I think it was B.B. Kings 16 Greatest Hits...a cassette. It was my Daddy's. I appropriated it...and the family tape recorder and played it everywhere I went...which, at this point in my life, was limited to the front and back yard.
This is the song that did it to me...I wrecked that part of the tape. Play, Rewind, Play, Rewind, Play...until I had every hiss memorized. Which was good cause I'd shredded it by then.
King was my Daddy's favorite and I remember one night as a small child being baby-sat so him and my Momma could go see him. It seemed like magic to me...that they could go and see a person from the records. I tried to imagine what it would be like.
Two years ago we were able to take The Boy to see him. It was a rough night on a four year old but, he made it long enough to hear King sing You Are My Sunshine...and that was long enough. It was priceless watching his face.
Keep an eye on your computer for this one...the first few minutes might melt your screen.
As a rule, I am loath to join in with moments of mandatory mourning but, King's music was an integral part of my childhood. As a corporate loss it's crushing, even if not shocking...you can't replace Southerners like this.
Just to reiterate the ultimate point of my last post...
"Y'all sent me on this terrible bachelorette party and all I got was a snakebite."
I rest my case...you want surnames?
We know one of these fellas...in fact, the Boy has spent the night at the family's house.
DISCLAIMER: as I know it will be of great interest to many of our readers, not only were no snakes harmed during the filming but they're probably saving many non-poisonous snakes from being killed in the drive way. They deal directly, and question, the normal reaction that any sane person would have to seeing a snake...which is to kill it without a second thought...and suggest that it's an irrational response.
Sorry I'm just gonna confess here...I will kill them if I see them. I guess I'm a horrible person but I have been chased, have looked into the beady abyss and seen what a snake bite does to a human leg. The only way I'll grab a snake is with a shotgun.
I love the rowdiness and the decay that can be found from one end of Dixie to the other. It's not only beautiful but it makes an important statement about the impermanence of material and the foolishness of putting any faith in it. There is another side though.
There is a grandeur to The South that I am often guilty of ignoring here. There is the beauty of the dogwoods and azaleas, the magnolias and loblollies...and the live oaks. The unassailable taste and quaint manners...the old money beauty of it.
Nowhere is this side more gorgeously realized than during the Master's Tournament at Augusta National in Georgia.
Martha is, at this very moment, balling as Justin Spieth, this year's winner, hugs his Momma.
It is a cathedral...glorifying the natural beauty of The South and it is a celebration of it's gentile mores. Five dollars will still get you a pimento cheese sandwich...yelling "YOU DA MAN" or "IN DA HOLE" will still you get you an escort off the grounds. Mind you're manners...this is Georgia not the U.S. Open. This morning, Nick Faldo...that's Sir Nick Faldo to you, said that, off the course, it's the greatest sporting event in the world. "On the course," it's the greatest "by a mile."
There's a Thursday afternoon every year in the Spring when I have to fight back the tears. It's not just the overwhelming Southern Beauty of the place, though that does crush, but the memories I have with my Daddy and now with my son...being crouched around the TV (this hasn't changed despite the size of the TV and crispness of the picture) anxiously watching a putt hug the meticulous contours of a green, past the pink azaleas...through the shadow of a dogwood in bloom...watching, covering our faces, peaking....
EDIT...The Boy climbed up in my lap this morning while waiting for his momma to finish getting dressed. He wanted to see the Snakegrabber videos...he's pretty pumped about Mr. Brent...then he wanted see the video of Augusta. He said something about playin there....I would walk buck naked from here to Augusta if it meant getting to play just one hole. I asked him so..."you gonna play there one day."
He turned his head and looked at me, with the most serious expression he could muster..."I am going to win a green jacket." At this point I have no reason to doubt him.
The intersection of Highways 49 and 61, in Clarksdale, is where Robert Johnson is supposed to have sold his soul to Scratch.* Seems a little excessive really. He was good but them roads are littered with blue, and red, signs honoring people that were good...and who didn't get poisoned with lighter fluid or whatever.
Indianola
The obvious choice for Indianola is B.B. King...born and reared there, playing on Church St. He's not the only King born in Indianola though...
Actually BB is the only King from Indianola...Albert was a Nelson. So, from Indianola Mississippi seeds....one of my favorite snippets of recorded sound...ever.
Six miles down the road in Inverness...you know what happens next.
R.C. Cola...Inverness
Another 10 miles and you're in Isola.
Isola
We got red signs too...Isola is the hometown of Hank Cochran. He played under his own name eventually but what he really did was write songs...songs that have been recorded by everybody from Elvis Costello to Elvis Presley....Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard and...this one.
This is exactly the kinda pop song that made my Grandmother despise Patsy Cline...sell out. It's a pretty good way to sell out though.
Then you come to Belzoni...
The opposite side of town from where he was actually born?
Pinetop played the piano instead of the guitar...cause a girl in Arkansas cut his arm up.
Him and Robert Nighthawk.
BB King has a special place with me. He was a constant around our house because my Daddy loves him...and Albert...who don't like Little Milton? But that urban soul blues is not favorite...Nighthawk is closer to the mark. Elmore James, born in Holmes county**, but a regular on the streets of Belzoni...is as good a turn at country-Delta type Blues as they'll ever be.
BALLS!
After that you pass by Louise and Midnight...eventually coming to Yazoo City (used to be Manchester)...the end of The Delta. There's a few musicians but, we gon' hear from Jerry Clower. Y'all may not know him...but, he is a true Southern treasure and one of the funniest men to ever live.
"Sir what's wrong with you...NOT A THING IN THE WORLD."
Vicksburg and the grim Louisiana Delta today.
*There is, of course, controversy about this...some of the old players put the crossroad north of Clarksdale in Rosedale...I think.
**Holmes county could mean Lexington, Pickens...godforsaken Tchula...who knows.
