Souls intact, searching for the blues

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Souls intact, searching for the blues
April 3, 2011
Sarah Carlson
Times Daily

So many strangers said hello to me in Clarksdale, Miss., two weeks ago, I was sure I must have a doppelganger there.

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But I don't — I think. The strangers were just ready to not be strangers at all, welcoming my friend and me to their city with warm smiles, great food and accents straight out of a Tennessee Williams play.

Williams actually spent part of his childhood in Clarksdale, situated in the Delta and home to the famous crossroads at an intersection of U.S. Highways 49 and 61. There, bluesman Robert Johnson is said to have sold his soul to the Devil. We settled for sandwiches at Abe's Bar-B-Q nearby.

The songs of Johnson, T-Model Ford and Mississippi John Hurt narrated our way to and around Clarksdale, about four hours west of here past cotton fields, crumbling houses and trees somehow bent and stretching at 30-degree angles. We needed to get away for a weekend, and the beauty of the South is that you don't have to look far to find an adventure and a few good stories.

“In the South, we don't care what you do as long as you tell us about it,” said Pal, the manager of the Big Pink Guesthouse, an old ice cream factory converted into a townhouse. He also directed us to Ramon's, where we were served some of the best fried shrimp each of us has ever tasted.

You have to listen to the locals when traveling; they won't steer you wrong.

Clarksdale doesn't seem to move so much as it moseys. The city's pace is relaxed, as if the blues music it is famous for has seeped into every crack of the downtown's old sidewalks. This Saturday was especially quiet as many residents and outsiders attended the funeral for Big Jack Johnson, considered one of the last great Delta bluesmen. B.B. King came into town, as did Morgan Freeman, co-owner of Ground Zero Blues club.

While pleasant, Ground Zero is the blues homogenized; too many tourists, not enough originality. After a visit there, and with the help of a new friend, Abraham, we headed across the tracks to a real juke joint, Red's. Pal also had recommended Red Paden's establishment, and the small building was packed with musicians taking turns honoring Big Jack.

Big George Brock, a harmonica player from St. Louis, was there, and so was saxophone player Dick Lourie, aka “The Poet.” Many people danced, including another new friend, Pamela, and we couldn't resist moving to the music. It started in our hips and moved its way upward to our shoulders and necks.

But most of all, it found its way into our souls.