Archive for March, 2012

Blues Travelin': Part III – Kings

When I woke up I was sleeping on the street
I felt the world was dancing, and I was dirt beneath their feet
When I woke up I saw the Devil looking down
But my Lord He played guitar the day love came to town”

– B. B. King

Note: This is the last part of a three-parter. The first part of this story is here and the second part is here.

Tuesday

Tuesday I slipped out of the conference during an hour when all of the sessions seemed neither relevant nor interesting and set out up Union Avenue on my way to its intersection with Marshall and Myrtle streets. Union is a main thoroughfare running to the edge of town from the door of the Peabody Hotel, in the lobby of which, after all, the Mississippi delta is famously said to begin, so I was surprised that it was so empty of businesses.

Only a few blocks from the city center are empty lots where only old Magnolias suggest someone ever kept a business or residence here. This is actually not Union but Beale.

I did see a furniture store that displayed fine wood fireplace mantels in the windows of an old building that I at first thought was derelict, and one eatery called the Sky Grille or something like that, and I’m sure there must have been other concerns along the way, but my strongest impression was that Memphis was pretty bombed out, that it had never recovered from some long ago recession, long enough ago that commercial buildings and maybe even some nice old Victorian homes had disappeared leaving stately old Magnolia trees to stand sentinel over weedy lots in places where, if it were Seattle, shiny new condos would be opening up.

It was a little depressing, but as I’ve said before, I’m kind of attracted to urban decay, maybe because it so readily exposes the layers of time.

It was originally called Memphis Recording Service.

The layers of time have been kept from settling on the narrow building at 706 Union, which is where, in 1953 the teenaged Elvis Aaron Presley walked into Sam Phillips’ Memphis Recording Service to make a record and answered the famous question of who he sounded like with the famous line, “I don’t sound like nobody.”

Sun Studio, as it later became known, has been preserved pretty much as it looked back then, and for $12 you can take a tour that leads you up a steep stairway into a room full of photos, old recording gear and other memorabilia related to the famous people whom Sam Phillips recorded here both before and after the night in July 1954 Elvis cut the version of “That’s All Right” that, when Dewey Phillips played it on his radio program “Red Hot and Blue” three days later, got so many people out of their chairs and on the phone that he was forced to play the record over and over again that night.

Tour guide Jason at Sun Studios.

Jason was the guide for the tour I joined of about two dozen people and he made it fun with enthusiastic storytelling and possibly the most interesting combination of face and head hair I’ve ever seen. He ran us through the key artists who recorded there — Rufus Thomas Jr., Chester Burnett (a.k.a. Howlin’ Wolf), Ike Turner, and the Prisonaires among others — and told us what the significance of each contribution was, waving a remote to cause snippets of the original recordings to envelope us so we could hear what he was talking about.

A museum of Memphis music behind glass. Upstairs at Sun.

A famous story says that an amp fell off the roof rack of the car Ike Turner’s band was driving to the studio in Memphis, and even though they stuffed some paper inside it to mitigate damage to the woofer, it sounded distorted. However, Sam Phillips liked the effect and used it in the finished recording of “Rocket 88″, which became a smash hit and is regarded by some (not many who know anything about the history of music, though) as the first rock ‘n’ roll recording. I missed part of what Jason was saying when he pointed to an old torn speaker behind the glass, but I believe he was saying it was the very speaker used in the recording.

The tour ends back downstairs in the original studio, the very room where Elvis recorded his first songs, and where the exact spot where he supposedly stood that night is marked on the linoleum floor with an X of black tape. On the west wall hung a photo of the “Million Dollar Quartet”. The story there was that Carl Perkins was in the studio one day to record some rockabilly, with an as-yet-unknown Jerry Lee Lewis on piano to fatten up the lean rockabilly sound, when celebrities Elvis and Johnny Cash both happened to stop by the studio. Phillips recorded their impromptu session and a photographer from the local paper was rushed over to snap the famous photo., which has already appeared at least thrice in this Memphis set of posts.

There's a busted up amp in the display...maybe the one that started all that damned distorted racket?

At the end of the tour, Jason stood an old microphone in the middle of the room and said it had been discovered in the back room years ago when the building was being restored. He couldn’t say for sure now, but it might have been the very microphone used by any number of celebrities who recorded there. We were welcome to take pictures pretending to sing into it, or really singing into it if we wanted.

The 40-minute-or-so tour had caused me to miss not only the conference session I wanted to skip, but the next one as well, so I had to beat it back to the Peabody, and since everyone hesitated I jumped forward and went first. I asked Jason to take my photo, and he thoughtfully counterposed my (pretend) crooning face against that of the King.

What do you think. Should I keep the day job? Photo by Jason.

I hoofed it back downtown, but since it became clear that I was also going to miss the provided lunch, I went back by Beale Street instead of Union so I could get some chow. I wanted to try some barbecued ribs. It was suddenly nearly 80 degrees and I’d walked a mile or two and was hot. The King’s Palace advertised ribs and air conditioning, and there was a family and several other parties inside, so I went in and ordered. When I asked for the barbecue banquet server Rob asked if I wanted the “dry rub” or the wet barbecue and I asked him what he recommended.

“Dry on the ribs, wet on the pulled pork.”

“Great,” I said. “Let’s do that.”

“Alright. Let’s dance,” he said and disappeared into the back.

By the time my food came out the family and the couple had left and there was just a guy at the bar. I was the lone diner in a big dark room, darker because it was so bright out on the street now. I felt a renewed pang of loneliness, and that’s putting it mildly. I’m one needy little human, I tell ya. This was the nadir of the trip, I sitting at a table alone in a huge dark dining room, like some miserable king. To make it worse, some blues band started kicking it up outside on the sunny patio, where I hadn’t even realized it was an option to sit. I considered asking them to move me to an outside table but I was suddenly weak and helpless against the voice in my head that told me it would be unseemly to trouble the wait staff so frivolously, and I couldn’t do it.

“You know how to eat this?” Rob asked as he set a big plate down in front of me. I said I was ready to be schooled. He said “Well, there’s the right way and then there’s the civilized way.”

“I want to know the right way,” I said, whereupon he told me that if I wanted to be civilized I could flip the ribs upside down and then I’d be able to see where the knife could go to cut them apart, but that the right way was just to…here he lifted his hands to his face and growled and gnashed his teeth to signify someone (a local, presumably) tearing the meat off the ribs. I thanked him for the tip and applied myself to the messy task at hand. I have not eaten a lot of ribs in my time, but I believed then and now that those were the best ribs I’ve ever had. I told Rob so when he swung by.

“Have you tried our gumbo?”

“No, but I had gumbo up the street at Blues City last night.”

His eyebrows did a strange thing, as if I’d responded with a non sequitur, and he said “Uh…did that place have trophies out front for ‘best gumbo’ like we do?” I said I hadn’t noticed. Rob said, “hmmm, I was just checking…” with a sardonic edge and then asked if I wanted to taste some, on the house. He brought me some gumbo in a little paper taster cup. It was, I will admit, better gumbo. I finished my meal and could barely haul myself back to the hotel for the afternoon sessions.

The National Civil Rights Museum. Who knew it was controversial?

After the last session I walked south along the river, the Mississippi River, then turned east to find the Lorraine Motel at 450 Mulberry Street, which is now the National Civil Rights Museum. This is where Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered in 1968. (Most people say he was “assassinated” but I don’t see any real use for that word; it mainly sounds like a way of abstracting away the brutality of killing somebody.) The museum was closed by then, but I stood for a few moments acknowledging my senseless white guilt about what happened here.

There were a number of other tourists at the motel. Jacqueline Smith was there, too, at her table across the street. I had heard just two days earlier about this woman Jacqueline Smith, a black woman who has protested on the streetcorner across from the motel (often camping out) for twenty years. She was the last resident of the motel when it was closed in 1988 and she was evicted and, in the end, forcibly removed (but only, so I’ve heard, after barricading herself in her room). She feels strongly that King would not have approved of nine million dollars being spent on a museum for him nor the replacement of affordable housing for the poor in that neighborhood with the upscale condos and lofts that have been going up for years.

Where Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. I'm not sure if the Caddie parked out front was actually the car MLK arrived in or not.

I walked over to her crude table, which had blue tarps draped around it for covering at night. I usually avoid proselytizers and torchbearers of every stripe but what I’d heard of her position seemed worth hearing and I told myself I could give her ten minutes of my time (oooh, such largesse). She was sitting and reading a thick book whose title I couldn’t see. She was thin and severe looking. She did not look up at me. I perused her signage, which included one that said “Gentrification is Abuse”. I asked her if she could tell me her story. Without taking her eyes off her book she said “There’s a website.”

*

After the long, nonplussed moment represented by the above asterisk, I said, “Well I can read, but I thought it might be better to hear what you have to say directly from you.”

“I’m done talking for the day,” said Jacqueline Smith, turning a page.

And that was that. I wanted to take a photo of her but it would have been crass. Or I don’t know, maybe it would have been perfect. The world is beyond me to understand. Her website is a little spacey, but it’s here. The conversation I would have liked to have with her was what did she envision as the alternative to either gentrification or leaving the city to rot, since she advocates a space between — the possibility of cleaning up a neighborhood without pricing the poor out of it, of actually maintaining a poor neighborhood — the existence of which I believe developers and city fathers would surely deny.

Chris and Mike can now say they've played Beale Street.

That evening I called the one person whom I’d made a solid contact of at the mixer the night before, a youngster named Scott. He said, yes, his boss Chris and another guy had taken their guitars down to Beale and were about to play on the sidewalk. He was there with them now. I should come on over. I skibbled over to Beale — without a jacket! — and found them on a corner next to where fairy tale carriages pulled by draft horses were waiting for customers. While waiting for the boys to “warm up” I talked to Jenny and the big black horse who stood waiting to pull the carriage she had for rent.

“What’s his name?” I asked, giving him hearty pats on his thick neck.

“Cash.”

“Ah,” I said, getting the connection. “The ‘horse in black’.”

“Right,” she said. “Only it’s Bobby, not Johnny.”

Chris and Mike, one of the conference speakers, played some bluegrass numbers while folks passed by on their way to the clubs or stopped to inquire about the carriage rides. I suggested somebody put a hat out, and one of us did, and Scott and I greased it with a few dollar bills so passers-by might be prompted to throw. Then we walked over to a restaurant of some local fame called the Rendezvous, just up an alley east of the Peabody, and they all ordered ribs. The dry rub recipe is legendary here, and if you go you’re encouraged to order the brisket. One of the women told me in her sweet but not heavy southern accent that she’d grown up here in Memphis when the only places downtown that weren’t boarded up were Schwab’s Hardware and the Rendezvous.

Blue no more. Finally, this howlin' lone wolf finds a pack to run with. Photo by Matthew Ellison.

I still hadn’t digested all the barbecue I’d eaten on my late lunch, so while everyone else ordered ribs and beer I presided over a pitcher of cola. The evening waxed convivial and the laughter rang out. I was wedged in tight against the wall, my new friends having accepted my presence there as though I had merely been misplaced and had now caught up with them. They were smart and funny and friendly, and I wondered why it had taken until my last night in Memphis to hook up with them.

Great Seattle Gargoyle Hunt #13

The Great Seattle Gargoyle Hunt continues with a thirteenth gargoyle, even though hunt #12 is at the moment of this writing still unsolved. This shot includes a few extra clues, because hey, I don’t want this to be agony, I want it to be fun. For rules of play see the first entry, here.

Where is this 107-year-old lion? Use the comments to submit your answer…or even your silly wild-ass guess. No answer that includes a Seattle location is invalid (it may be wrong but it won’t be invalid). Throw out a guess and see what happens.

Gargoyle #13

Blues Travelin': Part II – “Yo Bob…”

I’m goin’ to the river maybe by and by
yes I’m goin’ to the river, and there’s a reason why
because the river’s wet and Beale Street’s done gone dry”

–W. C. Handy

Note: This is part two of a three-parter. The first part of this story is here.

Monday

The sun came out the next day and it got even warmer. I didn’t notice right away because I was in conference sessions all day and took my midday meal at the Networking Luncheon, in which each table has a topic and you can choose a topic based on something you know a little about, or don’t know about but want to know more. Getting to know other tech writers for some reason has been very difficult for me (I’m the lone textsmith at my company and I’ve been there since the late Precambrian), so I always take advantage of the luncheon to try to make some tech writer friends. I sat at the “Flare” table (Flare is a help authoring tool by Madcap Software that I use) in order to chat with other Flare users.

The Mississippi River between buildings of downtown Memphis. Arkansas is yonder.

I met several nice people; a guy whom I have actually encountered and been helped by in online support forums for Flare who goes by the handle “docguy”, and a woman named Amber who’d flown from Melbourne Australia at her own expense to participate in the conference because her company couldn’t afford to send her and she wanted to be here. She told me when I ran into her later that I had something stuck in my teeth. What would the world be like without Australians?

Fried green tomatoes right out of the skillet. Step on up.

A mixer on the roof of the hotel was scheduled for early evening, and because of the rain of the previous evening the talk all day had been about moving the event inside if it was yucky out. But when I stepped out of the elevator hall onto the roof — being met there of course by a friendly, freshly pressed hotel staff member who smiled and asked how I was — I was shocked at how warm the evening was. The sun was heading down but still very bright and the only clouds in the sky were cheery little cumulus puffs. Aside from the annual February Tease Seattle’s been uninhabitably cold so far this year, consistently ten degrees colder it seems than normal on any given day. Standing on a rooftop in the evening without a thick coat in Seattle would be impossible at this time of year (most times of year, in fact), and I was a little disoriented. Coat-lag.

I mingled for a while, actually did a good job getting out of my shyness and engaged some more folks in banter. It helped that a debate broke out about the propriety of putting sour cream, bacon crumbs, chives and grated cheese on fried green tomatoes, which were being fried up in front of our noses right there on the roof. I thrive in situations like that, though that’s not to say that my lively additions to the melee helped clarify anything. Incidentally, I had never had FGTs before and I could have eaten them all night. I normally give a wide berth to passing fried foods, but this was definitely not a time to stick to dietary principles. I hoisted the When-in-Rome and hove to in the lee of the tomato bar.

Beale Street on a night when it's not raining...wall to wall blues fans. This is the outdoor patio of King's Palace Cafe.

A street artist captures siblings for a visiting family.

I tried to find some people to link up with for a dinner outing, preferably over to Beale Street, whose thunderous music reached our ears riding the warm breeze from several blocks away (this was another surprise: it seems that often when you’re outside in Seattle, all you hear are freeways). I knew someone would have to be going out to eat, especially on a night like this, but discovering them was the problem. Many of the speakers hang out together, and while they are not necessarily aloof they also don’t make announcements about their dinner plans. Also, some people come to the conference with some or all of their colleagues. I had no one, and while it was fun to be on an adventure — I enjoyed traveling solo in my twenties — I missed my wife and daughters and felt a vague sense of dread as I headed to Beale Street alone again.

The difference a little water makes on Beale is unbelievable. Gone was yestereve’s rain and in its place were mobs of people, standing on the sidewalks, crossing the street (which is a no-car zone between Second and Fourth), even one guy doing flips down the center of the street — you know, head over feet in fast arches like a gymnast — and crowding around the bars and tables and stages in the restaurants. I wandered around a bit just taking in the various sounds, perusing the gift shops that were all full of Elvis and Betty Boop and tacky jazz and gaudy blues gear.

The music venues are one after another on Beale.

I saw a sign for gumbo outside a cafe that looked like it had a few free tables and got a sudden hankering. I asked the man standing outside with menus how much for a bowl of gumbo. He flipped the menu around  a few times trying to find the price, mumbled that this wasn’t his normal joint, he was working several places this evening. I asked where he normally worked, and he said the Blues City Cafe. He said the gumbo over at Blues City was exceptionally good; the recipe had been stolen out of Baton Rouge several hundred years ago. I didn’t necessarily believe this but I liked the idea. On the other hand, I had already walked by Blues City and it was crowded to the gills because of the live music. This place had no music, at least for the moment, so I went in and sat at a table. I waited a while for someone to say something to me, offer me water, something. Then I waited some more. There was a woman behind the bar and a young man moving around quickly doing something with buckets, but no one seemed to be minding the customers. A group of girls that had come in before me still had not yet been addressed either, though they were involved with their phones and didn’t seem to mind. I’m kind of a stickler for service, so I left after about eight minutes and walked up to Blues City.

Gary Hardy and the Memphis 2. The math adds up. On the screen is a photo of the "million dollar quartet" -- Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins with guitar, Johnny Cash and Elvis on the keys.

The front door was mobbed. A grey-bearded older gent asked me for how many and I said one, and I could see that that was not what he wanted to hear. He told me to hang out a bit. Several parties of more than one were waiting on the sidewalk by the door, the place was so packed. The man came out after a few moments and suggested I go into the other door and order at the bar, the menu was the same, so I went around to the other door and took up a seat at the bar. I ordered a bowl of gumbo and listened to the show. Gary Hardy and the Memphis 2 were on stage. They have a habit of playing a few notes of a song and then pausing while Gary regales the audience with some interesting history about the performer. When I came in he was telling the scandalous tale of Jerry Lee Lewis, and after that they played a number of Johnny Cash songs, and Gary sounded a lot like Johnny, really.

The gumbo was really tasty, hot, though salty to the point that the flavors were a little overpowered, if that’s possible (I thought salt was supposed to enhance the flavors present, but this salt seemed to have a voice of its own). Maybe whoever the recipe was stolen from let it be stolen so the thieves would perish of thirst on the run? As the clientele shifted around me over the next half hour, it came about that a woman was sitting on the stool next to me and her husband was standing behind me. I offered him my seat and in so doing pulled the pin on a torrent of southern-fried friendliness. He wouldn’t hear of rousting me from my seat but I told him I was about to square up and skedaddle, and he asked where I was from. He and his wife were farmers in Kentucky and had stopped in Memphis for a treat. They had eight thousand acres of wheat, corn and soy. They wanted to buy me a beer for the road and I felt bad declining. We chatted loudly over the antics of Gary, who was now saying that the U.S. government had systematically eradicated the name Billy Joe from the earth by inducing country singers to kill off characters with that name in song lyrics. (As proof, he asked for a show of hands how many people named Billy Joe were in the crowd and there were none. Q.E.D.)

Dr. Feelgood play to a crowded room. I had to elbow people aside on the sidewalk to get this shot.

I didn't go into the Rum Boogie Cafe, but it had one of my favorite signs.

I felt a warm glow from my interaction with the farmer couple as I headed back to the Peabody, and it made me wish I’d just hung out with them for a while, or that they’d showed up before I’d eaten. I realized afresh how eating alone is just one of the worst human experiences, an unnatural situation despite how often it occurs. I loved the gumbo and the music but what was the point? It doesn’t feel worth it to travel if I have to eat by myself. It really made me feel blue. I had the blues. I had the Memphis blues on Beale Street, because I couldn’t turn to my soul mate and say, “hey, you wanna hear my favorite palindrome? It’s ‘Yo Bob, mug o gumbo, boy!'” and because she would already have heard it a million times.

To be continued…

Blues Travelin': Part I – The Best Kept Secret

Just walkin’ in the rain
Getting soaking wet”

–The Prisonaires

Because a family of ducks lives on the roof, and because the ducks are trained to ride the elevator down to the lobby thirteen floors below and waddle the length of a red carpet to the fountain in the lobby’s high-ceiling’d center, the Peabody Hotel on Union Street in Memphis, Tennessee is world famous. It is a lovely building, having been resuscitated, like many other buildings in the city, from the twin devastations of an economic recession and an ill-advised urban renewal program in the 1970s that together nearly emptied the downtown of business. Two blocks south, Beale Street had fallen by that time into such decay and abandonment that few would have recognized it as the home of the blues. Among the few businesses that were hanging on by the skin of their teeth were a family hardware store that had been run by the Schwab family since it was founded a hundred years earlier by Abraham Schwab, and a barbecue joint called the Rendezvous that specialized in what they call a “dry rub” in those parts, as opposed to a wet barbecue sauce.

Welcome to Memphis' finest.

Of course that was then, and though the economy is ailing again now, the hotel is (indeed all three businesses are) reaping the rewards of having stuck it out through the worst of times. Busloads of tourists arrive to witness the March of the Ducks at 10 o’clock every morning, the lobby chairs and sofas are full of guests every evening enjoying the bar until late in the evening, crisply liveried staff members smile and greet you in the halls and ask you how you’re doing, the taxis come and go, the doorman in a bright red coat and a black tophat opens the door for you, and the guestrooms are clean and cheerful. The Peabody seems to be the center of Memphis again. It was the location for a convention of technical writers that I attended last week. I’m fixin’ to tell you all about it. We’ll take it in chunks.

Sunday

I was tired when I landed in Memphis, the kind of tired that catching planes all day and two-hour delays on the runway at Salt Lake City make you. But worse, I was hungry. We don’t have time to dwell on this and everyone has had bad flying days, so enough already. When I landed in Memphis the airport was shutting up its pizza and burger joints for the night, and all I’d eaten all day was tiny bags of peanuts. My head was buzzing and I was having trouble making decisions, staying focused. I had been warned ahead of time by the concierge at the Peabody that TennCo, the airport shuttle, was unreliable. She would never recommend them for going from the hotel to the airport because half the time they don’t show, but I was willing to give them a shot getting from the airport to downtown. I was already late, there was nothing to miss. I called the number but got an automated message instructing me to leave my number and a message, they’d call me back. I left my number and a message that I wanted a ride to downtown, then went to find a taxi. I asked the security man where the shuttle would be if it came, and he pointed and said, “That looks like one of their cars there!” I thanked him and ran out to a black SUV.

"Old Beale Street is coming down..." This photo was taken by the Historic American Buildings Survey in 1974. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, TN-60-3.

The shuttle man was loading up the luggage of one Mrs. Fairchild when I approached him, and it turned out he was on the lookout for me. TennCo never called me back, but they called their shuttle driver and told him to keep an eye out for me. I got in next to Mrs. Fairchild, who I quickly found was one of those good-natured, long-sufffering people who make you just really happy to be an American and have them as your countryman. She was bearing up under a terrible day with a self-deprecating air of half-hearted exasperation that lacked any sign of anger or resentment. After a flying day that resembled mine, she’d gotten into the wrong airport shuttle by mistake, and when that company had figured out she was supposed to be in someone else’s rig — I guess it was a prepaid arrangement — they circled back, instead of just dropping her off at her hotel as a courtesy, and dumped her at the airport, which is where our shuttle man, Greg I think his name was, eventually found her on his second time through looking for her. Good for him, good for her, good for me.

We headed to town while Greg cooed soothing words to Mrs. Fairchild in his kind southern accent, how they should have taken her to her hotel, how a good night sleep would do her good, and when we dropped her at the Marriott he shouted to the doorman, whom he knew by name, that “this is Mrs. Fairchild, you take good care of her now.”

On the way to the Peabody Greg and I talked about old buildings. I was so hungry I could barely think. Greg pointed out his favorite building in the city, the Lincoln American Tower. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Twenties?”

The celebrity waddle. The Peabody Ducks exit the elevator and head for the fountain. The Duckmaster is in a red coat behind them.

I checked in, missing the restored grandeur of the hotel in my light-headedness, tossed my bag in a room with high ceilings and Hermitage yellow walls, and went out in search of food. It was raining but warm. I hesitated to eat at T.G.I.Friday’s right across the street from the hotel when there was surely more authentic local fare nearby, but I’ve learned the hard way, repeatedly, that when my tank is empty I get stupid, and I start trying to do too much, save money, eat healthy, eat more creatively, and I go in circles of indecision and prolong the disaster. I tore into a chunk of salmon in a sweet mango sauce and the largest florets of broccoli I’d ever seen, and left Friday’s feeling restored. I was tired, as I said, but I was not sleepy because on top of Daylight Savings Time going into effect that morning I had moved two time zones closer to the beginning of time. So I was actually three hours younger than the clock said I was. I headed to Beale Street.

Beale Street, the famous home of the blues (it was originally named Beale Avenue but it’s name was changed after the success of W. C. Handy’s hit song “Beale Street Blues”) was empty*. I heard a local woman later say that Memphians don’t go out in the rain. I guess they’re not memphibious. Seattleites don’t have a choice, we can’t “wait it out”, so here I was, ready to walk on one of the most famous streets in America and hear some authentic Delta blues. The colors of the many neon signs bled in the reflections off the wet pavement. I thought it was actually quite fetching.

Beale Street on a rainy Sunday evening. "Ribs here."

Beale Street is different today from what it used to be. In the early days of the 20th century it was a business district like many similar streets in other towns, but it was in clubs and restaurants along this thoroughfare (many negro-owned) that musicians developed the style that became known as the Memphis blues or Delta blues. By the time Joni Mitchell sized it up in the mid-1970s in her song “Furry Sings the Blues” the street and its music scene had long been in decline and many of its buildings had been knocked down. Those remaining were all boarded up, with the sole exception of Schwab’s. Preservation efforts saved just two long blocks and one short one, which are now again chock full of clubs such as Blues City Cafe, B. B. King’s, King’s Palace Cafe, Rum Boogie Cafe, W. C. Handy’s Blues Hall, and Silky O’Sullivan’s. But Beale Street is now a dream of itself, a tourist attraction built by a development company out of the ashes and rubble of the neighborhood. Some people for this reason don’t consider it to be authentic. I didn’t care. This is where one of the parents of Rock n’ Roll was born (the other being country music) and I wanted to appreciate whatever was left of it in whatever shape it came in.

A man in a brown, short-sleeved shirt and a rimmed felt hat and chinos called to me. “Hey, come on in!” He was standing just outside the doorway of a dark, dingy looking club, a narrow building with a bar along the right side and a band making some bluesy music in the back, and he was smoking a cigarette. I thought he was a barker, a man they paid to “pimp” the joint, as the saying goes.

“I’m just going up the whole street checking things out right now,” I said, by way of declining, then looked up at the neon sign above the door. “Where am I?”

“This is the Beale Street Tap Room,” he said. “Best kept secret in Memphis. Where you from?”

The best kept secret? Beale Street Tap Room.

I talked with him for a few minutes and then moved on. I took a few photographs because the street is so colorful at night. As I was walking back along the street the same man came out of a different place about half a block down, having just purchased a pack of cigarettes. I asked him where that taproom was, and he said he was going back there. I told him I don’t drink and asked him if he thought they had a cup of decaf coffee for me there and he said he thought they could probably fix me up. So I said I’d check it out and we walked back to the Beale Street Tap Room.

A man with dreadlocks was playing guitar and singing Bob Marley’s “Waiting in Vain”, backed by a drummer and a bassist. There were one or two people sitting near the door and a couple at the end of the bar playing a little gambling video machine. Two young men sat at one of the large tables near the band and a another couple sat at the other large table. The walls were old brick and the floor was of wide planks — this was one of Beale’s original old buildings. The band played “I Shot the Sherriff” next. I never liked Reggae much and in fact I have only recently become interested — mainly from a historic perspective — in the blues, but I noticed that this band was tight, and the bass player in particular was really earning his keep.

Vince on the harp. Surprise!

I asked the bartender for a decaf joe and she turned and said something to a young man working back there with her, then walked out from behind the bar, through the club and out the back door into the alley. A few minutes later she returned with coffee in a paper cup and a handful of creams.

After the band finished “I Shot the Sherriff” my friend from the front door who I thought was the barker took a stool in front of the band and started playing harmonica and belting out a powerful rendition of “Standing on Shaky Ground”, dragging on his cigarette between verses. I was impressed. When it was time for me to go I went up and asked him his name and he said Vince Johnson. I googled him up when I got back to the hotel and discovered that not only was he Vince Johnson, but he was Vince Johnson of Vince Johnson and the Plantation Allstars. YouTube has a video of Vince sitting on the same stool in the same venue doing a different song (here), though in that line-up the only member of the band that looks familiar to me is the drummer.

I don’t know if Beale Street Tap Room is really a secret, but for me it sure was a surprise.

To be continued…

*The full genius of the title of the 1980’s hit cop show “Hill Street Blues” just now hit me.

Just look #5

I know. I’m working on it. In the meantime, here’s a Just Look, a shot I took last November. It’s a little bit forlorn, but I find myself attracted to such views. I think some of the forlornity of it comes from its showing the outside of a stadium, which is the wrong side of a stadium to be on. A stadium is built to house a big party of fun, so even if there’s nothing happening in one the view of the outside of it naturally promotes a feeling of being left out. Or maybe that’s just the mindset I carry around. Come to think of it, yeah, I’m sure that’s it.

A mopey shot, in case you were feeling too chipper.

A world I’m welcome to

And if the folks will have me
Then they’ll have me”

-Steely Dan

The little neighborhood church that Angela and I have been a part of for more than a dozen years, the church where we were married in the last days of the last century, whose members all held their breath for us when Mara came into our lives and again when Millie came along, and sorrowed with us at the several heartbreaking disappointments between, held its quarterly business meeting this afternoon right after a pot-luck lunch in the basement following the morning service.

There was nothing unusual about this. We heaped our plates with ham and mashed potatoes and potatoes au gratin and pasta salad and green salad and deviled eggs and hot dogs and strawberries and carrots and yellow and orange peppers and coffee and soda and cookies and pastries, and sat ourselves along the long tables to eat it all while catching up on each other’s goings on. Children ran around in adjacent rooms, safe and wild. The agenda was the usual stuff, which I can’t tell you about, except that there was a motion to vote on whether one longtime attendee among us should be accepted as a member of the church.

Becoming and being a member of our little church is not a big deal, and it isn’t that different from not being a member and just participating anyway. We are a small community. As I’ve said before, we’re really a small bunch of families and individuals who happen to like hanging out with each other and who happen also to have a church building to do it in. There aren’t tons of people joining this church. And when they do it’s a pretty informal process.

Back in the days when the church body was bigger there was a class you had to take, just so you’d know the basic stuff about what the church stood for. But nowadays, anyone who joins the church already knows what the church stands for, and what we stand for is each other. We embody the love Jesus handed out without conditions. Anyone joining the church is joining for that reason, because they want to tie up with that ethos and give something back, serve the community in some way. So these days the joining process is a relaxed meeting with the church elders, an exchange of stories about our faith journeys, after which, at the next church business meeting, a vote is put to the membership as to whether so and so should be accepted as a member of the church body.

And then there is a resounding “Aye!” because the vote is always unanimously and joyously affirmative. That’s what happened today, which made me feel really good, because the person the church was voting on was me.

Anyone who’s read this blog for a while knows that I’ve been an outsider, faithwise, and sort of prefer it that way. I quit being a joiner sometime in junior high school. But my family, and I in particular, have benefited much from being a part of this little church community. Though I do not have many close personal one-on-one friends anymore — lost, all, to argument or neglect, a few to geography and time — many of the friends of our family are here. The pastor comes downtown in jeans and slippers to have lunch with me at my favorite diner and pick up conversations that we’ve carried on for years. More than once, untraceable money orders sent by anonymous donors have showed up in the mail just when we have been financially pinched, and we suspect our church friends. Angela joins the women of the church for twice-yearly retreats on Whidbey Island where they all read books and play cards and stay in their pajamas all day and don’t have to refill any sippy cups for anyone.

I began to feel several years ago that it was time for me to join the church. It would be the first time in my life I had ever become a member of a church, even though I’ve been involved — sometimes to a degree painful to myself and others — in many since I was a child. If it was ever to be, it would be with this group of Christians. We lost Peter a couple years ago, and we lost old Ted this past summer, and I’ve been feeling that we are in danger of becoming insufficiently stocked with old farts, and since I am headed swiftly in that direction myself… well, it was time that I declared my intention to be here and to be accountable, to say I’d be happy to grow old here and be known, to help hold down the fort in whatever way I can.

Still, there is absolutely never any pressure at our church to join or give or do or think or believe or feel anything on any schedule or in any prescribed way. You’re simply welcome to be with us and celebrate God’s love and care for us and the mystery of Jesus in the way you best understand it. Consequently, I have dragged my feet. Life is busy. And as I said, besides having a vote at business meetings there is little discernible difference at our church between the members and the “people just being there unofficially”. In fact, Angela and I have always stayed for the business meetings after the potlucks and no one has ever told us that we had to leave before the church membership started to talk money issues, and once recently Bob, the facilitator, asked me to open the meeting with a prayer, which I did, conscious though I was that I must certainly be contravening a breach of church bylaw in asking the Most High to bless our time together. And today Carolyn, Ted’s wife (technically widow) hailed me after the business meeting and with a look of delight across her face declared that she had thought I was a member all this time.

That’s sort of the joke; by the time a person gets around to joining our church, everyone looks around at each other and says, “I didn’t know they weren’t a member!”

It’s funny, but it’s also an indicator of something that I hold important about this bunch. It jibes with my sense of how the Kingdom of God really is. The official rules may be one thing, but how they play out in human life is another. At our church, you’re accepted as soon as you show up, and coming further in is more a matter of becoming further known. Yes, you can join by the official channels if you feel moved to, and over time most do, but you don’t have to do anything to reap the full benefit of belonging to the community. It’s yours just for being, just for walking the earth.

GSGH #10 solution

Our tenth installment of the Great Seattle Gargoyle Hunt took forever to be solved. Apparently, no one wanted to be seen as lunging at such an easy win. I finally had to beg readers for someone to please just toss it out there. Past winner Marni responded with the correct answer because she can’t stand to see me suffer. Here’s a wider crop of the contest image:

Gargoyle #10, as it were.

Marni commented correctly that the gargoyle for contest #10 is an element of the Cobb Building on the northwest corner of Fourth Avenue and University Street. Below is a shot I took last spring showing most of the building, with the Indian heads visible around the exterior of the ninth floor.

The Cobb as it looked when I strolled by in May 2011.

Many moons ago, my children, the white father Arthur Denny donated for the Territorial University a big slab of the hillside beside Elliott Bay, of which he owned the central part. It became known as the Metropolitan Tract. In old birds-eye maps you can see University Street charging up the hill only to be interrupted halfway between Third and Fourth by the grounds of the original Territorial University building, which had four columns to its portico and a distinguishing belfry.

A crop from the 1878 Bancroft birds-eye. The Cobb stands in what is here shown as an undeveloped corner of the University's tract, and partly on top of Fourth Avenue, which at that time jogged around the tract further west than it is now.

A crop from the 1884 birds-eye by H. Wellge. I really should have included these in the Olympic Hotel piece (GSGH #11), since the Territorial University building sat where the Metropolitan Theater and eventually the hotel's motor entrance were built.

A crop from the Hughes birds-eye of 1891. Now that the Plymouth Congregation Church is installed on Third and University (light red, just left and below center), it's a good time to segue to the next photo...

Plymouth Congregational Church on Third Avenue, built in 1891, and the Cobb up on Fourth. Compare with the birds-eyes above, and you'll be able to place the Cobb's location back through history. Fourth Avenue was previously where the alley between the church and the office building appears, but has been moved east up the hill to remove the jogs in it. Photo by Asahel Curtis used with permission, courtesy of the Lawton Gowey collection via Paul Dorpat, with thanks.

The university moved over to Portage Bay where it blossomed into the huge affair it is now. By early 1909, the Metropolitan Building Company, which was developing the downtown acreage on behalf of the university, felt that Seattle had reached the point where it could begin to “centralize various classes of business” the way other major cities did.* Accordingly it drew up its plans for the Cobb as a building “to be given over to physicians and dentists”. The building was designed (by Howells & Stokes) and equipped to maximize its appeal to practitioners of the healing arts. It was finished in 1910 and billed by the Seattle Times as the “finest physicians’ and dentists’ building that has ever been erected in any part of the world”.

The Cobb (left) and its sibling the White-Henry-Stuart Building, circa 1915. Image property of Museum of History and Industry. The WHS was sacrificed to make way for Rainier Tower, the famous "pedestal building".

In case prospective tenants needed the idea of a physicians’ and dentists’ building hammered home, a medallion was placed above the door that depicts a profile of Hippocrates. It’s still there. His name arcs above his profile in Greek capital letters (ΊΠΠΟΚΡΑΤΗΣ), so that people like me tend to see the word Innokpathe, which still works in a way, because to my mind it suggests “enough suffering”. (I know, sorry, I’ll stop.)

The medallion over the entryway is a profile of Hippocrates (click any of these images to enlarge, as usual). The Indian head shown below is in the glowing lit vestibule partly visible to the right here.

An envoy representing the austere assembly nine floors above. This one hangs in an external vestibule which is open to the public all the time. Note the depth of the relief.

One of the terra cotta Indian heads is available for study at close range. It’s in an exterior vestibule to the right of the front entrance on Fourth. I don’t know if this was an extra chief, or if this is one that was removed from up above at some point, or if it was always meant to be here or what. It shares the vestibule with a bank machine, but I think the vestibule is not original to the 1910 floorplan. I think there were retail shops in this space, perhaps as late as my own time. If anyone knows, please say. The sculpture is larger than it looks here, a good six to eight feet tall. I wish I had had the presence of mind to stick a tourist in front of it for scale.

I’ll leave you with several more shots of this arresting edifice, one from a bunch that Paul Dorpat sent over when I told him what I was up to (his own treatment of the Cobb in his Seattle Times “Now & Then” series is here), and two that I shot earlier this year.  Thanks to Marni for delivering the winning ID, to Paul for historic photo support, and to Pedro for digging up some great old newspaper clippings on the building.

The men trading next to the cart at the left edge don't seem to realize or care about the sweeping changes overtaking the neighborhood. Rent's going up, guys! Image courtesy of Paul Dorpat.

The southeast corner of the Cobb against the City Centre Building (née Pacific First Centre) a few blocks away.

One of the Cobb Indians holding on to the last sunlight of the day.

*According to J. F. Douglass, secretary of the Metropolitan Building Company, quoted in an article in the Seattle Times, March 28, 1909.


Categories

The Great Seattle Gargoyle Hunt


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 37 other followers