I work in a corporate, concrete box;
no windows, only a computer terminal
to link me to the outside world.
Only second-hand accounts
of weather, traffic,
whether it is day or night.
I sometimes go to work in darkness,
return in darkness.
I don’t know if the sun
remembered to rise at all.
Like the light in a refrigerator.
Does it really turn off
when I close the door?
At a keyboard, my fingers type numbers,
millions of numbers.
My mind wanders woodland paths.
I watch birds flitting from limb to limb,
chipmunks scurrying, stopping,
looking around, then scurrying again.
My mind plays tricks on me.
I imagine that just 26 floors down
I could exit on Beale or Bourbon Street.
Hear sounds of the South,
guitars, saxophones and raspy voices
that rule the rhythm of my body and soul.
Take me on a blues ride.
Let me wander with the lyrics
down Highway 61, “The Blues Highway”.
Let me smell the sweat and the booze,
the jostling at the bar,
the waitress who will smile for a tip.
Let me smell magnolia, bougainvillea,
where Spanish moss hangs below the branches,
see the darkest eyes and brightest smile,
hear that special whisper, “Come with me.”
We’ll walk for miles, be holding hands,
and never want for any more
than our window to a dream.
An itinerant
entertainer
guitar on his back
ramblin’
from town to town
the devil by his side.
Performing
on street corners
in juke joints
roadhouses
lastly,
on August 13,1938,
at Shaples General Store,
Three Forks,
Mississippi.
Loner
philanderer
loved by the ladies
Robert was poisoned
with strychnine-laced whiskey
by a jealous husband
on the outskirts
of Baptist Town,
Greenwood,
Mississippi.
Buried in an
disputed grave
but, as Robert sang: Baby, I don’t care
where you bury my body
when I’m dead and gone
You may bury my body, whoooo
Down by the highway side
So my old evil spirit
Can get a Greyhound bus
and ride.
Where
he is buried
isn’t important;
what is important
is the influence he’s had
on musicians
the world over.
Eric Clapton
claims, “he is
the most important blues singer
that ever lived.”
May he forever
rest in peace.
Two years after its initial release, the film, Take Me to the River, has been released on Netflix. This is a documentary about the soul of American music, particularly that of Memphis, Tennessee. While telling the story of Memphis and its music, this film centers around the recording of a new album. An album, produced by second generation Memphians that features legends from labels like Stax, Sun, and Hi Records, mentoring and recording with some of today’s greatest talent from the region.
The brainchild of director, Martin Shore, Take Me to the River debuted at the SXSW Festival in Austin, Texas in 2014 but was four years in the making. Mavis Staples and Booker T. Jones were the first “mentors” to sign on. From there, legendary artists including Bobby “Blue” Bland, Hubert Sumlin, Charlie Musselwhite, William Bell, Bobby Rush, Otis Clay, Charles “Skip” Pitts, Lester Snell, Marvell Thomas, the Hodges brothers and more were added as modern-day mentors of the Memphis sound.
Their pupils and recording partners are young up-and-comers from Memphis and beyond. Child actor and rapper, Lil P-Nut, not only recorded a cover of “Trying to Live My Life Without You,” with Otis Clay, but also received some impromptu singing tips from Bobby “Blue” Bland. Bland and Yo Gotti record a modern cover of “Ain’t No Sunshine,” with an old soul feel. Academy Award winning rapper, Frayser Boy teams up with Bobby Rush on the Rufus Thomas classic, “Push and Pull.” And these are just some of the highlights.
The men recording and producing these cuts are themselves, Memphis legacies. Boo Mitchell is the son of Willie Mitchell, founder of Royal Studios. Luther and Cody Dickinson are both members of the North Mississippi Allstars, and sons of the legendary Jim Dickinson, who was a producer, guitarist, and pianist. The elder Dickinson worked with artists including Bob Dylan, Ry Cooder, the Rolling Stones and scores of others.
This film isn’t just watching artists in studios, however. It’s chock full of vintage footage of live concert performances, Memphis neighborhoods, and civil rights unrest, including the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the aftermath that spelled the end of the Stax label and studio.
Many of the old timers share stories of how things were done back in their day and talk about one another’s accomplishments and failures. One of the most touching of these is when “Skip” Pitts once again runs into former band mate, Ben Cauley, describing to the filmmaker how Cauley is the only survivor of the plane crash that took the life of Otis Redding. Another is the obvious excitement of Mavis Staples when Luther Dickinson learns the guitar part of a song written by her father, “Pops.”
Also, particularly hard hitting, are the still photos of some of the elder artists, with production notes stating it was their last, or almost final session. Artists that passed away after appearing in this film include Bobby “Blue” Bland, Hubert Sumlin, Charles “Skip” Pitts and Teenie Hodges.
There are great interview clips with other famous Memphis music makers that were even more behind the scenes. Art Bell, owner of Stax Records and Deanie Parker who was not only a singer but secretary, liner notes writer, photographer, editor, publicist and more, all for the Stax label.
One of the greatest scenes is near the end when three generations of artists have only a short time to record a piece. William Bell, Snoop Dogg, and students from the Stax Academy, record, “I Forgot to be Your Lover.” That, in itself, is a pretty amazing feat. What becomes, even more, mind boggling is that the young students learned and recorded the song, Snoop wrote and recorded his rap verses, and the entire project was in the can in less than 30 minutes.
Narrator, Terrence Howard begins the film with the words, “There are special places on this earth. Places of origin. The Mississippi Delta is one of those places.” Nothing could be closer to the truth, and Take Me to the River does an outstanding job of documenting not only the origin of Memphis music but its passing to the next generations.
With this gem of a documentary streaming on Netflix, we would also urge everyone to purchase a copy of the DVD. If for no other reason, then knowing that over 75% of the money made in sales goes to musician funds in Memphis. These include the The Soulsville Foundation, The Blues Foundation HART Fund, and the Memphis Church Health Center.
A tribute to B. B. (Blues Boy) King
Guitarist, Songwriter, Singer (1925–2015)
“King of the Blues”
Sweet little angel
your devil horns are showing through.
Sweet little angel
your devil horns are showing through.
I love you sweet baby,
all I ever want is you.
Sweet little angel
tell me your love is just for me
Sweet little angel
tell me your love is just for me
you know I need your lovin’
without it where’d I be?
Sweet little angel
spread your honeyed wings for me.
Sweet little angel
spread your honeyed wings for me.
You squeeze me tight baby
you’re the one to set me free
Sweet little angel
your devil horns are showing through.
Sweet little angel
your devil horns are showing through.
I love you sweet baby
don’t you ever leave me blue.
Saturday found me at the Shadrak,
a downstairs club that had it all.
A woman took the floor in glad rags.
I felt I was in for a fall.
She spied me lounging in the corner.
My eyes caressed her every move.
She beckoned me over to the dance floor,
sleazy blues had us in the groove.
She was a tall sleek woman with a class act,
slumming and feeling so high.
Knew this was wrong — her legs were so long,
dress was cut up to her thigh.
She had to be a wife or a girlfriend,
no man would let this woman slip by.
Soft fingers stole away my reason,
for her I’d do right or wrong.
Flash of a thigh, wink of an eye,
she played that dress just like a song.
Maybe her lips, or the sway of her hips,
she had my number all along.
The scene couldn’t have been sweeter,
‘till Johnny sauntered through that door.
Cursed us a while, said we were vile,
reputations trampled on the floor.
Should have walked away, that isn’t my way,
his accusations cut to my core.
No backing down for right or for wrong,
for her I had to settle the score.
Glint of a knife, the end of a life,
Johnny lay dying on the floor.
Built to tantalize, she knew she was a prize;
she was a tall sleek woman with a class act,
slumming and feeling so high.
Knew this was wrong — her legs were so long,
I couldn’t let this woman slip by.
I wouldn’t let this woman slip by.
I work in a corporate, concrete box;
no windows, only a computer terminal
to link me to the outside world.
Only second-hand accounts
of weather, traffic,
whether it is day or night.
I sometimes go to work in darkness,
return in darkness.
I don’t know if the sun
remembered to rise at all.
Like the light in a refrigerator.
Does it really turn off
when I close the door?
At a keyboard, my fingers type numbers,
millions of numbers.
My mind wanders woodland paths.
I watch birds flitting from limb to limb,
chipmunks scurrying, stopping,
looking around, then scurrying again.
My mind plays tricks on me.
I imagine that just 26 floors down
I could exit on Beale or Bourbon Street.
Hear sounds of the South,
guitars, saxophones and raspy voices
that rule the rhythm of my body and soul.
Take me on a blues ride.
Let me wander with the lyrics
down Highway 61, “The Blues Highway”.
Let me smell the sweat and the booze,
the jostling at the bar,
the waitress who will smile for a tip.
Let me smell magnolia, bougainvillea,
where Spanish moss hangs below the branches,
see the darkest eyes and brightest smile,
hear that special whisper, “Come with me.”
We’ll walk for miles, be holding hands,
and never want for any more
than our window to a dream.
Rode into town about a week ago,
Won’t be long before I’ve got to go.
Thoughts of staying playing in my mind;
But, Gypsy Lady I’m the restless kind.
Gypsy Woman ride along with me.
The open road ahead won’t let me be.
The engine’s serenade will set us free.
Gypsy Woman hear the symphony.
I feel your body pressing close to me;
We’re riding fast, we’re feeling wild and free.
Gypsy wind is blowing through our hair.
When I’m with you my life’s without a care.
Gypsy leathers never looked so fine.
I think about you, Lady, all the time.
Don’t want to beg, don’t want to lose my pride.
You haunt my dreams, I need you by my side.
Gypsy Lady let me hold you tight.
Don’t leave me cold and lonely through the night.
Your flashing eyes see inside my heart.
Gypsy Woman say we’ll never part.
Gypsy Lady ride along with me.
The open road ahead won’t let me be.
The engine’s serenade will set us free.
Gypsy Woman ride along with me.
A tribute to B. B. (Blues Boy) King
Guitarist, Songwriter, Singer (1925–2015)
“King of the Blues”
Sweet little angel
your devil horns are showing through.
Sweet little angel
your devil horns are showing through.
I love you sweet baby,
all I ever want is you.
Sweet little angel
tell me your love is just for me
Sweet little angel
tell me your love is just for me
you know I need your lovin’
without it where’d I be?
Sweet little angel
spread your honeyed wings for me.
Sweet little angel
spread your honeyed wings for me.
You hold me tight baby
you’re the one to set me free
Sweet little angel
your devil horns are showing through.
Sweet little angel
your devil horns are showing through.
I love you sweet baby
don’t you ever leave me blue.
I walk the empty rain-soaked streets.
Footsteps echo against brick walls
as formidable as a prison.
There is no escape from loneliness
that devours the soul from within;
an endless cinema of despair.
Locked within this kaleidoscope;
distorted images from my past
haunt my dreams and nightmares.
There is no room for reality.
Players in my mind pull the strings,
dance this mournful marionette.
I follow the cooling evening breeze
with no purpose or destination.
My feet lead me forward in a trance.
I try to empty my mind of thoughts,
the destroyers of my self-esteem —
momentarily held at bay held at bay.
Life is a never-ending battle,
one foot in front of the other,
seconds follow tedious seconds,
breaths counted entering and leaving,
heart beats it’s pounding rhythm
walking these, empty rain-soaked blues.
I sit, in sadness,
holding hands with an injured friend;
her ribs broken and fractured,
her breathing painful and difficult,
her head aching and dizzy,
her face bruised
and scraped.
Another friend
is absent, in hiding; yet
he has no sanctuary,
there is no place he won’t be found.
At last, he had his life
in some semblance of order.
Two months sober;
he had an apartment, furniture;
his pride and self-worth had returned.
Then, he spent his rent check on booze —
starting with triple tequila shots
at a biker bar.
The universe
had given him a fresh start —
he threw it away.
Street justice will prevail;
sentence has been passed: a bruise for a bruise,
a broken bone for a broken bone,
and something extra
so it won’t happen again.
Punishment will be exacted
with ruthless,
emotionless
efficiency.
today’s greatest talent from the region.
