He peered one day over the undulating hills of Lauderdale County, Mississippi, into a whistle-stop town called Marion and found Cora Fluker. </span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">They understood each other perfectly, Mrs. Fluker and God, and they struck a deal. She would sing His praises to the world and, though the fruits of material wealth would escape her through the whole of her life, He would fill her heart with the poetry of inspiration and give her soul a voice molded from the stuff of angels.</span></div>
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Both parties have honored the agreement more or less, and two-score years later, down a red clay-inlaid road six-tenths of a mile from downtown Marion in a house and church built of discarded wood and broken dreams, Cora Fluker sings on, witnessing to a faith that has become her only anchor in a voyage through poverty and despair.</div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">I look in the East in the middle of the morning<br />I see God in the clouds<br />He's going to hear me crying</span></div>
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A small sample of the words of Cora Fluker, unlikely prophet, just singin' about her God to anybody who'll take the time to listen.</div></span>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Cora Fluker is 57 years old and a uniquely Southern mesh of the frailties of illiteracy and the pride that comes with the confidence of true virtuosity. She's been singing the songs God reveals to her since she was a little girl playing a cigar box for a guitar in Livingston, Ala., helping her field-hand father keep their family whole.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">She explained that a "white man in a little yellow car" was one of the first to point out her gift. A long time ago, when she was but one of many poor, dust-splattered black girls on an Alabama side street, the man stopped young Cora while she was singing with her family on the side of the road.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">"This is a singer," he told her mother, "This is a song-writer.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">"Keep singing," he told Cora, "and you won't have to wear those raggedy aprons any more."</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Young Cora half believed him, but she knew better. The fine print of her contract with the Lord had a different set of provisions.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">I want to ride that white train</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">She going home</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">I want to ride</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">Won't you wait for me. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">Cora Fluker — Long White Train </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">The Lord has remained in constant touch with Cora Fluker over the years, sometimes telling her the words of so many songs that she couldn't sleep for singing, strumming away the dead of night with a scratched and scarred electric guitar she bought at Mr. Mac's Pawn Shop. A childhood gift became more mission than hobby — Cora kept singing because she couldn't still her voice.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">She married early, moved a bit south and west to Mississippi, helped raise 13 children, 42 grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, lost a husband to death and then married another one. Her singing and composing drew admirers along the way, ranging from crowds of Marion churchgoers to musicologists from as far away as West Germany and as close as the Mississippi Arts Commission in Jackson.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">"God gave me the talent and I got to go with it," Mrs. Fluker said with her trademark smile. "I'm singing all the time. My voice just gets in the air." </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">Faith is the substance of things hoped for. <br />The evidence of things not seen. <br /><br />Hebrews 11:1</span></span><br />
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Mrs. Fluker has tried to make a decent living from her gift, but failure and bad luck remain constant visitors that often overstay their welcome. She's made crude eight-track tapes, sent them to music publishers and received papers filled with the special incomprehension writing holds for the illiterate.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">One crumpled, yellow slip of a contract she has kept came from a Nashville, Tenn., recording outfit named Music City Songcrafters who promised three records and a list of disc jockeys for $98. Ninety-eight dollars is a ransom fit for kings to Mrs. Fluker, so the opportunity slipped away. "I just wanted to see if I could make a hit," she said.</span></div>
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Another time she paid a recording service $135 for two re-cords and a list of disc jockeys, but her house burned down, and names and vinyl were just more components of the ashes of Mrs. Fluker's life.</div>
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"I said I wasn't going to sing no more after that," she said. But it passed. "After a while there, the songs, they started coming back." Contractual obligations of an agreement covering a life-time.</div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">The lion has roared Who will not fear? </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">The Lord God has spoken. Who can but prophesy?</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">— Amos 3:8 </span></div>
<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;"></span></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">A year ago, God told Mrs. Fluker she needed to build a chapel next to her home in Marion, and though she wasn't sure how she'd do it, she dutifully obeyed. She built it all her-self, from wood she scrounged from junk heaps, and furnished her tiny, one-room sanctuary with backless chairs, a transplanted front seat of a car, five portraits of Christ, a wooden stove, an altar made of cheap two-by-fours and a ruffled curtain sash for an altar cloth. "It's for me and my house that we serve the Lord," reads a scrawled devotion on a makeshift bulletin board.</span></div>
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Mitchell Traylor agreed to be Mrs. Fluker's pastor, and they have services every Wednesday and twice on Sunday in what is now called Traylor's Pentecostal Chapel. The little church has become the centerpiece of Mrs. Fluker's life, the embodiment of the understanding she has with God. He promised her a chapel, and though she didn't know where to look, she found one.</div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Her church is filled with people at every service, and now she talks of adding another room, and outside the church a wooden foundation without walls attests to her ambition. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">Give air O'Heavens and I will speak</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">Let the earth hear the words of my mout</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;"> — Deuteronomy 32:1 </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Mrs. Fluker worries that her gift has been wasted. She continues to seek recording fame so more people can hear her and the Lord's trust will be justified. "I want my singing to go out everywhere," she said. "Even over to Europe, and I know that's a long way." </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Mrs. Fluker calls traditional blues the devil's music, but her music flows freely from the Delta tradition, with a four-bar beat and the vocalist as instrumentalist, sparse guitar background and that ever-present sense of weariness, a fatigue unfettered even by an exuberant religious faith.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">When Cora Fluker sings, her past, present and future evaporate like a misty nightmare. Gone is a life working in motels and cotton fields and scrounging junk piles. Gone are the memories of pulling the plow for her husband after they had no animals left to work, of walking the long road to town in a snowstorm to get food, when it was so cold the tears froze in little rivulets, stopped in midstream as they coursed down her expressive face. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">When Cora Fluker sings, her eyes widen, but her vision narrows to what only she and her Maker can see. Her voice quavers and swells, she laughs and smiles, or her body may suddenly go limp, before it's racked by the sobs of religious catharsis.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">When Cora Fluker sings, you hear traditional culture found only in a folklorist's dream. Mrs. Fluker sings for redemption, but also for hope, for salvation, for the dreams of bursting the confines of her earthly life. Her message is simple — Someday, somewhere there is a better way.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">"There's too much hate in this world," she said. "Everybody's running for money. "I'll keep pressing on," Mrs. Fluker said.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">"I'll pray for you if you believe in me. If you listen to me, He'll hear you." When Cora Fluker sings, you hear the black man's Book of Common Prayer. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">I want to ride that white train <br />Be holy, sanctified <br />I got to let that black one go on by.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Cora Fluker thinks a lot about moving on. Pain, she ex-plains, "is a letter from death. He's just letting us know we're moving on." </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Death, to Mrs. Fluker, is a natural part of life. "Every-body got to go sometime, baby," she says, but the fact of moving on worries her, only because there are songs to be sung, words moving without form in this mind full of natively lyric language. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">"When I sing, I feel so good. I never know if anyone listens. But Jesus does," she said. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Mrs. Fluker wants more people to listen. But if she doesn't get her wish, it won't be her first disappointment. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">"I got my smile," she said. "I just want everybody to smile, to be happy."</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"> Her's is a power, a self-reliance only a vanishing part of American culture can even begin to understand. She asks not for fame, but for a chance to share a vision that she never asked for. A chance to spread her smile. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">She will tell you, when you leave, to come by anytime. "And if I don't see you honey, I'll see you in heaven." </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">You take that statement on its face. No questions. No hesitation. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">You see, Cora Fluker, unlikely prophet, has a contract with the Lord. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">And He shall provide. </span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Just long as you keep on singin.'</span></div>
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DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-473971263498915572020-08-08T17:31:00.000-05:002020-08-08T17:31:00.058-05:00The Campaign to Mark the Grave of Harmonicist Noah Lewis<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2dc214y9gg2XXeOU-oWyhGgCkQ3sAen0gjoyh2i-ixI5B3k8s1YzTa1Nx9MPR0JQf2Wqh1VzUQ9xn6Rd7VWz4TiuKmF8S31saYb_4n-lyRc490jlP3WDOmy6m8eoCO4pXe3cyp0F4jsp/s1600/Cannon%2527sJugStompers.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2dc214y9gg2XXeOU-oWyhGgCkQ3sAen0gjoyh2i-ixI5B3k8s1YzTa1Nx9MPR0JQf2Wqh1VzUQ9xn6Rd7VWz4TiuKmF8S31saYb_4n-lyRc490jlP3WDOmy6m8eoCO4pXe3cyp0F4jsp/s1600/Cannon%2527sJugStompers.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Gus Cannon, Ashley Thompson, and Noah Lewis</span></td></tr>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Project Researchers: </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/jim.lill.7177" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Jim Lill</a><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"> and </span><a href="mailto:drpitts3@att.net" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Shawn Pitts</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><input alt="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!" border="0" name="submit" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_donateCC_LG.gif" type="image" /><span style="text-align: center;"> </span><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" style="text-align: center;" width="1" /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Noah Lewis was born in Henning, Tennessee, and he learned to play the harmonica as a child. He moved to Memphis, Tennessee, in his early teens, where he met Gus Cannon in 1907. By that time he was already a respected original stylist on the harmonica, noted for his liquid tone and breath control, which allowed him to generate enormous volume from the instrument. By then he was also noted for his ability to play two harmonicas at once – one with his mouth and one with his nose, a trick he probably taught to Big Walter Horton, who recorded briefly as a teenager with the Memphis Jug Band some 20 years later. Lewis developed unusual levels of breath control and volume from playing in string bands and brass marching bands on the streets of Memphis.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">At their meeting in 1907, Lewis introduced Cannon to the 13-year-old guitarist and singer Ashley Thompson, with whom Lewis had been playing in the streets of Ripley and Memphis for some time, and the three of them worked together over the next 20 years whenever Cannon was in Memphis and not away working medicine and tent shows. When Will Shade's Memphis Jugband recorded and became popular in the late 1920s, Cannon added a coal-oil can on a rack around his neck and renamed the trio (Cannon, Lewis, and Thompson) Cannon's Jug Stompers.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a name='more'></a><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">It was this lineup that made the Jug Busters' first recordings, for Victor Records, in Memphis on January 30, 1928. The songs from that session included "Minglewood Blues," "Springdale Blues," "Big Railroad Blues," and "Madison Street Rag." By the time of the band's next recording, on September 5, 1928, Cannon had replaced Thompson with Elijah Avery on banjo and guitar. By the time of the band's third recording session, four days later, Avery had in turn been replaced with an old friend of Cannon's from the medicine and tent show circuit, the six-string banjo player and guitarist Hosea Woods. The band's lineup remained unchanged from then on. With the Jug Stompers, Lewis sang lead vocal and played a melancholy harmonica solo on "Viola Lee Blues."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ClC_KizCpQk" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
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Lewis recorded four solo tracks and another four sides with the Noah Lewis Jug Band, consisting of Lewis, Sleepy John Estes (guitar), and Yank Rachell (mandolin) in 1930.</div><div style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ic9G9BV6s38" width="560"></iframe></div>
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His songs "New, New Minglewood Blues," "Viola Lee Blues," and "Big Railroad Blues" were in the repertoire of the Grateful Dead. </div><div style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fUVcm79nX_E" width="560"></iframe></div></span><span face=""><div style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: justify;">
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<span face="" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: large;">Noah Lewis is buried in Marrows Cemetery in Henning, Tennessee. His grave is unmarked and near the graves of several family members.</span></div>
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All photos of gravesite by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/stephen.s.tate.96" target="_blank">Steve Tate</a></div>
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DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-37181357462619075262020-08-08T07:24:00.001-05:002021-02-17T10:42:04.937-06:00British Blues Royalty Remembers His Time with Howlin' Wolf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;"><b>By Dave William Kelly 2012</b></span></div><i><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: courier;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: courier;">[Born 13 March 1947, </span></i><span style="font-family: courier;"><i>David William Kelly i</i><i>s a British blues singer, guitarist, and composer, who has been active on the British blues music scene since the 1960s. He has performed with the John Dummer Blues Band, Tramp, The Blues Band, and his own Dave Kelly Band. His sister, Jo Ann Kelly, was also a blues singer, and she and Dave participated in many musical projects together.]</i></span></div></span></i><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-large;"><b><u>First Impressions</u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">In 1967 I was the lead singer & slide guitarist with The John Dummer Blues Band. We were a working band schlepping up and down motorways of the UK & Europe, earning a living, never going to make a fortune but a group of young men doing what they wanted to do and mostly having fun.</span></div>
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Dave Kelly: vocals & slide guitar</div>
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John Dummer: drums</div>
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Iain ’Thump’ Thompson: bass guitar</div>
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Adrian ‘Putty’ Pietryga; lead guitar</div>
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Bob Hall: piano occasionally at gigs near London (Bob was studying to be a lawyer).</div><div style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: justify;">Looking back I guess we were never going to set the world alight, but we’d always work. We were reasonably accomplished musicians, and not too expensive, also we knew and loved the blues. We were perfect for backing visiting US artists. We later made two tours with John Lee Hooker, and at one time were offered Slim Harpo, but that one never materialized. When our management company rang and asked if we’d heard of Howlin Wolf and would we like to back him, we all jumped at the chance.</div>
<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The agents who brought these bluesmen over had been in the business a long time, they recognized a fashion or the latest craze and jumped on the bandwagon. I’m sure they, we’ll call them the R T Agency, didn’t have clue who Wolf was or his standing in the blues, other than checking out and a bit of research to see who they could bring over. I remember hearing a story from a promoter who did know his stuff being given a ‘shopping list’ over the phone of artists the agency proposed bringing over.</div></span>
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<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Agent: "And how much would you be prepared to pay for Sonny Boy Williamson?“</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Promoter: "Oh I’d give you a thousand pounds a night for him!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Agent: [ getting excited ] "Really? I’ll get him for you."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Promoter: "You’ll be lucky – he’s been dead three years."</span><br />
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Anyway, this was the real Wolf. The management did the deal – whatever it was, - we were all on wages anyway so it didn’t affect our income, and we were to be Howlin Wolf’s backing band for three weeks around the UK. In actual fact we (our management) never got paid for the tour, luckily Wolf had been paid in advance.</div>
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The R T Agency went bankrupt owing us all the fees, apparently, in a court case our management was given custody of his office furniture in lieu of payment. It didn’t affect the band as we were on wages from the management company anyway. Either way, Ollie & Tommie Vaughan from the county shires lost some money, which they could probably afford. They went on to become the top presenters and arrangers of upper-class discos during the Debs season, Juliana’s discotheques made a lot of money – nice guys. Hi, Ollie & Tommy if you read this.</div>
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We were to meet Wolf the day before the first show. A room above a pub had been booked for rehearsal, we set the gear up and awaited the arrival of the great man.</div>
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He strolled in with another guy who turned out to be RT’s representative and ‘tour manager’. Wolf was not unfriendly but slightly aloof at first. He was a very commanding figure, well over six feet tall, big build, 300lbs of heavenly joy. And that voice! After introductions and hands being shaken, with ours disappearing into his giant paws, thankfully he wasn’t a ‘bone crusher’ or we wouldn’t be able to play afterward.</div>
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“OK let's see what you can do,” he said. We’d expected him to call a few songs for rehearsal and that we’d be there all evening getting them right, but he didn’t appear to want to play anything with us at first. We played him a few songs, he nodded and declared that we knew our stuff. “I can see by the way you hold your guitars that you’re musicians “ One of the songs we played in our audition was ‘Dust My Broom’, he said he wanted to do that one in the set. He then took out some harps and blew through the mic directly into the PA system – what a sound. Inside that enormous chest was an equally large pair of lungs. I bet his harps didn’t last very long. We suggested trying a few songs, Smokestack Lightnin being one we really wanted to do, and we knew his stuff pretty well, but he just played a few bars of a twelve-bar, told us to follow him, what to look for, breaks, stops, etc and told Tony [John Dummer] to really hit the backbeat on the snare. That was it, the whole ‘rehearsal’ had taken about one hour. Wolf and Ian the tour manager disappeared downstairs, into Ian’s car leaving us slightly surprised and I was a bit worried as the first gig was the next day, I think it was in Sunderland, 200 miles away in the northeast of England. Well if Wolf wasn’t worried who were we to complain? I didn’t realize it at the time, but he’d just paid us a great compliment.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><b><u>Baptism by Fire</u></b></span></div>
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We drove up in the van to Sunderland, Wolf went with Ian in his car and we met up at the gig in a college gym. The sound was awful, but the crowd was there to see Wolf and just the fact that he was there was enough. I don’t recall exactly what set we played with him at that first show other than it was mainly twelve-bar shuffles and the odd slow blues, no Smokestack, no Killing Floor, no Shake For Me, no Just Like I Treat You, no Going Down Slow, no Spoonful, no Forty Four – just forty-five minutes and off. I remember feeling a bit disappointed and that if I’d been a punter/fan come to see the great man I would have felt a bit shortchanged. Not that Wolf didn’t perform well or put everything into it – he did, but just from the choice of material, not hearing all those classics. However these were early days, we were still feeling each other out, getting a modus operandi. Things definitely got better.</div>
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After the show, Wolf gave me some change and told me to go to the bar and get him a whiskey. In 1968 spirits were very expensive in the UK with all the government tax and also served in very small measures, also I’m not sure if Wolf was up to pace yet with the English money, but when I returned with the pathetic single measure of whiskey hardly covering a quarter of an inch in the bottom of the glass and very little change he glared at me said “You been drinking this? Don’t fool with me boy” I assured him that I had carried the glass directly from the bar, hadn’t spilled or drunk any of it, it was just that that’s how they serve whiskey in England, also that I wouldn’t dare ‘fool with him.’ He seemed to accept the explanation and when Ian appeared and confirmed that the pathetic measure was the English way he just laughed that laugh and muttered about getting a hip flask.</div>
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I don’t recall all the venues we played over those three weeks or the exact chronology of the ones I do remember but very soon after the start of the tour, a couple of guys would be at almost every gig, no matter how far apart We knew they were there because during our own forty-minute set before Wolf came on they would heckle us by every so often shouting out CHESTER (Wolf's real first name). We eventually met them and took them backstage to meet Wolf and they laid off us a bit in our set after that.</div>
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It was early in the tour that I suggested to Wolf that we [the band] start his set with a fast shuffle, like one of his early Memphis recordings with Willie Johnson on guitar, Willie Steel playing drums, and Ike Turner at the piano. Wolf would stand in the wings whilst over the shuffle I tell the crowd that</div>
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“The Wolf is in Your Town – do you wanna see The Wolf ? are you READY for The Wolf?, REALLY READY?” We tried it and it worked very well, getting the crowd up and shouting in response so that the place really erupted as I finally shouted: “Here comes THE WOLF, the great HOWLIN WOLF”. He then walked on stage, blowing his harp to tremendous noise from the crowd. And then things got hotter.</div>
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One Saturday night early in the tour we played The University College [I think] London, right in the center of the West End. The place was heaving with about a thousand people in the audience, packed into the hall, there was no room to move, sardines. Wolf connected with the atmosphere immediately and took the gig by the scruff of the neck from the moment he boarded the stage. This was the best gig of the tour. He played for nearly two hours, he used every inch of his body to get his songs across, he howled at the moon, he got on all fours, rolled on his back he rolled his eyes, he worked and worked, and the audience knew they’d been worked over. He was the Tail Dragger, but those tracks were never wiped out, anyone there that night would remember that performance for the rest of their lives – or they got a hole in their soul. Wolf was exhausted, and understandably the next couple of gigs were a bit of an anticlimax but for that one show THANK YOU WOLF FOREVER.</div>
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By then the set had expanded and more favorites were appearing. I suppose as we got to know each other and learned to have confidence in what could be achieved, how far we could go out on a limb, and mutual trust that we’d all get back safely and together at the end of the song. Wolf was enjoying our company and we certainly enjoyed his. He dispensed with the tour manager and liked to travel with us in the van – a classic rock and roll van, a six-wheel Ford Transit with two rows of bench seats, a bulkhead divider with the amps and the now laughably small PA system in the back, and very probably a nasty smell. He liked to sit in the front and on the way home after a gig would sit next to Chris the roady who was driving and say, “I’m gonna watch you boy, I’ll keep you awake, you start to nod I’m gonna blow my harp. We’d be dozing in the back and sure enough, loud wailing harp would disturb our slumber – Wolf thought Chris, or Squoit as he’d call him, was getting tired.</div>
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During those hours on the road, we all had various conversations with him, some individual, some open to all. He told us he’d been in the UK during the war, he told us he’d met Charlie Patton. “Man what a voice – he was only as big as my prick but he had a great voice”. He told us that Sonny Boy Williamson was his brother-in-law and had taught Wolf some harp. Also about his club in Chicago, and how he loved Jimmy Reed, but Jimmy would like “too much juice” and sometimes would play Ain’t That Lovin You Baby over and over, until eventually, Wolf would have to threaten not to pay him to get him to move on. He did a very funny impression of Jimmy talking whilst in his cups. We talked about the Civil Rights and Black Power movements and other happenings in the States. He expressed certain opinions but didn’t seem to be particularly interested in politics or he wasn’t prepared to expand his thoughts with us.</div>
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He was getting bored and lonely sitting in his hotel room in central London, ironically named The White House, I lent him my old Harmony Sovereign guitar to play in his room, which he accidentally trod on, he was so apologetic, but it wasn’t my best guitar. I taped it up on the side of the body where it had split. It was still playable and I pointed out to him that forever I would be able to show off this guitar and say ‘This was played and broken by the great Howlin Wolf’ He laughed but I don’t think that he realized that I was serious.</div>
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He said we should come up to the hotel and he’d teach us music theory. He’d paid someone to teach it to him, but he’d teach us for free. We didn’t get to learn much music theory, but he did play Little Red Rooster for us on the as yet intact Harmony.</div>
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Trying to explain that although the song went to the D [if in A] quite quickly the slide part played an A on the 12th fret. We played it a few times but I don’t think we ever managed to totally nail the exact feel of the classic recorded version, and as you can see from my explanation of his lesson, I never did get that theory thing together either.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><u><b>Road Stories</b></u></span></div>
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One lunchtime we stopped at a pub for our usual refreshment and a game of darts. This was the late sixties but there was still some animosity toward longhaired weirdo’s as we were perceived in some quarters. There was a crowd of construction workers in the pub who’d just finished for the week and we're getting a bit cut. A few comments were thrown over in our direction, I don’t know if we were taking too long on the dartboard or was it longhaired weirdo’s with a six feet six Black man in their pub.</div>
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There was some whispering and a couple of them went out to the car park. When we eventually left we found they’d deflated one of our tires – ho ho very funny. One of the guys came out to go to the toilet which was across the car park, he was obviously very drunk and staggering He came over and slurred ‘Sorry about the tire’, then asked who we were and who was the big guy? We told him he was blues singer called Howlin Wolf – his response - ‘What THE HOWLIN WOLF – I’ve met Howlin Wolf?’ , [very drunk & emotional]. He staggered back into the pub and returned with a couple of his mates and a foot pump. He made them pump up our tire whilst he sobbed Howlin Wolf, I’ve met Howlin Wolf, we’ve let down Howlin fucking Wolf’s fucking tires – oh no!</div>
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Most of the audiences were kids about our ages, the early twenties, with the odd older person who would have had the few records of Wolf released in the UK in the late fifties. We played at the Cliffs Ballroom in Bournemouth and that night standing right in front of the stage there was a fellow in his forties, dressed up in the fashion of his youth, a Teddy Boy. In the nineteen fifties the first signs of youthful rebellion in Britain were manifested in The Teddy Boys, so-called because they took their style from the Edwardian era. Long drape jackets with velvet collars, drainpipe trousers, large suede shoes nicknamed brothel creepers, bootlace tie, all topped off with pompadour/Tony Curtis hairdo. In austere post-war Britain, these popinjays caused outrage and uproar in the press, etc and so they duly obliged by ripping up cinema seats during the first screenings of Rock Around The Clock and The Girl Can’t Help It. They were made for Rock & Roll, Rock & Roll was made for them. This chap obviously felt that having Howlin Wolf come to Bournemouth justified getting the old suit out of the closet. He loved the concert and I searched him out after the show as I thought he deserved to come and meet The Wolf, he was knocked out to meet his hero and Wolf chatted to him for some time. Oh, by the way, this Teddy Boy was now a bank manager.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWE8nxqgTtz9gQIEq0Nk4UJxsPJfLz5JWhVKe2tyu9j4tyVtavO5q74WuB5YNZZJHUeZq1gS0jn38g5bDipSCLLLkI052Fs46GOL-CTJhCqsBIYhl4Y4TbxIISf8lW4nR3cMKR7yOk4Fw/s320/151772484_3887907371230016_5478576458221402635_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="320" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIWE8nxqgTtz9gQIEq0Nk4UJxsPJfLz5JWhVKe2tyu9j4tyVtavO5q74WuB5YNZZJHUeZq1gS0jn38g5bDipSCLLLkI052Fs46GOL-CTJhCqsBIYhl4Y4TbxIISf8lW4nR3cMKR7yOk4Fw/w400-h311/151772484_3887907371230016_5478576458221402635_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>On one trip with Wolf in the van with us, we had a couple of shows in the north, the tour manager had long disappeared – well if Wolf wanted to travel in a smelly van why pay a driver and car hire no doubt thought the lovely Mr. T. They also had stopped booking hotels for Wolf apart from the London base. Our roady Chris Sladdin came from near Lincoln in the northeast. He lived in London having come down for college but his parents still lived in a nice semi-detached house on the edge of the town. It made sense to stay in the area and Chris’ parents were away on holiday, so we headed off to their house after the show. Wolf was given the master bedroom whilst we spread ourselves around the house for the night. Wolf’s comment was “ I didn’t know you had a nice house like this – I thought you were a hippy” The next day was Sunday and Chris said we’d go down to the Ferry Boat Inn on the river for Sunday Lunch. So the five long-haired weirdo's and the six-foot-six inches African American headed to the very genteel middle-class pub for Sunday lunch. Wolf was a bit nervous, he was comfortable with us, but then we were musicians. This pub was very middle class and very white. He was soon put at rest, Chris knew the landlord as a Rotary Club pal of his Dad. He told him all about the tour and how famous Wolf was and the landlord marched across the pub, shook Wolf by the hand and said Good Morning Mr. Wolf we’re very proud to ‘ave you in our pub. I ‘ope this lot are looking after you well – would you like a whiskey?</div>
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During the tour, my sister Jo-Ann, I and the band had organized a concert at our regular Sunday afternoon blues session at the Studio 51, Ken Colyer’s Jazz Club. These sessions were started about seven years earlier by another group of young longhaired weirdo's with no regular gig, called The Rolling Stones. Jo-Ann took me down there one Sunday in the early sixties. It cost 3 shillings entrance [15 pence UK or 10 cents US in today’s money] and the Stones played three 45 minute sets between 2.00 and 5.00pm.</div>
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A friend suggested that we [The Dummer Band] resurrect these sessions when we were looking for somewhere to play. After we left they continued well into the seventies with various other outfits.</div>
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However, this particular concert was a benefit to raise money for one of our heroes who were not in the best of health and living in a nursing home in Memphis. The great Memphis Minnie. We had promises from John Mayall, Mick Taylor, Alexis Korner,</div>
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Paul Kossof & Andy Fraser from Free, plus all the usual suspects that they would turn up and play for nothing to raise money for Minnie. We told Wolf about it and he said he’d try to get down. Bob Hall was running a reel to reel, recording the whole afternoon and I remember Jo Ann and I were singing with a collection of massed musicians behind us, when on the tape for no apparent reason the audience erupted. Yes, Wolf had just walked in and made his way to the front of the stage. He got up and played three or four numbers to a spellbound audience before wandering out into the London evening and presumably a cab back to his hotel.</div>
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We raised £150 for Minnie. It doesn’t sound much these days but I know it helped her in back in Memphis. We sent the money to a Memphis Jazz Buff who organized a presentation with some press and a boogie piano player. I have a tape of the event with Minnie managing a slightly strangled sounding ‘Thankya’ The only drag about our event is that the tape of the whole afternoon, including Wolf’s performance, has disappeared.</div>
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There were no shows every night and I guess nights off would hang heavy on Wolf’s shoulders. None of us had houses at the time, I lived in a one-room bedsit with my girlfriend at that time, but I know Bob Hall, who was older than the rest of us, and by then married, invited Wolf to dinner at his home. Toward the end of the tour Wolf was obviously getting homesick, but what better to inspire a blues singer. One night in Leicester he sang the most moving spine-tingling version of ‘Did I Hurt Your Feelings, I Didn’t Mean To Do You No Wrong’. Over the tour he had on occasions told us that we played too loud, but he was generally happy with where and what we played. However on this particular performance he’d gone out into the audience of young students, he had them sit on the floor whilst he on one knee pleaded the song to his wife, who I know he’d phoned earlier in the day. He just waved his hand back at us onstage meaning ‘down’ any lick or fill attempted by any of us was met with that glare. We obeyed, got quieter and quieter, played less and less whilst the master gave a master-class in blues feeling, less is more. I was shaking at the end of that song, I had been privileged to be involved in a magical moment, some girls in the audience had tears in their eyes. (I have now re-reading this) I’ve seen some greats, but I’ve never seen a performance like that before or since. THANK YOU WOLF.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fu3cyWfR4PAPdXmsFXR7MKbJPgkWxza_NKA1XBsKye9xL579BpM3vwy_BaZhtHOibP6WEGf_-0vgXH-fiu2tHxA-BxqAm8f4p4iJ_pobwWFEJKjYuVBpPuROleQReTSxsbhCDW0bBzKO/s1600/1024full-howlin%2527-wolf.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Howlin Wolf (circa 1970s)" border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="1024" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fu3cyWfR4PAPdXmsFXR7MKbJPgkWxza_NKA1XBsKye9xL579BpM3vwy_BaZhtHOibP6WEGf_-0vgXH-fiu2tHxA-BxqAm8f4p4iJ_pobwWFEJKjYuVBpPuROleQReTSxsbhCDW0bBzKO/w400-h333/1024full-howlin%2527-wolf.jpg" title="Howlin Wolf (circa 1970s)" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Howlin Wolf (circa 1970s)</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-align: justify;">
Only two really. One night we played the 10pm slot at The Flamingo Club in Soho London. The Flamingo Club was mainly a soul venue or West Indian Ska/Bluebeat gig, depending on who was booked or who the DJ was for the all-night disco after the live act. We had been booked on a Ska/Bluebeat night so the place was heaving with cool hip young West Indians. Wolf was definitely up for it, this was the first black venue we’d played. Of course, these hip young dudes were there for the disco, they’d never heard of Howlin Wolf and couldn’t care less about the Blues. We came off stage and Wolf laid into us, that we’d played badly and let him down, witness the lack of response from the audience. The one show where he played to what he called ‘my people’ and it had failed. I said Wolf they’re not ‘your people’ they’re West Indians and they don’t know blues music, they’ve come for the Ska later on. Then first time he ever got angry with us, he glared at me, face in my face and said: “ Don’t tell me how to play to coons, I’m a coon myself.” I was shocked at his terminology also a bit scared at having 300lbs of heavenly joy turn into 300lbs of angry Wolf. I left the dressing room and got on with the load out. As I’d expected all was fine the next day and the topic wasn’t raised again.</div>
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Earlier in the tour, we played at The Speakeasy Club in central London. This was where the ‘In Crowd’ hung out, journalists, musicians, faces, aristocrats, liggers, jammers, and poseurs, etc. You had to be ‘someone’ to get in there. The night we played it many musos were in, Lowell Fulson was in town and came and said hi to Wolf. The first set went OK, Lowell got up and played guitar on a couple of numbers, some young black guitar wiz kid got up and started to wail and fill every hole and even some places which weren’t holes with about 100 notes per minute. Fulson turned around and shouted in his ear ”Shut up, it’s his [Wolf’s] song, not yours”. Thankfully the guy was shamed into getting off the stage. We took a break and I don’t know if Wolf had too many whiskeys bought for him by the admiring back slapping punters, but it was obvious something was wrong at the start of the second set. From bad to worse, Wolf decided he was going to play guitar. He turned round to me and beckoned me closer “Gimme your guitar son” I thought it wasn’t a good idea and said something like “Are you sure Wolf ?” He began to lose it so I complied, not wishing to have a row on stage. As I handed it over I said it’s in Open E tuning “You don’t have to tell me what tuning it’s in he growled” and then sat down and proceeded to play standard chords on a guitar in open tuning. This did not make for cool music. I felt for my colleagues up there on stage trying to decide which key to follow in, they did their best, trying to turn his amp down, trying to hold it together in some way but it was a lost cause.</div>
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Ian the tour manager was still on the scene at that time and I saw him sitting up on some higher seats back in the gloom. I jumped up next to him and said “Ian get him off. He’s blowing it” Ian said I think he’s really cool, the music is grooving. I pleaded “Ian it’s not grooving it’s a shambles” then he replied, “Please go away, leave me alone I’m not Ian and I’m tripping”. – Poor guy, maybe that was the best way to hear that particular set, oh and he was quite right – it wasn’t Ian.</div>
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Predictably in the music press, the debacle was reported, - what a shame that these visiting artists are given young inexperienced bands who can’t back them properly and ruin their music, etc. etc. That one hurt. I have since been told that Peter Green was in the audience and was arguing on our behalf with a couple of DJ’s. He’d understood the situation.</div>
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I was playing a show in Edinburgh, Scotland in 2001 and a guy came up to me afterward and said he’d seen me in The Dummer Band in 1969 backing Howlin Wolf at The Free Trade Hall Manchester. Yes, great times I responded. I said what a pleasure and honor it had been to play with him, my only regret was that I had no photos of the tour. I suppose when you’re young you think it goes on forever like this and record-taking photographically doesn’t enter your head. He said he didn’t have any photos, but he wanted to know if I would like a CD of the concert? Gobsmacked! Remember this was 1969 – no mini-disk, even before cassettes. He’d taken his reel to reel into the venue, plugged it into the wall socket, and sat there with his mic held high above his head. Thankfully stewards in those days were not aware of copyright, bootlegs, etc. and he got the whole set with Wolf. He’s cleaned the recording up a bit and the large hall has a large reverb, but you can still hear most of what you want to hear.</div>
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Hearing that music again brought it all flooding back. This concert was near the end of the tour, but we still never knew what Wolf was going to play next. He often started a number and we’d fall in at appropriate times. He starts the concert playing the riff on his harp to Somebody Walking In My Home, the band come in then Wolf sings Smokestack Lightnin over the other riff – it’s great. Then onto Dust My Broom. When I first heard the CD I was surprised how straight I played the slide riff, and the music took me back thirty-two years (now 50) to the second night of the tour, and Wolf saying to me, “When we play Dust My Broom you just play that Elmore piece, don’ play nuttin’ else, jus’ that riff” OK Wolf –lesson one, less is more.</div>
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We played an eight-bar in the vein of ‘It Hurts Me Too’ and it wasn’t totally apparent what the sequence was from the harp intro, so for a while, I’m following Wolf with the slide whilst the other guy's soldier on with a twelve-bar, but it soon gets together. I listened to this CD in awe and not without some pride as Wolf gives me more and more solo choruses shouting encouragement “ Play it son” “Get the feeling” etc.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">We played Spoonful……..…….</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuskW_En8HzsuNJsNy8QxkSXmChGhaf8m3aA15wF0C-ipoVt4ujlXVR94wPLM1fWfFh2fW57XmCujqfORAlattkSoxgf84iP7lTSLXaaZRz-Jux52axFumvPFzFsdyGMCgp0wQkKHUhaHL/s1600/60436126_3039104316130046_3363880603123449856_o.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Freddy King (circa 1970s)" border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="633" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuskW_En8HzsuNJsNy8QxkSXmChGhaf8m3aA15wF0C-ipoVt4ujlXVR94wPLM1fWfFh2fW57XmCujqfORAlattkSoxgf84iP7lTSLXaaZRz-Jux52axFumvPFzFsdyGMCgp0wQkKHUhaHL/w316-h400/60436126_3039104316130046_3363880603123449856_o.jpg" title="Freddy King (circa 1970s)" width="316" /></a></div>
Freddy King had been brought over by the same agency and had been backed by some friends of ours called <i>Killing Floor</i>, who numbered Rod De‘Ath on drums and Lou Martin on piano, later to join Rory Gallagher. The backstage banter and rivalry between Freddy and Wolf was entertaining. I got the impression that Freddy had at some time been in Wolf’s band. I don’t think he ever recorded with Wolf and I may have misunderstood, however it was agreed that Freddy would come out and play with us behind Wolf on the final encore of the night. Wolf counted in a slow blues, Freddy started with the most beautiful, tasteful, emotional intro, Wolf shouts to him “Get it again”, so Freddy starts another sequence, about eight bars in Wolf starts a fresh sequence on the harp, Freddy immediately drops in at the top of the sequence, the performance is good, Wolf and Freddy in friendly but apparent rivalry. The music continues and just getting geared up for a searing heart-wrenching solo from Freddy when the song fades. I rang the guy and asked if he’d send me the rest of the music – he couldn’t. His machine had run out of tape halfway through the finale. Oh well.</div>
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After the show both artists and bands went for a meal, Freddy proclaimed that he’d buy the drinks if Wolf paid for the food, Freddy thought this arrangement was very amusing, Wolf later told me that he’d was aware that he’d been taken a bit but he went along with the arrangement as he had more money than Freddy anyway. Later, sitting down next to him, he made the comment, “anyway I’m better looking than him, what kind of figure is that for a man? Look he’s got tits, man he should wear a brassiere.” This comment finished with him leaning over grabbing my knee whilst shaking with laughter which would start somewhere in his stomach and then build up through his whole body till he and anyone in the vicinity was also swept up in the joke.</div>
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What was truly gratifying about hearing us actually playing with Wolf all those years ago, particularly in light of The Speakeasy disaster, is how very good we were at backing him. I can’t think of anyone who could have done a better job, under the circumstances.</div>
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Soon after receiving the CD I heard from another fan that he had photos of that tour and have now received some visual documentation – God we were young!</div>
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Then I was sent a video containing Wolf with the sublime Hubert Sumlin on lead guitar playing on the American Festival of the Blues in Germany 1964. Wolf steals the show. His ability to dig deep into his soul and tap into that vein of emotion and then produce it out through his voice, no, through his whole being is a wonderful, beautiful talent</div>
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Wolf was a gentle giant, but not to be messed with, he took a paternal interest in his young backing group, ‘don’t smoke that shit – it’ll kill ya’. He was in some ways naive but also a sophisticated man, complex, a bit like the rest of us I guess. I am extremely proud and grateful to have been associated with such a master.</div>
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Finally, I had a tax inspection recently. The inspector who looked to be in his early sixties came to my house peered through my accounts, asked the usual questions, then lightened up a bit. “What sort of music do you play then ?” When I replied ‘blues’ he said “What like Howlin Wolf ?” The inspection went very well.</div>
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</div>DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988219731824210030.post-57678308120429403782020-05-15T02:24:00.002-05:002020-05-15T15:58:09.752-05:00The Most Amazing Interview About Blues Memorials You Never Read<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiilMdQfn1XO49MJxz-BBI2yUaN_yfOBnAX4TKC3YsgOVbotwi4CIL54jPMuB8L5DKKxvK2I7aCkV1zezcodQiXFQMCHLSutpgXw-wHo0UldkAAD04bNXyDDnqkJ62LXMHapg5uTdjyFx1/s1600/70766342_2383088365079745_2602497096133115904_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="1228" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiilMdQfn1XO49MJxz-BBI2yUaN_yfOBnAX4TKC3YsgOVbotwi4CIL54jPMuB8L5DKKxvK2I7aCkV1zezcodQiXFQMCHLSutpgXw-wHo0UldkAAD04bNXyDDnqkJ62LXMHapg5uTdjyFx1/s640/70766342_2383088365079745_2602497096133115904_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Anne Rochell, “Marking the Blues,” <i>SCLC: The Southern Christian Leadership Conference National Magazine</i> 27:3 (1998): 90-95.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uc2hMlf6sDTC8pWlhJ1zhMbD_1NEOcmtvP8NRftKRDnZmes2AmkPoaf7P6SqAzKQ6dlM2KJjTb7hZf35RIAyHmGVLPN8l_-0Ce02sGNpTf4CZGDpWuVGWv-01iSBNfqGA3uNfVYWQwjE/s1600/rosettapatton.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uc2hMlf6sDTC8pWlhJ1zhMbD_1NEOcmtvP8NRftKRDnZmes2AmkPoaf7P6SqAzKQ6dlM2KJjTb7hZf35RIAyHmGVLPN8l_-0Ce02sGNpTf4CZGDpWuVGWv-01iSBNfqGA3uNfVYWQwjE/s400/rosettapatton.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Rosetta Patton Brown holding a <br />picture of her father, Charley Patton</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Duncan, Miss. — Rosetta Patton Brown wasn't there when they buried her father, Charley Patton, the first great Delta blues man, in an unmarked grave at the edge of a plantation in Holly Ridge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“We got lost,” she recalled, still surprised 64 years later. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was 1934, and Brown was a teenager when her father died after a gig one night—from a heart condition—at age 43. Her mother and stepfather were driving her to the funeral when they lost their way. By the time they made it to the cemetery, the body was covered up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I cried so hard," says Brown, now 80 and a widow living among her children and grandchildren in Duncan, a Mississippi Delta town not far from Holly Ridge. She spits a wad of chew into a basket next to her fuzzy-slippered feet. "I wanted to see the body."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Brown didn't miss the second service honoring her father. It was in 1991, when a new headstone was placed at his grave in the corner of the old cemetery, between railroad tracks and a cotton gin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Rock star John Fogerty didn't miss it either. Nor did Delta blues legend Pops Staples. There were cameras and speeches, and a new fancy headstone decorated with a black-and-white photograph of a young Charley Patton. The carved epitaph reads, "The Voice of the Delta: The foremost performer of early Mississippi blues whose songs became the cornerstones of American music." The stone stands out like a Cadillac in a junkyard; the graves around it are marked with names carved crudely into concrete slabs or wooden crosses, and many of them have fallen over or sunk into the soft, black soil. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Also at the ceremony was the blues fan who made the new marker possible: Skip Henderson, a former social worker and music store owner from New Jersey who founded the Mount Zion Memorial Fund in 1991 to honor deceased blues musicians from the Mississippi Delta.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"It was just going to be Robert Johnson, but there were so many of these blues legends with no headstones," Henderson recalls, explaining how the project got started. He named the fund for the little church in Morgan City where, a few months before the Patton service, he placed the first memorial, which was to Johnson, the blues singer who inspired the Rolling Stones and other rock greats and who claimed he sold his soul to the devil to get his guitar-playing gift. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Mount Zion Fund has erected eight markers and unveiled the ninth March 14 in Hollandale, for Sam Chatmon. Henderson has at least four others in mind.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Raymond "Skip" Henderson at his New Orleans home in 2008</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"It's a well-intentioned project," says Howard Stovall, executive director of the Blues Foundation in Memphis. "It has focused attention on the fact that even though these musicians are well-known, and their music is still popular, their fame is not reflected in their final resting place."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Cultural tourism is catching on in the Delta, and the memorials have quickly become a piece of the blues history travelers seek out when they come to this flat, fertile region in northwest Mississippi. The grave markers take their place alongside the blues museum in Clarksdale, the juke joints where modern blues musicians play on weekends and the land itself, the cotton and soybean fields where slaves and, later, sharecroppers, labored and sang the earliest blues.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"They come by the busloads," says Marvin Kimber, who works at the cotton gin towering over Patton's memorial. "They come from Texas, Chicago, Canada, all over the world. Sometimes they leave things at his grave, even cash."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; text-align: justify;">The fund has also tried to help the churches where the graves are. Henderson first got the idea for the project during his own blues pilgrim-age to the Delta in the late 1980s. He was visiting Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church, where Robert Johnson was buried in an unmarked grave, when he found out the congregation was in financial trouble. He wondered whether Columbia Records—which was about to release a lucrative boxed set of Johnson's work—might pitch in for a memorial.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He was right. Columbia donated more than $15,000 to pay for the memorial and erase the church's debts, and it has continued to fund Henderson's work. On one side of Johnson's obelisk is a tribute to the record company: "Music preserved for the ages by the Columbia Recording Co."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I was really surprised when the money started coming in," says the Rev. James Ratliff, Mount Zion's pastor. "We had enough to pay off the note, put central air in the church and buy new pews."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Rev. James Ratliff, Lucinda Cusic, Eddie Cusic, and Raymond "Skip" Henderson</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">at the dedication of Sam Chatmon's grave marker in 1998.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The fund has also raised money for widows and children of blues legends, most of whom have never seen a dime in royalties for their loved one's work. The fund sends Rosetta Patton Brown a little money now and again—$200 or so is the most she's received at one time, she says—and Henderson tries to keep an eye on her, making sure she can afford to keep the lights on in her small house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Just honoring dead blues musicians would have no resonance at all," Henderson says. "The whole thrust is to preserve these churches and cemeteries, to try to get royalties to the musicians' heirs and to funnel money from the big stars who owe a debt to the blues."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For Henderson, 46, the project has combined two passions—music and social work. He was burned out on both when he came up with the idea. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After working for a Head Start project and then as a juvenile police officer in Elizabeth, N.J., Henderson quit in 1985, having had his fill of seeing child abuse and "cruelty," he says.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He opened a music business in 1985, selling parts for antique guitars. He was successful in this niche business—he bought and restored a Victorian house and he and his wife had four children but it felt hollow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I had done the whole White liberal thing, and then yuppie thing—all the clichés were in place," Henderson says. The battle in him between the hippie and the yuppie seems to manifest itself in his attire: a rumpled Oxford shirt, a beret, a jeans jacket and a Rolex watch that touches one of the tattoos that run up both his arms. But both his past lives proved valuable when he took a trip to the Delta in the late 1980s and went home determined to do something about what he'd seen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I had been intimately familiar with urban poverty, but this was dirt floors and no running water," he says. "I was dumbfounded. Nothing had changed—it was the same as what was depicted in the blues songs. The social worker in me kicked in, and I wanted to figure out a way to get some money to the Delta."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He's used his connections in the music world to secure donations from stars such as Fogerty and Bonnie Raitt, who have each financed markers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"He's gotten people in the music business to step up and say, 'Hey, we owe it to these guys,"' Stovall says.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The lure to attract donors is the blues, but, oddly, the people Henderson wants to help don't have much interest in the music. Their needs are more basic: They need to keep their churches alive, and they need clothes, money, food.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ratliff hadn't even heard of Robert Johnson when Henderson first approached him. What he saw in Henderson was not the blues fan but the humanitarian.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Skip is different from any person I've met," he says. "He's a real sweetheart, helping people regardless of what color they are. He's helped people here with clothes and money—and if it hadn't been for the memorial fund he set up for us, we'd still be paying our debts."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Brown remembers her father coming to visit her after her parents' divorce and bringing his guitar and singing to her. But she's not exactly an avid blues fan.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I have some of his tapes," she says. "I like that song 'Pony Blues.'"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But she, like many older Black Mississippians, remembers when the blues were considered the devil's music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"My mama was a Christian woman, and she didn't sing the blues," she says. "But she couldn't stop my father. His own mother couldn't stop him."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ratliff will listen to the blues if it comes on the radio, and he even went with Henderson to visit blues singer James "Son" Thomas before he died in 1993. "I figure if you're saved and you listen to the blues, it's not going to unsave you," he says.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Although there have been scattered efforts in other states to place memorials at the unmarked graves of blues musicians, there isn't another ongoing project such as this. In 1970, Janis Joplin helped finance a marker for Chattanooga-born blues great Bessie Smith in Philadelphia. And in Georgia, documentary filmmaker David Fulmer recently used part of the proceeds from a film he made about Blind Willie McTell to finance a new marker for his grave in Thomson.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mississippi simply has more blues singers buried in unmarked graves, blues experts agree. And then there is Henderson's passion to keep the project going. His obsession with the Delta, he says, cost him his marriage and led him to sell his music store in 1995 and move to Mississippi.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But Henderson, ever restless, moved to New Orleans in November and now teaches kindergarten. He continues to run the Mount Zion Fund, sending money when he can to the churches and to the musicians' survivors, seeking out graves to mark and looking for record companies and musicians to support his project. ❖</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>For a complete list of the markers erected and maintained by the Mt. Zion Memorial Fund, please click <a href="https://www.mtzionmemorialfund.org/p/musician-memorials.html">HERE</a></b></span></div>
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DeWayne Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01574940202434906856noreply@blogger.com1