Authentic Blues On Beale Street?

On Tuesday morning I left Nashville and made my way towards Memphis. I decided to take Katy K's advice and have lunch at Gus's Worlds Famous Fried Chicken. Not the branch located in Memphis proper but the original location in Mason, TN... a rural little farming town about forty or so miles to the north (she said the ambiance was better). At some point I began to suspect my GPS was having another laugh at my expense. It guided me off the highway, then zig-zagged through some eerily authentic "you shore do got a purty mouth boy" terrain. After several miles some signs of modern day life began to appear... a gas station here, a traffic light there... I began to relax a bit. Suddenly there it was... a rather inconspicuous one room building with a weathered, sun bleached sign out front. The interior of Gus's was exactly what I hoped it would be... dated, greasy paneling, formica tables with mismatched chairs, harsh florescent lighting... and warm, courteous service. Now, I do not by any stretch of the imagination consider my self a fried chicken lover... I like a nice breast now and again but it hasn't changed my life with the completeness of my beloved pasta or Hershey's Kisses. On this day Gus's gave me a mind altering food experience. The chicken arrived at the table smelling wonderful and appearing... ehh, so so. I picked it up, took my first bite and my life as an ambivalent chicken consumer came to an end. I... I... I just can't understand how something so seemingly ordinary can be so unimaginably delicious! I became a lion burrowing into a freshly taken antelope. I tore at it with my sharpened claws. Using my fangs I ripped and gulped piece after piece. Nobody came near me except for a rightfully cautious waitress who quietly placed a soda refill on the table.... wisely steering clear of my bounty.

After lunch I floated out the door to take pictures. I stood across the street and was composing a shot. This dude who was cruising along in his car stopped in the middle of the road... tilted his head, smiled, yelled "cheeeeeeese" and went on his way. By that time I was no longer a feral jungle cat and had returned to the species of my birth. He made me laugh. Little moments can be so wonderful...



At long last I arrived in Memphis. Approaching the hotel I became a bit concerned about the neighborhood. It seemed very poor, seedy and run down. Not an ideal place for a Yankee boy with his shiny car full of expensive electronic equipment and a pocket full of cash. The hotel was only marginally better. I asked the gentleman at the front desk if the area was safe. He said there was a hospital across the street and there were a number churches nearby. As I was bringing my baggage to the room I thought great, when the trauma unit loses it's battle to save me my grieving friends and relatives will have a place to mourn!

Soon after checking in I took a drive to Beale St. Many, many years ago Beale St. was a haven for African American culture. There were clubs, restaurants, and shops catering to, and mostly owned by African Americans. Adventurous whites like Elvis ignored the social and cultural norms of a 1950's segregated south to come to Beale St. and buy wildly colored clothing at Lansky Brothers or absorb an amazing music scene. Some have called it the home of the blues. Today? Sadly, Beale St. is a pretty and shiny theme park geared for tourism. There's a Hard Rock Cafe and a Coyote Ugly... ugh!!! The music on offer is mostly safe and watered down. There are a precious few remnants of Beale Street's glorious past... the antique neon signs for the King's Palace Cafe and the Blues Hall Juke Joint (just the signs... everything else is gone!). The Rum Boogie Cafe has the original sign from Stax Records (where soul legends Sam and Dave, Booker T. and The MG's, Isaac Hayes, and the immortal Otis Redding recorded soul classics). They also have on display a guitar owned by Elvis and another by his original guitarist, Scotty Moore. On the park along Beale there was a pretty decent soul band entertaining folks. Things were looking up. At the far end of the street I found what I was looking for... real blues on Beale! Big Jerry, originally from Alligator, MS, and his band were set up on the sidewalk and playing the greasiest, dirtiest, gutbucket blues I've heard In years. I loved it!

So, if you're in town head to Beale St., you may get lucky.