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William M. Alexander
Six Steel Strings |
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After driving along the Gulf of Mexico for the first few days, our blues trip really began as we turned north onto Highway 61, a legendary blues highway; my dad and I were out to see the places where some great musicians played, sang, and shouted the blues. We cut up Louisiana with the historic Southern mansions and old, towering trees on either side of us. Highway 61 is a road that usually has two lanes, and about two cars in sight. With my dad driving straight north towards Mississippi, I reclined my chair and ate some beef jerky. I could see Dad was having a great time just being in such a simple and relaxing place. It was rare that we got to spend this much time together, and we were in such a beautiful place it was clear he was very happy.
Eventually, as we crossed into Mississippi, the mansions turned to shotgun-shacks and the aging trees turned into miles of cotton fields. The road had about as few curves as a well-tuned guitar string. I looked out onto the miles of cotton and the endless horizon that encircled us due to the lack of hills and skyscrapers, and I felt like the road had memory. This simple stretch of road was home to some great musicians and many great stories, like the story of Robert Johnson.
He was a man who lived about 3/4 of a century ago and is considered today to be one of the greatest guitar players that ever lived. One night in the 1930's, Robert Johnson walked down the stretch of road I was now on, with his guitar in hand. It was an unusually dark night, and the air had a kind of chill in it that is not normal for a place so far south. At the crossroads, Robert Johnson met the being that would change his life: the Devil. He dealt with the Devil that night, trading his soul for incredible skills on the guitar. After Robert Johnson later made some groundbreaking music, the Devil came to collect his due and Johnson died in 1938 at age 27. This highway had hidden in it somewhere the place where Johnson did his deal. My dad and I drove on down the secretive stretch of pavement in Mississippi, listening to Bob Dylan's words on Highway 61:
Well Abe says,"Where do you want this killin' done?" God says, "Out on Highway 61."
That song is actually about a man who is going to kill his son, but my dad and I didn't think we had been alone together in a car for long enough to resort to that.
Dad and I had mostly decided to take this trip for two reasons. One was that he has loved the blues since he was my age or younger and I was now beginning to appreciate the music too, so we thought I should get to know its roots. Another reason, and perhaps a more important one, was that my dad and I don't spend much time together since I live at boarding school and on vacations I split time between his house and my mom's. We wanted to spend a lot of time together and we also were curious about testing just how close we were, to see if we could be together in a car for about ten days. I knew it wasn't going to be a problem.
On about the fifth day, we found our way to the place where a great blues singer lay buried: Charlie Patton. His grave was, being in the back corner of a small graveyard in a town that consisted of a few shotgun-shacks and one store, difficult to find. His grave was not fancied up, there was no big protecting fence around it, and there were no billboards pointing towards its location. All that was there were a couple picks, a guitar slide, and what Charlie was rewarded with for his legendary music: some spare change. His final resting place was simple, like he would want it. I could sense Dad's happiness and it also seemed as if he admired where this great man was buried. I could then tell that my dad was incredibly simple, not only because he was just wearing blue jeans and sandals, but because of how he enjoyed being in such an uncomplicated, down-to-earth place.
After visiting the grave, Dad and I made our way to Clarksdale, Mississippi. This was a town with no chain stores at all. There were no Starbucks, no Gaps, no Mobils, no Dunkin' Donuts, and not one McDonald's. Everything in the town was run by people there, which actually worked well because it was very self-reliant. In addition to having no chain stores, this town was great because it was all about music. On every street corner, there was a kid picking his life through his guitar and blowing away on his harmonica. My dad and I stopped in at a guitar shop there and talked to the store owner about the town. She told us that there was a blues club right down the road that was owned by Morgan Freeman. We decided to go look at the club later that night and ended up spending hours in there as time flew by. When we first walked in, there was a cop standing at the doorway. My dad said to him,“Look, I know that alcohol is served here and my son is only 14, but he loves the blues.”The cop smiled at us and said, “Come on in," as if he clearly never intended to stop us anyway.
When we got in the place, I loved it right away. Covering the walls all the way up to the ceiling was writing from people who have been there before. There were just short little nothings scribbled everywhere that would've looked stupid had there been only one; writings describing where people were from, who they loved, where they went to school, etc. When we sat down I noticed the writing was all over the tables and chairs as well. The chairs were smooth and worn from being sat in so much. The club didn't smell like cheap plastic the way fast food restaurants do, nor did it smell like alcohol the way depressing bars do; it smelt like a sweet, hand-made cigar: relaxing and cool.
That night, a band that we had seen on the street earlier got on the stage. The lead guitarist and singer was a college student named Marshall with long hair down to his shoulders who was spending his summer playing music, and he held in his hands a Gibson guitar that later became an extension of his soul. When he started playing, the place shook with the resonance of each note. During one of Marshall's amazing solos, he ran his fingers up the neck of his instrument and just as he struck the note he was looking for, his head shot back and he closed his eyes while facing up towards heaven, as if some divine being had just shouted his name. In those couple of seconds when his head was back and that perfect note was ringing through the streets of Clarksdale, I forgot that I existed. I had no sense of being anywhere or anyone. I lost all thoughts of self-consciousness and egotistical worries, and I was submerged in the music, as was everyone else in that room. I just sat there and listened to Marshall jam and shout:
All you people, you know the blues got a soul Well this is a story, a story never been told Well you know the blues got pregnant And they named the baby Rock & Roll. —Muddy Waters
Some good blues and rock songs, about a dozen Coca-Colas, and a good night's sleep later, we were on the road again, headed towards Memphis, Tennessee. It's been said that Highway 61 starts in Louisiana and ends at the lobby of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis. Obviously, the highway doesn't actually go into the lobby, but that stretch between the hotel and Louisiana was where all the good Delta Blues happened. Of course, Dad and I felt it necessary to stay at the Peabody. We had made reservations and were back in the car headed towards the Peabody Hotel, a place where they have ducks in the pond in the lobby. And once again, I sat in my seat in the car and listened.
I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, In Memphis Tennesse I'm going to Graceland. —Paul Simon
Graceland is the place in Memphis where Elvis Presley used to live. We considered going to the home of "The King," but we found out some disappointing news upon arrival in Memphis. That week was Elvis Week. Graceland would have been packed with impersonators and fans, so we decided to steer clear. After checking in at the Peabody, we went to Beale Street, a place that used to be known for its wide selection of music stores and restaurants. All we saw when we got there were a bunch of middle-aged men with potbellies and died black hair attempting to look like their fallen savior. The scene was very depressing, especially after having just come from Clarksdale. Clarksdale was a place where music thrived and the people were real; the people in Memphis were pathetic McDonald's-aholics who could dress up but not play any real music. Everything there gave off a stench of cheap plastic and even cheaper alcohol. After seeing this poor scene on Beale Street, Dad and I decided to spend the night in our lovely hotel room. The room was by far the nicest one we stayed in; then again, I was ready for anything after one too many Best Westerns.
I was ready to go in the morning, glad to get out of a town centered around a man who at one time was great, but who was now turned into some false idol. A couple of days after Memphis, we arrived in Medon, Tennessee. Medon is a very small town with some houses and a couple of stores. The town got its unusual name because back when they were putting a railroad track through the town, it didn't have a name. They proclaimed that the town name would be the first word spoken after the last spike was driven in the railroad. As it happened, the man who drove the last spike had an accent and once he was done with his work, he said, “Me done,” thus giving the town its name.
Medon was not some random spot on our trip, it was the town in which my dad had spent most of his childhood, and I think the simple town with its quirky beginnings seemed perfect for Dad. He grew up in a big old white house that was so old that there was a bullet from the Civil War lodged in the staircase. My Dad was brought immediately back to being a child when we got to his house. We went up to the man on the porch of the house and told the man that my dad was part of the McLeod family. He smiled and told us to come in. After showing us around the house, we went out back, and I gazed out onto the endless fields. I asked Dad how much of that land he owned when he lived here. The current resident stepped in before Dad could talk because apparently he knew our family history in that house. He lifted his hand towards the horizon, "As far as you can see in that direction," he pointed back behind him, "and as far as you can see in that direction."
The enormous plot of land surprised me. From growing up in New Jersey, I only saw a person have a maximum of two acres of land. The fact that my dad grew up with so much open space made me realize why Dad moves around a lot: growing up, he could always see the horizon. Most likely, he would try to get to that far away place but just as you get closer, the horizon gets farther. I’m not saying that moving a lot is a bad thing; it is actually nice to get around to many different places, I just realized when I saw that horizon in the distance that that is what Dad has always been reaching for. I saw the look in his eyes that day and I knew that one day my Dad would get to where he’s going; I also felt for the first time like I was just the onlooker into a child’s life.
Yesterday a child came out to wonder Caught a dragonfly inside a jar. . . . Words like when you're older must appease him, And promises of someday make his dreams. —Joni Mitchell
The last stop on our trip was Nashville, Tennessee. Nashville was not small like Medon, nor was it sickening like Memphis; it was actually like a bigger, more modern Clarksdale. There were many concert halls in the city and a plethora of guitar shops. My original intention in this entire road trip was purely selfish: I wanted a good acoustic guitar. I had an electric guitar that my dad and I had built, I had a steel guitar, I had another electric that we had bought, but I didn’t have a good old-fashioned acoustic guitar. We went into a store in Nashville that looked like the walls were made of guitars. As far as the eye could see there were Fenders and Guilds and Martins and Gibsons. I didn’t even know where to start. I went over to one of the employees at the store and told him specifically what I was looking for.
He brought me a Martin JC-16RGTE Gloss Top Jumbo. It was undisputedly the greatest thing I had ever seen. Inside the guitar was a pickup and a small, moveable microphone to transport the sounds the strings made as they echoed inside the huge wooden body to the amp. The front of the body of the guitar glistened like a calm, glassy river. On the side of the body there was a small mixer for when you plugged the guitar in, and built into the mixer was a tuner. The back of the body was made of Indian Rosewood and had a single painted line down it that was beautiful in its simplicity, like the grave of Charlie Patton. I sat down and began to play it like Marshall: it was just an extension of me, a way of saying things that I couldn’t normally say. I lost myself again. There was no me, there was only this music.
When I came to, I saw Dad looking at me. I had seen the price tag on it before I had even begun to play. I said, “This is the one I’ll get once I’m rich and famous and have the money for it.” My dad smiled, “Will you stick to this guitar thing?” I looked up at him in surprise. How could I not? He bought me that guitar after he told me I wasn’t allowed to eat for a few months so he could save the money back up. We loaded the guitar into the car with the greatest of care, and went home. It was then I realized how much my dad believed in me and how supportive he was of me.
We drove back to Gainesville after a good ten-day trip. I was glad to be home, but my mind wasn’t quite at home yet. I laid on my bed and thought of myself eight years from now, in a beat-up juke joint somewhere in the South, wailing on my electric guitar, the crowd’s pulse quickening as my fingers sprint up the neck. When I settle back into a smooth rhythm, the crowd nods in satisfaction. I pictured myself later playing my Martin acoustic guitar so furiously and with so much soul that the audience forgets themselves.
“Hey boyo, let's hear that new guitar,” Dad said, bringing me back to the present. I ran down the stairs with my Martin and took a seat in my great-grandfather’s leather chair. The thick, humid night air in Florida was coming in through the windows. The crickets outside made a nice rhythm for me to play to.
What a long, strange trip it's been.
William M. Alexander is a writer and musician currently enrolled at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. He wrote "Six Steel Strings" as a high school student at Milton Academy in Massachusetts.
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