Mississippi’s a strange place. Now, you might ask “what other obscured truths will you reveal, o swami? Summer hot? Sky blue? Hobo like ham sandwich?” Okay, our minister of the obvious here at Backroads has taken good care of you thus far, so extend him a line of credit on this one. He’ll pay you back.
Anyway, Mississippi’s a state that has undergone transformation unlike any other. I remember reading an article in the Onion a few years back entitled “Man Causes and Enjoys Blues.” Mississippi’s like that. For over a century the state fostered a political system and culture that kept its black citizens violently oppressed and in inferior status to whites in every way. Although I don’t subscribe to the explanation that blues music developed because of poverty, etc. these things did coexist in abundance in the time that was the late nineteenth century to the present, and in the place that is Mississippi.
The state has completed an official about face in recent years. They’ve formed something called the Mississippi Blues Commission. It’s overseeing, no pun intended, the placement of a series of blues historical markers on the state’s highways. The state’s promoting the heck out of blues as a tourism draw, and it seems to be working.
Not sure that the indiscriminant economic exploitation of blacks in the state has really ceased. For example, a photo of a guitarist posted on a Mississippi Delta tourism website carries the caption “Live blues is performed throughout the region[.]” No mention of the actual person in the shot, whose name, by the way, is Mickey Rodgers.
Getting back to the blues music tourism thing, the Mecca of Mississippi blues tourism is Clarksdale, with the Delta Blues Museum, Sunflower River Blues Festival, and the town’s claim as the birthplace or stomping grounds of Muddy Waters, Son House, W.C. Handy, Sam Cooke, Ike Turner, and tons of others. Clarksdale receives tens of thousands of visitors each year who want to connect with the roots of this music in one way or another. Tourists flock to the wonderful museum and catch some of the festival (which showcases more local musicians regardless of their name recognition than any event of its kind), as well as hearing live music in actor Morgan Freeman’s pseudo juke joint Ground Zero.
But there’s more to Clarksdale than that. For every manufactured destination, there’s a place like Red’s, a little juke joint downtown that’s been there since the 1970s. The building dates back even farther, and from the outside, would look equally in place here or in Beirut. You’ll see tourists from all over partying alongside locals at Red’s. The place has live music almost every weekend, ranging from James “Super Chikan” Johnson, to Robert “Wolfman” Belfour, Wesley “Junebug” Jefferson, “Big” Jack Johnson (don’t expect mellow surf music), Terry “Big T” Williams and Louis “Gearshifter” Youngblood. Apparently no one escapes nickname free.
The interior is as gutbucket as they come. You can, however, buy a t-shirt to help defray the cost of roof repairs. The t-shirts look like they’ve been there awhile. The walls are decorated with photos of Red and various musicians, as well as local yokels. You might catch them grilling outside the joint in one of those oil drums.
We caught Red’s on the night of Junebug’s birthday party. Super Chikan busted out one of his handcrafted guitars and tore the place up with it. Like plenty of other southern bluesmen, he’s honed two repertoires, one for black audiences (“Camel Toe,” for instance) and one for whites (“Stormy Monday”). He went with the latter choice on this night.
Red’s isn’t the only joint in Clarksdale, though it seemed to be the only one open on our visit. Check out Club 2000, Sarah’s Kitchen, or Messenger’s poolroom.