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Wednesday, Aug 30, 2000
Stuck inside of Clarksdale with the Tunica Blues Again
August 23, 2000
In retrospect, it started before we got to Clarksdale. But in Clarksdale proper, we were thoroughly Tunica-ed. A friend of Jim’s said we could find old blues recordings, 78’s, in town. This was entirely plausible. This was the stomping ground of blues pioneer Robert Johnson and home of the crossroads of song and fable. And the town had an annual blues festival. Old 78’s, why not?
I got directions to a local record store while buying some food in Clarksdale. I found the Kroger’s described in the directions, but never found the record store. However, we came upon a musical instrument store. If anyone would know, these folks would. In response to Jim’s question about old ‘78s, they said “No, I don’t know where you could find any 78’s. But we have some old 45’s.”
I had spied the record bin, and was all over it. The first record was by some guy named Michael. I searched my memory for any blues musicians by that name. Hmmm ... Michael Bolton ... Michael Bolton ... DOH! As we dug deeper with the store owner, we got a few shreds of hope that someone, somewhere in town had at one time sold some blues 78’s. We wisely gave up all hope, and set off to the next stop.
The Las Vegas of Northwestern Mississippi
Now, looking at a map, you might think that Clarksdale and Tunica, two towns in northwestern Mississippi, are not along the most direct route from New Orleans to New York. And you would be quite right. Having veered hundreds of miles off-course on the basis of sketchy information about Clarksdale, we wanted to make the most of the diversion. Which brings us to Tunica.
Jim had heard about the big-time casinos of Tunica from a brother who had lived a few miles up the road in Memphis. Approaching town, we saw billboards, one after another, proclaiming the entertainers, buffets and other amenities offered by at least a dozen different casinos, including major names like Bally’s and Harrah’s. They had our attention. We were getting psyched up to cruise down the Tunica Strip and gaze in wonder at the decadence all around.
We drove down one road after another. There were acres of cotton and corn, so many billboards I lost count, and no casinos. I saw what looked like a hotel tower off in the distance, several miles away, but had trouble finding any roads that led in that direction. After a concerted effort to find any actual gambling establishment, we headed back to the highway.
On the way to the highway, we saw in the middle distance a place called the Grand Casino. It was situated on a parcel of about 200 acres, when a 5 acre parcel would have been more than adequate. We concluded that all the casinos must be situated like this –- well away from the road, surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of acres of cotton and corn. Once your bus drops you off at the front curb of one of these places, that’s it. Your whole Tunica experience is encapsulated within that one establishment. That whole strip concept popularized in Las Vegas just never caught on in Tunica.
tunica --v.t. to persuade another into a useless adventure by offering false hope of some desirable outcome, example: Don’t you try to tunica me with your fancy talk about a tour of the Jersey Shore to see Asbury Park.
Shelton's Ride
August 22, 2000
Shelton’s level of frustration was growing. I could relate to the mid-teens disquiet of a young man who had no outlet, no outlet, no-fucking-outlet for his frustration. In addition to the normal adolescent male angst, Shelton had the baggage of the many years of drama he had lived through on Dumaine. He was doing his best to keep his cool, maintain respect for his elders, avoid injecting drama into the situation, but I could see the frustration building.
While Shelton became ever more restive, I was enjoying a relaxed evening conversation on the front porch with Mandy, catching up on the elapsed years. I could sense that it was one of few adult conversations she had in a house over-brimming with children and their unbounded energy. I wanted to continue that conversation, and I didn’t want to contradict Mandy’s maternal instincts with regard to Shelton. She has a tough time keeping balance between order and normal adolescent exuberance while maintaining this house as an oasis from the chaos of the streets. I didn’t want to upset that precarious balance.
Eventually I decided to grant the wish that Shelton could not bring himself to ask directly. It was time for a ride. Shelton, Jacques and I loaded up to drive to McDonald’s. I dialed in their favorite radio, Q93, and cranked the hip hop. Cruising down Broad, a genuine smile cracked Shelton’s hard demeanor.
I thought back to the adults who had done similar things for me as a youth -- steering a farm truck across a pasture, a rocket ship ride down an empty boulevard in a Mercury Cyclone, cruising in the back seat of a ‘72 Eldorado convertible. I was happy to be on the giving end this time.
While my BMW sedan had Chevy-like status in Silicon Valley, in the Treme neighborhood of New Orleans, this was a sharp ride. I deflected Shelton’s request to steer with “not this time”, but I’m sure the ride itself was enough to give him a good story for the first day of school the following morning.