Friday, May 13, 2022

Restoration of a Bluesman's Legacy in California

Donell Delta Bailey and Gabriel Soria 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.

To read more about the memorialization of Rubin Lacy in Mississippi and California, please see the previous MZMF article, Reconciling the Blues King: Rubin Lacy and the Importance of Inclusive Memorialization Processes (February 21, 2020)


Restoration of a Bluesman's Marker in California

Donell Delta Bailey and Gabriel Soria 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.

Sunday, October 17, 2021

What Happened on Highway 61? - Part 5: Memphis, City of Kings and Conquerors

A Blog by A Tyke Dahnsarf
To read Part 4 of this blog series, please go HERE

"Well that's alright mama, that's alright for you
That's alright mama, just anyway yo' do
And, that's alright."

Arthur "Big Boy" Cruddup, 1946

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

For more photos, please click HERE

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

I hope that my heart rests in the right place, for my love affair with the Southland has yet to end.

Thursday, September 30, 2021

What happened on Highway 61? - Part 4: White Castles and the Camino to Liberty.

By A Tyke Dahnsarf
To read Part 2 of this blog series, please go HERE

"Ah woe, fare ya well, never see ya no mo'
Why don't ya hear me cryin'
Ah woe, smokestack lightnin'
Shinin', just like gold."

 - Chester "Howlin' Wolf" Burnett, 1956

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

Next, we're off to Memphis, the real crossroads where souls were bought (and sold.) TO BE CONTINUED...

* 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!  A total of approximately 27.5 million dollars paid by the British tax payer, the final claim by their descendant finalized in 2015.

** 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.