Just when I start thinking what a nasty place the world is these days, I meet people who are unbelievably nice, and go out of their way to be helpful. It renews my faith in human nature, though I suspect that you have to leave the city to find these people in the majority. This road trip, to visit the graves of some legendary blues artists in Mississippi, was more of a challenge than I had anticipated, and was only accomplished because of the numerous people that I flagged down in the road, or on whose door I knocked unexpectedly, or whom I disturbed whilst gardening, or interrupted at work. Thank you to all of them.
One of the best views of Dallas is in the rear-view mirror, especially when a weekend of rain is forecast. Starting early Saturday morning, I headed out of Dallas for Memphis, Tennessee. I’d already determined an itinerary, from www.deadbluesguys.com that would take me from Memphis down to Jackson visiting the graves of Memphis Minnie, Mississippi Fred McDowell, Sonny Boy Williamson, Robert Johnson and Mississippi John Hurt. The journey is long (around 7 hours) but easy – Interstate 30 (I-30) to Texarkana, the across Arkansas and onto I-40 to Memphis, Tennessee. I passed an interested billboard on the way that I have no further comment on!
Arriving in Memphis in late afternoon, I checked into the downtown Marriott. The concierge told me that the Temptations were performing at the nearby “Memphis in May” festival, so I went along. Feeling hungry, I tried the “Jamaican-style Polish sausage” (I’m nothing if not adventurous!) – cholesterol in a bun, but it was better than some of the other options. I left before the Temptations came on, because I didn’t feel like sitting through the classical music concert that preceded them. No matter what they think, people don’t come to Memphis for classical music! Besides, Beale Street was beckoning.
In case you didn’t know (perhaps from Marc Cohn’s song: “I’m walking in Memphis, walking with my feet 10 feet off of Beale”), Beale Street is the hub of the blues scene. It used to be a pretty seedy area, but it’s been cleaned up now, and is mostly a tourist venue. For all that, it’s a very exciting atmosphere. The street is blocked off to traffic, crowded, selling 32oz beers and frozen drinks from numerous stalls, and with live blues coming from every restaurant and alleyway. People are dancing in the street, and happy – even though some of that is due to the alcohol, no-one is “nasty drunk”, or even badly drunk. Just happy, and the ambience is electric.
I have to confess to waking up the following day with a slightly sore head, but the experience was worth it. After breakfast of blueberry pancakes, I’m off on my blues trail.
Memphis Minnie
Memphis Minnie is buried in New Hope cemetery, in Walls, Mississippi (MS). I knew only the name of the church, and had no idea where to look when I got there. Walls covers about 60 square miles, but, as luck would have it, I saw two guys outside the Walls Fire Station, and pulled in to ask them. They had never heard of Memphis Minnie, and didn’t know where the church was, but that didn’t deter them. I had a photograph of the headstone, and they instantly recognized it as being local (“That’s delta (Mississippi delta, that is) grass, and that looks like the bluff in the background.”) They took me into the fire-house, and started looking on the internet. When that proved fruitless, they called their dispatcher, who eventually came up with an address. They not only told me how to get there, but pulled up aerial photos of the vicinity so that I’d get a better idea where I was going. This was helpful, because New Hope M.B.C. (Missionary Baptist Church) is in the middle of nowhere, as would be so many of the churches I would be visiting.
The Mississippi countryside I was surrounded by was largely agricultural, with corn and wheat standing tall out of the rich yellowish-red soil. One down, four to go.
Fred McDowell
All I knew about Mississippi Fred McDowell’s grave was that it was located in the Hammond Hill M.B.C. cemetery, “between Como and Senatobia”. I was lucky once again in spotting an almost hidden sign to the church as I flashed past a side road. I stopped and backed up (the roads were mostly empty throughout the day). Following the sign led me eventually to the church, where a service was in progress. The cemetery was small, and I had no difficulty locating the grave, where he is buried with his wife, Esta Mae, who died 8 years later. I am amazed that these blues legends have small, mostly unrecognized graves. In some ways it’s sad that they don’t get the recognition they deserve; but, in other ways, they are truly resting in peace.
Sonny Boy Williamson
Heading 60 miles further south, I arrived in Tutwiler – one of the most derelict towns I have ever seen. Even “City Hall” was boarded up. I was almost embarrassed to take photographs, in case someone saw me. But there was no-one on the streets. I went into the gas station to ask how to get to Whitfield M.B.C. The girls behind the counter didn’t know, but a black cop lounging in the corner, no doubt taking advantage of the air-conditioning, offered to show me. One of the girls wanted to go with him, and so I followed his cruiser down a tortuous route into the now familiar “middle of nowhere”. When we reached the cemetery, they both got out of the car. He waved his hand in the general direction of the cemetery. “I’ve been past here hunnerds of times, but I ain’t never stopped to look. I know he’s in there somewhere.” Once again, I knew what the headstone looked like, and was able to point it out, much to their surprise, almost instantly. Both of Sonny Boy Williamson’s sisters are also buried in the same cemetery.
Robert Johnson
Robert Johnson is reputedly buried in Greenwood, MS. When I got there, the town was huge. I thought I’d have to find a police station to ask for directions, but then it occurred to me that the best place to ask for directions to a church is … another church! So I stopped at the North Greenwood Baptist Church, where the musicians were just breaking down their equipment after a service. They directed me to Little Zion M.B.C. without hesitation. This church had a sign outside proclaiming Robert Johnson’s gravesite, and also primitive provision for donations towards its upkeep. Only one more to go!
Mississippi John Hurt
If this had been the first on my list, I think I may well have given up on the rest. This was undoubtedly the most difficult to find. As I entered Avalon, there was another sign stating that the town was the birthplace, and final resting place, of John Hurt. But no directions. Fortunately, a beaten-up old Buick was struggling up the road, and I flagged it down. The old black gentleman inside switched off his engine as I started to ask where the cemetery was. “Follow this road until it turns to gravel, make a left up the dirt-track and it’ll take you right there.” An hour later, after driving up and down single-track dirt and gravel roads, asking for directions from two different people in their gardens, and also at Sherry’s Grocery Store, I was on the point of quitting. As a last ditch attempt, I went up to someone’s house and knocked on the door. The woman who answered looked a little apprehensive at first, but soon relaxed once she could see I was no threat, and gave me directions. I was, in fact, very close, but just needed to look out very carefully, “’cos if you ain’t looking, you’ll miss it.” And as a parting shot, “Oh, and look out for snakes this time of year.” The grave is tucked away in the woods, amid a small collection of a couple of dozen others, and almost completely hidden from the road by undergrowth.
Mississippi is more lush than Texas. You rarely get a good view over large areas of countryside, even though it’s quite flat in some places. The roads are usually flanked by corn (7 or 8 feet high at this time of year), or wheat, or trees draped with lianas that give it an almost tropical feel. There is undoubtedly poverty, but not as much as I had expected. The living accommodations are mostly trailer homes, but are interspersed with brick-built ranch-style houses. The trademark magnolia trees are everywhere, and irrigation is good enough to support a significant rice crop – another big surprise. The radio stations split fairly evenly between blues, country and Christian, and it’s the only place I’ve ever heard Hamburger Helper advertised.
