Mythomania in the veins through three states: from Louisiana to Tennessee, crossing Mississippi from south to north. From New Orleans to Memphis without forgetting Nashville. From Armstrong’s trumpet to Prince Elvis’ guitar and that of King Johnny Cash. And in between as many names as you can imagine. Jazz, soul, rock and country. A feast. The epicenter of the storm of modern music. Or perhaps I should write old?
The French Quarter in New Orleans and Beale Street in Memphis are the starting and ending points for the binge. And I’m sorry to say that they are disappointing, especially the latter. Beale Street is now the place of discussion about whether the best souvenir T-shirt is black or perhaps blue. True, some tourists are so equipped that they could be part of the old decor, but nothing that one has imagined before arriving can happen here.
Beale Street Menphis
There are some things that are better left unseen. Better cultivated in the imagination than visited. There is substance and truth, but it is easier to find them on the back roads that crisscross the state of Mississippi. Less dramatization, lesser known names and lower expectations lead to much greater satisfaction.
Still, on Beale Street, visitors do their part. People take photos of all the neon signs and film the entire performance of the band that serves as a garnish for the burgers that people eat. Some people order blues, others country, those from the other side rock and perhaps the odd drunk. The Macarena.
On Beale Street, nothing you imagine before arriving can happen.
The ghost riders of Johnny Cash don’t ride down the street, but six members of the Memphis mounted police trot. They join the six patrol cars stationed at the intersections and the private security guards who are in charge of entry and exit searches. Not even in Folsom prison is there so much surveillance. Even with all those uniforms, a girl approaches me and asks if I want to spend the night with a young princess (sic) in exchange for money. Unfortunately, the most real thing on Beale Street is this honky tonk woman offering herself to a guy who could be her father. Her and a quarter bottle of bourbon. Maybe it was half.
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