Mississippi Voodoo

Hwy. 61 must be the flatest highway that I have ever seen, and I could help but imagine the painted, paved road striped away to the bare highway of the depression. The pavement seemed the only thing anchoring the Mississippi delta to the present day. Each ram shackled house proved futher out location deeper and deeper into the dirty south that I had, at one time thought was only a stereotype. 48 miles to Clarksdale a sign proclaimed. That town's name was so infamous in my ears. Just like the Robert Plant and Jimmy Page record I would be "walking through Clarksdale". And there was no way that we were not going to "go down the the crossroad and get down on our knees". To be in Clarksdale was to fullfill dreams. But for now the glistening highway just cut across green feilds of endless farmland. I gazed at the lanscape and tried to imagine it in days gone by. I blinked and saw a Robert Johnson form walking down the dust beaten road and I blinked again and I was in Clarksdale. I felt a little scared. The rundown state of the town did not inspire confidence. I had never been in a place like this. Every window had bars on it, even the houses. Despite this I felt crime must be low because most of the stores had nothing to steal, dark and empty and cold. But the people were all but cold. What the south lacks in rich high to-doness it make up for in funky "soul men" as they call themselves. Their bomastic attitude and humor filled talkivness fills every crack in the town to bursting. The plantif moans of the bluesmean along the street shout a musical day long gone. The sound of a harmonica perks my ears as I walk towards the Cat Head infamous for its southern folk art and rare promotion of delta blues. The Cat Head is filled with echoes, in the art, in the music they sell, and the books about legends that only live on old crackling 78's. Model T Ford is playing an old Muddy Waters tune and it echoes down the street. Never in my life had I heard so many people utter names such as Howlin' Wolf and Son House other than myself in the constant convincing confidence hoping my friends would grab a passion for their music such as mine. Walking down Delta Ave. I can see the Ground Zero Cafe. Too many white middle class people come to these events. To study to "appreciate". I even count myself one of those. The blues was not made for middle class white America but just like the record company "the broke and hungry". Maybe hungry for some relief some assurance that they are not alone in this world. I wrote my name on the wall of the Ground Zero Blues Club. Morgan Freeman knew something of value... the Ground Zero is the spirit of the whole town. The walls are signed by everyone, inside and out. Gives it its own unique ambiance. The menu is only two entrees and you dine on folding chairs but its packed with the strangest assortment of everyone and anyone you can think of. A old black man pulls us aside and holds up a pair of dice. "What number is it?" I look again. "Eight," I say. He asks me again and just as I am about to say the same number the dice snap in his fingers and show double ones. "That was rad!" I say in my slang hippie a very strange word to here in such a southern place. He turns unphased back to his cup of still standing beer. I thought I saw Robert Plant, or should I say, I wished with all my heart that it was him, untill he spoke in a southern accent. Let me tell you that was the only disappointment of the trip!