BlitzBlog

From Miss Sarah’s we hauled back to the Comfort Inn to see if Doc was done riding the porcelain bus, or if TDust was out of his coma. Luckily, both were returning to their former human selves.

Dub had invited us to come visit with him over at the radio station where he’s doing DJ and intern work.  WROX is the Heart of The Delta’s music station, broadcasting at 1450AM on your dial.

Dub had told us the radio station was right near the Crossroads (Rt 61 and 49 for you Blues un-initiated), and so we started driving around, looking for a big ol’ broadcast antenna, prolly a low brick industrial looking building or something similar. We drove about a mile out of town, almost to Hopson and turned around to look some more, but no WROX. Saw some antennas, but no radidio station. We crossed over 61 on into town, and about 30 yards up was a little blue house, with a big ol’ sign on the front that said…

So we parked across the street, and man it was HOT. We walked into the cool of the entryway of the station and were greeted by a group of folks, some on the couch, some standing around, and one sittin’ at the drum set right there in the lobby. We saw Dub in the control room, and he came out to greet  us at the commercial break. He introduced us to Marilyn, the wonderful and friendly station manager, who offered us to partake of the buffet left out in the Green Room. we set about jawing, and Dub brought out his lovely mom, to whom we sang her son’s praises until I’m sure he was sufficiently embarrassed.

Dub was wearing a bright orange Po’ Monkey’s t-shirt, which is a juke joint in Merigold, Mississippi. His shirt matched my bright orange Depot shirt, and we commented how we must stop dressing alike or people
will begin mixing us up. (We’d originally met last year because we’d had on the same pork pie hat). Despite the 100lb difference in our appearance, and the fact that I got no hair and we look nothing alike. Aside from that though….

Anyways, Dub went back in to the control room and I asked about how far Po’ Monkey’s might be from here. The young feller sitting at the drum set, Audie, began to give me directions, with details right down to the dirt road we had to turn into from the gravel road that we would go through the woods in. I started picturing Deliverance in my head, but Marilyn came out to call us into the control room. We found places to sit, and i put on the headphones, and in a few seconds, Dub was asking us questions on-air.

It was difficult at first, what with all of us being so shy, and usually reticent to express our opinions….oh wait, that’s somebody else. Let’s try again.

We started telling our story, about how much we love Clarksdale, and basically just spitting out all the stuff you read right here on Blitzblog. Shortly thereafter, while we were on, a phone call came in from Denise Lasalle, the headliner for that night’s show at The Main Stage of the festival.  She was on her way in and mentioned she had no place to stay for herself or her band. (Rooms are tough to come by in this small town during Sunflowerfest. Most are booked 6 months ahead) Of course, Marilyn and Dub started announcing this on-air and how whatever hotel owner might have a couple of open rooms would surely get some great publicity by coming to Ms. LaSalle’s rescue. Within 5 minutes, a gentleman walked in to offer room at his house, saying, “I got plenty of room. It’s a big house, an it’s just me. They’re welcome to stay.” It was a heartfelt display of Southern Hospitality at its finest. While shortly thereafter, Isle of Capri Casino and Hotel in Tunica about a half hour away, called in and offered up a room.

We continued on-air, with breaks for music and such, for about an hour, before we headed in to town to watch our friend Lala perform her solo show. This was the first time we’d be seeing her perform solo, as
before, we’d only seen her as a Fighting Cock, backing up Super Chikan on her keyboard.

We ordered a round of brews and tamales and hot dogs and watched Lala pound her keyboard into  submission like a woman possessed. She began with a couple of rockin’ boogie blues numbers, then brought it all back down with Angel from Montgomery, which almost made me cry. We fawned all over her afterward about it, and she was genuinely touched at our adoration, saying she was glad we liked the song, as it has a special meaning for her. It definitely came through in her performance, and I was glad to witness it.

We strolled into town to go see T-Model Ford on one of the outdoor stages. It was brutally hot- did I mention that when we returned to van from the radio station- the thermometer read 113-freakin’ degrees?
Jeeeezus! I mean I know it really wasn’t that hot, but it had to be over a hunnert’n’ five.  I figured that if some 80 year old man can sit in the sun and play, the least I can do is listen.

T-Model was going to be on soon, and Ricochet loaded us all up with airplane bottles of Jack Daniels so when ol’ T-Model exclaimed between songs, as he always does, as he takes a swig, “It’s Jack time! ‘n’at’s
fo’ goddamn sho’!” we could all raise our little bottles and join him. When he saw us join his toast, he about fell over laughing on stage.

T-Model is getting on in years, and his playing is still one of the most unique styles I’ve ever seen. He plays with an open-tuning in a key that I doubt anyone can identify, yet it just sounds so…..right. It’s a hypnotic, repetitive, rhythmic style from the Hill Country- about an hour from Clarksdale- that is T-Model’s own unique version. He, Junior Kimbrough and Jesse Mae Hemphill are probably the most indicative of this sound, and T-Model is the last survivor. While the sound is not for everyone, it is a singularly important one, that I hope can live on in its pure sense of what it is. History will tell.

We watched T-Model for about 45 minutes then headed back to Ground Zero. On the way we came across Daddy Rich playing solo outside Bluestown Music again.  This time, however, he was just finishing, and as he’d promised yesterday, he was wearing, in the 100-degree-plus heat, a cocoa colored heavy corduroy suit with a heavy woolen scarf jauntily wrapped around his neck! He wasn’t even sweating! My guess is he was suffering from some sort of walking heat stroke, and would die any second. but no, he was lucid and smiling, and all I could do was tell him he was insane, and I loved him. I told him the only thing remotely like him that I’d ever seen were the idiot fans with no shirts, their bodies painted, that one sees standing and yelling drunkenly at wintertime football games.

I was getting hotter just being near Daddy Rich, looking at the itchy wool scarf, and I finally said I needed a beer and some A/C. We continued on the Ground Zero.

We grabbed some cold ones, and soon afterward, Dub walked in. We started talking about how much we’d enjoyed the radio gig, and he said, “Hell, you guys changed my life. It was the least I could do!” “Changed his life?” I thought, but he went on to tell us more.

See, last year, Dub had a nasty habit of dippin’ tobacco (chewing), and Doc, being an Ear, Nose and Throat MD in Real Life kinda read him the riot act about the dangers of the habit; about all the sores and tumors he’d removed from mouth cancers and throat cancers. And since then, Dub quit dippin’.

Last year, he’d admitted he hadn’t ever had a real girlfriend, as he’d always been into his music; practicing in his room, or with his friends. He said he’d never had much time for girls, and now he felt really shy and awkward around them. We, of course, preached to him about how musicians are babe-magnets, and with his talent and voice, he could have almost any woman he wanted. He protested, talking about his XXXL size, but Blue Frog, no lightweight hisself and I regaled him with tales of the 500lb Big Al Carson we’d seen on Bourbon Street. Big Al had all the ladies screamin’ with his rendition of Built For Comfort, Not for Speed. We went on to tell Dub that his own rendition of Give Me One Reason was enough to get any hottie in the club. Apparently, he took this advice to heart last year, as he’d gone and gotten himself a steady girl, with whom he’d recently broken up, but was now, happy and confident that someone else would be along shortly.

By now it was getting close to dinner time, so headed back to the hotel for showers, with plans for the night.

I slept deeply that night, dreaming of bacon and biscuits and Etta/Tina/Tiger. Somehow I dragged my ass out of bed to meet Blue Frog and Ricochet (TDust and Doc slept in) in the lobby at 9:30 so we could head out for some B&B- Blues and Breakfast- at Sarah’s Kitchen.

We’d made plans to meet Dub here, as he was playing, along with young Omar, and an older gent named Razor Blade. We walked in to the joint and were warmly greeted by Miss Sarah herself and her son. We gathered up chairs in front of the stage, but not too far from the buffet and coffee, and set about to listening to the band wail as we scarfed down another monstrous Southern breakfast.

Between sets we jawboned with Razor on the music situation in Clarksdale and the Sunflowerfest. He opined that Ground Zero doesn’t book some of the local musicians except for midweek nights, and that there’s only a small rotation of the more popular, successful bands- like Super Chikan- that play there during festivals and on weekends. He, by no means harbored any resentment towards the musicians, and in fact went out of his way to say that, “Now that Chikan has money, he ain’t no different than before.” Good to know. He went on to talk of how the Sunflower organizers are no longer locals, however to my eyes, all I could see that the festival was growing healthfully, and that the same acts were playing each year, with some fresh new ones being added in each year. Other than his wish for more playing time on “the big stage,” I couldn’t see much reason for Razor to complain. I suppose that Ground Zero and the free, Main Stage, could open their mikes earlier in the day for the acts that usually don’t get to play there, like T-Model Ford and Razor Blade. My take on it is “the cream always rises.” The best musicians- or at least the most popular ones (as Mr. Tater is by no means one of the better musicians in town, but his act is great and in demand) will get the best times and best stages. Such is The Business.

I bought my daughter, Sarah, a Sarah’s Kitchen t-shirt, and once again, I was treated to Clarksdale’s friendly demeanor, as Miss Sarah’s son brought out the box of t-shirts and allowed me to rummage through it for a pink one, size small.

Razor was on stage again, when during the set, Guitar Mikey’s lovely wife, (forgive me, I forget her name) who was sitting in a booth near us with the last night’s drummer (forgive me, I forget his name), decided to get up and leave. Razor yelled with a smile that she better just sit her ass down and listen to him sing, and she sheepishly returned to her booth, smiling, for the whole set.

Miss Sarah’s son asked us if we were coming back for dinner. I asked what they were serving, and when Miss Sarah said she was thinking of making some BBQ ribs, I started salivating, promised to come back for dinner, and told her I loved her.

Friday we meet up bright and early in the lobby at the crack of 10, from where we head back to The Depot for another artery-clogging meal of various smoked breakfast meats, cheeses, eggs, grits, biscuits and gravy. As TDusty Roads likes to say, “Mmmmmtasteeee.”

Turns out some of us need to do some shopping at Walmart (which is just like the Walmarts at home, except it’s in Mississippi! Amazing!). A quick stop back at the hotel to sleep off breakfast and do some blogging, and back into the heart of Clarksdale.

Since it’s been at least 2 hours since we last ate, we decide to stop in to see our friends at Bluesberry Bakery. Some eclairs, some brisket and beers, and on to our next tradition…the New York Hi-Style men’s clothing store to purchase proper hats to protect us from the hot Southern sun. I love this store. It’s owned by an Indian gent, whose daughter, probably around 10, sits with her daddy doing homework at the register. The clothes are what I can only describe as True Blues. They have suits in colors and styles that only an NBA draft pick (or yours truly) could love. Lavender pinstripes with matching shoes and shirts. Yellow pindot 5-button suits, shiny sharkskins that look like they might be plugged into an outlet, and of course, our straw hats, a black straw fedora which I must purchase, since I’d given my black straw porkpie to Dub last night after he told me he’d lost his in the year since we last saw him. Ricochet also buys one, and oddly enough, he actually looks tasteful in this year’s model. Doc forgoes a purchase for fear of more retribution and humiliation from the myriad females that inhabit his house back in New York. Let’s just say last year’s “Uncle Mario” model didn’t get him any lap dances at home. Blue Frog stands pat in last year’s model.

From Hi-Style to low-brow, we wander in to the t-shirt store. I buy a Muddy Waters number, and I wonder why, with all the various shirts they sell, don’t they make one that just say, “You went WHERE on vacation?”

Back to Ground Zero where we wind up drinking with two gentlemen from Barcelona, Spain, who to have made this trek, are True Believers. They love the raw sound of pure Delta. They shun the more polished stuff and are here the hear the Real Deal. I love it.

We see Dub walk by, and we make plans to see him and his band play at The River’s Edge- club around the corner and down a dark flight of stairs.

After a brews, we wander over to Bluestown Music, where Daddy Rich is playing solo on the street.

Daddy Rich is young man, I’d guess around 25, with a keen wit and a sly intelligence that comes through in his music, his stage persona and especially in his lyrics. He has a fresh sound that pays religious homage to the history of Crossroads music, but with a cool back beat and a clean style that tells me he’s going to be one of those performers who’ll take the Blues into the future.  I’m going to enjoy seeing his work blossom.

While we’re watching Daddy Rich perform (with a digital backup setup), he asks if anyone wants to come up and play harp with him during a pause in the middle of one of his songs. Thinking Daddy Rich was being facetious and meant for him to get up, Blue Frog jumps up next to him and asks, “What key?” Daddy Rich smiles and  dryly replies, “Any key you want, man.”  Blue Frog pulls out his harp, inhales, and is about to blow a note, and from the speaker behind him starts pouring a wailing pre-recorded harp solo! We all crack up as basically any one of us could have got up there to fake it along with the tape. Blue Frog does join in, with his usual virtuosity, but we all enjoy Daddy Rich’s sense of humor. Later, standing in the 14-degree shade, he talks about how tomorrow he’s gonna wear his corduroy suit and scarf to play. I almost pass out just thinking about it. I figure he’s kidding.

We head back to the hotel for showers and …

That evening is tamales, catfish, and hot dogs at Ground Zero, while Super Chiken and The Fighting Cocks wail a set. As usual, the show is amazing, with Super Chikan playing some of his homemade guitars that never cease to amaze me for both his ability to actually play them and for the astounding music he makes with them.

At 10, we book out to see Dub and his band. The club is pretty empty, so we watch Dub crank out some classics, while we drink beer and shoot pool. Jacqueline is hanging around, as she and Dub have obviously grown up together here in this small town we call Clarksdale. I ponder this, and am filled with wonder at how such a small place can produce so much young musical talent.

It’s getting close to midnight, so the after-hours hotspot is always Hopson Commissary. Guitar Mikey, Daddy Rich and Tiger (Nellie) are all going to be jamming there, so we drive the mile or so from the Crossroads, and wander in. We grab a table, and shortly afterward, Tiger and Dorothy join us, greeting us like good friends. We hang out, BSing and drinking, enjoying the show. Nellie heads up on stage, and gets everyone dancing with a medley of Ike’n'Tina’s Rollin’ on the River and Tutti Fruity. The band is jammin’ the floor is bouncing while the dancers gyrate to the music.

It’s about 2:30, and I’m sitting with Nellie, she with her Crown Royal flask, me with my brew, talking about Life and Music and her family reunion she’s in town for. We talk about how she’s known Guitar Mikey for a dozen years or so, but hadn’t seen him in about two years. I mention that Blue Frog had played with Mikey last year in front of Bluestown, and that since Mikey’s moved here, his musicianship had grown exponentially (and he was damn good to start with!) She slaps her hand on the table and says, “I thought the same thing! I thought he’d gotten so much better, I was just amazed!” And she adds, “And he was pretty damn good before too!”

We continue talking and at some point she smiles and admits she’s got a great buzz on, and at that point, Mikey calls her up for another set. Not knowing Nellie that well, I didn’t know if that “great buzz” was gonna help or hinder, but I sure found out in the next 10 minutes!

Nellie Tiger Travis got up and did a cover of Etta James’ I’d Rather Go Blind that made me forget Etta James. She brought the house  from jumpin’, to tears and back. She owned that song (and will forever, in my heart) and at the end, as the band played her off, the whole place was hollerin’ and standing and clapping for more. She walked off the stage into a crowd of hugs that wouldn’t stop until she’d covered the the whole joint, who then cajoled her back up for an encore. (Sweet Home Chicago). It was one of the most unforgettable performances I’ve ever witnessed.

By then it was about 3:30, and the smell of biscuits was starting to waft in from the kitchen, as the chefs prepared for the Hopson’s B&B clientele. I figured we better skedaddle before we decided on a full breakfast. We said our goodbyes and the thankfully-short drive back to the hotel was punctuated by my head hitting the pillow at about 4am. What a night!

The third in a series by The Mighty Blue Frog:

It’s been over a week and I have been fighting the worst summer cold I’ve ever had. I’ve been trying to get back to my normal life and at the same time do what I do to earn a living. So it’s been a struggle to write about this recent Blues Cruise as I am leaving it up to the most eloquent Gas Can to chronicle the adventures while I want to express some other aspects that deserve mention.

We have made three trips to Clarksdale over the last four years, and with each successive trip we have brought along another new crew member. And I am most certain that next year we will add some more. I am not surprised that at the end of each visit, the new folks are not only expressing their enthusiasm about returning but want to share the experience with others. In conversations with them it seems as though it’s not just about the music or the great time we had drinkin’ shots of Jack and smokin’ stogies. It seems rather like a spiritual transformation has taken place with each of us as we recall and recollect each visit there.

Although I cannot express what innermost thoughts the others have except my own, I do know that it has changed each of us in a very profound way.  I remember a few years back, standing in the middle of the desert in Nevada and for the first time in my life I experienced total quiet; not any sound at all, no birds chirping, no wind blowing, total silence. It was beautiful and frightening at the same time, as I realized then the glory of sound. The human race can raise one hell of a racket, a cacophonous symphony of noise that all too often drowns out the beautiful sounds of nature. But the human race can also create beautiful noise, a harmonious chorus of song that stirs the soul. Musical instruments being played in unison to some timeless melody, a poem being recited by the human voice that makes us appreciate the beauty and grace of language. Clarksdale Mississippi is just like the Nevada desert in that they are both hot and both make you realize the glory of sound.

The Blues as a musical form has always been treated by snobs and elites as a primitive form of music, not worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms. What makes that attitude so ridiculous is that many of the melodies of the symphonies and overtures of classical music are nothing more than melodies of the folk songs and music of the peasant class that have been incorporated and gussied up with some elaborate arrangements. Don’t get me wrong I am not trying to diminish the work of those brilliant composers, rather just leveling the field to say one is no better than the other.

All forms and genres of music can captivate the soul and are capable of great beauty and inspiration. But there is no other music like the Blues that speaks to the human condition so well. The immediate emotional impact is there because everybody has had or got the blues at some point in their life. Listen to Skip James perform Hard Time Killing Floors Blues and you will come to the realization that there was a day in your life that sounded like that song. But Blues music is not just about loneliness, sorrow and pain. Blues can cure your soul, make you wanna get up and dance, scream and shout with pure Joy. Let the Good times Roll if you know what I mean.

Sitting in Red’s Juke Joint on Saturday night listening to some young white kid play the most traditional Delta Blues in the most reverent and exacting way was awesome beyond belief. Sitting to my immediate right was non-other than Robert Wolfman Belfour, the great North Mississippi Blues legend sipping on a Miller Lite and smoking a cigarette. Wolfman’s style has elements of Delta, North Mississippi and Memphis all rolled into one unique blend. He did not play while we were there but listened attentively as the young man played Wolfman’s style to a tee. I glanced at him a few times during the performance and saw him nod his head in approval and as the young man finished the song, a smile came to his face and he applauded enthusiastically.

I also glanced at my friends during the performance and watched them go into that trance like state also known as zoning out, when you feel the emotional attachment to what you are watching and hearing. When you hear that real Blues, it’s affect upon you is subtle at first and then it draws you in and envelopes you. The music seems sorrowful, slow, and even a bit eerie in comparison to the high-energy performances we saw earlier. When I closed my eyes I felt like I was being transported back in time to the beginning of the Blues. I was after all at the place where it all began, in a setting very similar to the places where this wonderful music was created. As I looked up and saw the many faces of the people who were there that night, people from many different country’s, people from all over the US, black faces, white faces, yellow faces all entranced, all together. I felt this deep satisfaction in my soul and understood that this place we all come to, this little town in Mississippi, is truly sacred.

I read the BlitzBlog on a regular basis; Matt’s stories and observations are a pure delight to read. For those of you who also partake of this wonderful site and perhaps know the Mighty Matt “Gas Can” Blitz personally, what I’m about to say you will understand. Matt Blitz A.K.A Gas Can is one of the most truly lovely people on earth. I am proud to know him as my friend and feel blessed that this man feels the same way about me. He is blessed with a beautiful, lovely, sweet wife Kate and two equally lovely children; Zac and Sarah. He is honest and true to his word and someone I would take a bullet for. I want to thank him for our friendship and the great times we’ve had together and the many more that will come. I also want to thank him for allowing me to pontificate on the BlitzBlog and hopefully not scare away any visitors. I probably will have one more on the Blues Cruise sometime next week and will wrap this one up by saying.

Good Mornin’ Blues, How do ya do
Good Mornin’ Blues, How do ya do
Well I’m Doin’ alright so
Good Mornin’, How are you
Leadbelly

Mr. Blue Frog

Editor’s note: I’m gettin’ all misty heah…sniff.

All showered up and ready to sweat! It’s Blues Jam at Ground Zero, and we’re gonna go git some dinner and then listen to some old friends play da Blues.

There’s a new restaurant in Clarksdale, opened only a few months ago, that we decided to check out for dinner. It’s in the restored train station, called, appropriately enough, The Depot. It’s about 100 yards from the Main Stage for the festival and 200 from ground Zero, so it’ll be convenient to stagger out of once we’re all in our BBQ stupors in a few hours.

So we walk in and are greeted and sat immediately. The place is about half full, and the wait staff starts busting my chops about the orange souvenir shirt I’m wearing that says “New Orleans County Jail” on it. “We’re gonna call the po-leece on you if ya’ll don’t behave.” What me? “I swear it’s a souvenir!” I answer, but one of Clarksdale’s finest happens to be behind me, and I throw up my hands in mock surrender. During this time, we see the manager of our hotel, Dan, standing by the entryway, so we invite him over to join us. Dan has been managing the Comfort Inn for about 8 months, having moved here from Washington. He’s a smart, friendly guy who’s getting to know the local culture and history, and seems to be enjoying his new hometown. We spend dinner with him, with us each getting each other’s take on Clarksdale.

At some point, Dezie, our hostess starts rummaging through a box in the office, which happens to be have it’s open door right near our table. I see she’s got Depot t-shirts, and she offers one up and asks if we want to buy one. I jump at it, and she throws me an XL. She asks blue Frog if he wants one, but he declines, stating he “can’t wear white t-shirts because I end to get food on ‘em.” He asks if they come in any colors, but no, replies Dezie, they only have white. The other hostess, Carrie comes over and takes our table’s picture, and then mine, as unbeknownst to me when I bought it, turns out I’m the first t-shirt buyer they’ve had. She then starts asking if we think they’d sell more if they had colors and we all agree they probably would. The staff all have bright orange Depot t-shirts, and I ask whether they have more of them. She says they do, but only for staff. I argue (in my New York-friendliest way) with her that as the first buyer of one of their t-shirts, I should be able to get an exclusive deal on an orange one. I even point out that it’ll go with my prison-issue duds. She smiles and goes to get me an orange one, with the proviso that I wear it around town this weekend. I agree and I’m now the exclusive non-staff owner of a bonifide Depot Restaurant of Clarksdale orange t-shirt. (And it’s my ugly mug you see on their site hawking the shirts!)

Our food was delivered- Po’ Boys and catfish and steaks- all dee-lish. Charlie Ledbetter, the owner, stops by our table for small talk and to find out how our meal is. We’re getting ready to head out, and we’re taking pictures of Dezzi and Carrie, Charlie’s daughter and they start fussing about the photo, and I make a statement that i can Photoshop them to however they’d like to look. Dezie replies, “You know how to do that stuff?”  I tel he that I can do “that stuff” in my sleep. She grabs my sleeve and pulls me into the office ad starts looking through the desk drawers. She pulls out an envelope with some old 3×5 black-and-white photographs of the train station from what looks like somewhere between 1930-1960.  She asks me if I can “fix these up and make ‘em bigger?”  I say that sure I can do this for her, but I’m shocked that she’s asking me, as she hardly knows me, and she’s trusting me with what are obviously one-of-a-kind heirlooms.  Such is the type of folks one meets in Clarksdale. Genuinely friendly, kind and trusting.  We swap personal information, and I promise her that I’ll take care of the pictures and will scan them, fix them up,  and print them out and send them all back to her in a few weeks. She’s happy she’s found someone who’ll do the job for free, and she doesn’t seem fazed by giving them to someone she’s just met, who lives 1500 miles away. I am touched my her trust.

Been home a week now, and I’ll start working on them soon. I aim to keep that trust.

We head over to Ground Zero for an open blues jam. Almost immediately after walking in, we start seeing “old friends.” I say this because, as The Mighty Blue Frog has writ in his BlitzBlog entries, the people in This Special Place really do treat us like old friends. We see our young friend Dub, who bear hugs us all in greeting. We see Big-T, Lala, Mr. Tater and co-owner Bill Luckett, all who greet us like we’re being welcomed home for Thanksgiving dinner. It is  heartwarming and brings a true smile to my face. We see familiar faces from last year like young Jacqueline and even-younger Omar.

The music starts off with Guitar Mikey, with whom Blue Frog played in front of Bluestown Music last year.

Blue Frog and Guitar Mikey jam in front of Bluestown Music. Bal’more meets The Great White North.

I didn’t even recognize Mikey as the same person, not because of his appearance, but because of his guitar virtuosity. From my hazy memory, it seems as though his guitar ability has increased exponentially. I recall enjoying watching him last year, thinking he was pretty dern good, but watching him now…well, he was amazing! He’d said last year he was moving to Clarksdale from his native Canada (via both Boston and Chicago) and man, the year spent in the Delta seems to have transformed him. Guitar Mikey now has a stage presence and skills I hadn’t seen a year ago.

With Mikey hosting, we watched a rotating procession of locals, like Mr. Tater, who got everybody up and dancing with a couple of songs. Tater exudes such a joy on stage that is infectious and just makes you smile and dance. While sure, you’ll never understand a word of the lyrics, you just can’t help but love Tater. (As he ascended the stage, I said “Ten bucks for whoever gets the most lyrics!” and Big-T who was standing nearby about fell over laughing.)

Soon after, our pal Dub got up and sang Tracy Chapman’s “Gimme One Good Reason” with a rockin’ blues bent that I remember falling head over heels for last year.

Next up was Nellie Tiger Travis, whose powerful voice and stage presence just brought the house down with Etta James’ I’d Rather Go Blind, with one of those drop-the-mike-and-walk-off-the-stage “WOW” moments.

We couldn’t get enough of her, and later in the evening, we chatted Nellie and her manger/friend Dorothy up on the front porch of the club, and they both couldn’t have turned out to be nicer, more real, more charming folks. No star-divas here in Clarksdale. (and keep in mind, this is a woman who’d brought a 15,000 seat crowd to their feet at Chicago’s blues fest a few weeks earlier). We knew we’d be talking to Nellie and Dorothy throughout the weekend. More friends made.

By then it was about 1 o’clock and  we figured if we we’re gonna make it awake for or breakfast, we’d better head back to the motel, where of course, we gathered in Blue Frog’s room to shoot the breeze and plan our carousing for tomorrow.