City of the living dead
Trip Start
Nov 03, 2004
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Trip End
Nov 23, 2006
Memphis,
Tennessee,
United States
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
flies - we killed dozens each evening, waded through their corpses
each morning, and searched daily for the dead body hidden in the
wall) we headed for Memphis. We drove along winding backroads
through the stubbornly green forested hills of the Ozarks (no hint
yet of the firecracker colours of fall) past country stores
and "antique" shops, two-room shacks with garden ornaments of
rusting cars, trailer homes that will never see a trail again, and
massive homesteads with garden ornaments of concrete elk and
pineapples
Elvis's raquetball court
. We've started a collection of odd placenames - today wegot the towns of Oil Trough and Bald Knob, but Possum Grape,
Anderson, Howell, and Leipers Fork were a little far off our route.
This part of the world is called the Bible Belt for good reason.
Billboards, bumper stickers and radio beam the good news
benevolently upon you. Businesses offer good deals to "nice people"
[insert pictorial fish, cross, halo]. Oklahoma, Arkansas and
Tennessee sometimes seem to have more churches per capita than
people per capita. We drove through several towns with populations
under 100 that sported three or four 200 seat churches. By the way,
these people make the Presbyterian church look like leaders in avant
garde architecture - here church design comes in fire station with a
steeple plonked on top
Graceland
.Rocking into Memphis too late (after chasing around after road
signs) we checked into another easy to find, interchangeable chain
motel. Then went off in search of dinner from one of the
ubiquitous roadside restaurants. No such luck - along Elvis Presley
Boulevard, where we are staying (in less style than the King), there
is food to be had but "dinner" must come wrapped in a bun and washed
down with Coke.
Memphis is the city of the dead who live - of the blues and soul
merchants of Beale Street, of Elvis, the King, of the dreamer,
Martin Luther King, Jnr. It's also the city of the living dead,
it's spookily deserted.
Next morning, we went off to visit one of those iconic attractions
you just have to do because it's there - Graceland, Elvis's long-
time home and host to 700,000 visitors per year
The Rum Boogie Cafe 1
. It's a must-do butwe didn't really know what to expect. It's really very good;
sympathetically done, and revealing a fair bit of a man who became a
legend. The house itself is surprisingly small - a very generous
family home rather than a millionaire's mansion. Of course,
the "jungle room" does feature forest green shagpile on the
floor ... and ceiling, with zebra skin accents and orix horn lamps.
The TV and entertainment room is decked out in sunflower, black,
white and mirror tiles, with three TVs because Elvis had heard
President Johnson watched all 3 networks' news at once. Lisa
Marie's swing set is still in the yard and the upstairs rooms,
private, family rooms during his lifetime, remain private today.
The music you know and it's pervasive
The Rum Boogie Cafe 2
. He, Pricilla and Lisa Marietell his story through soundbites. The garage and racket ball court
are museums of his music, his movies, his life. Stories of the boy
who dreamed, nose pressed against the plate glass, of shopping at
Lanksky Bros. and, when able, remained loyal - through both the
black faux fur and lemon crimpaleen suit periods. Of a farmboy
coaxing a bone rattling truck along the roads dreaming of owning an
automobile - one so beautiful he sat up all night watching it the
first night he finally owned one. It caught fire the next day. Of
a man who didn't care for alcohol, was a voracious reader of
inspirational texts, and shot his fridge & TV.
He is buried at his home, in the reflection garden, with his
parents, grandmother and a memorial to his stillborn twin brother.
Floral tributes arrive daily from around the world. Personal tokens
are placed every day by his guests and are removed only when they
become too weather-beaten. It's a tourist mecca and a museum; a
home and a shrine.
The following day David visited the Rock 'n' Soul Museum and I
indulged in some retail aerobics. In the afternoon we had a Mark
Twain moment and sailed the Mississippi on a paddle steamer. The
Mississippi is broad, sluggish, chocolatey. The captain was
altogether too interested in the history of barging on the
Mississippi. The paddle was in no way connected to the engine and
there was definitely no steam.
Dinner was taken at Rum Boogie Café on Beale Street surrounded by
guitars signed by musical icons from Bo Diddly to Axl Rose. The air
is stale and hazy, the floor warped and cowboy boot scuffed, the
catfish hot and the house band's current album is at #16 on the
national blues chart. Do any of you understand how you make music
(and not just noise) with a harmonica, let alone a ten minute solo?
Outside room 306 of the Lorraine Motel the inscription reads, "...
Behold this dreamer cometh. Come now therefore, and let us slay
him ... And we shall see what will become of his dreams". The
motel, site of the assassination of Martin Luther King, (and the
building from which he was shot) now houses the National Civil
Rights Museum. From abolition and a segregated military through two
world wars to the early stands of individuals like Rosa Parks (who
died today at 92), the Freedom Rides, the lunch counter boycotts to
the Freedom March on Washington, the museum tracks the civil rights
movement demands for equal access to education, employment and
political representation. A movement which demanded the right to be
treated with basic dignity while comporting itself with much more of
it than its opponents. It's slanted, obviously, but honest about
schisms and pettinesses as diverse groups with different agendas
tried to work together. It tells much of the story
through "survivors" accounts, recorded speeches and video. It's
intense, exhausting and unfathomable. How could a man with five
years college education be ruled unqualified to vote? When does the
sheriff and not the Supreme Court get to be "the law around here"
and what citizenry puts up with that kind of crap? Why can't the
woman quoted, "I believe, and have done for some time, that niggers
should be allowed to sit at the lunch counter", hear the prejudice
in that statement?
Across the road is a woman who has kept vigil with her placards for
seventeen years, two hundred and sixty-three days. She believes the
museum betrays the dream of Dr King. The museum cost USD 8 million
and generates USD 12 for every entrance. She believes this would be
better spent in the community. Is remembering the history
sufficient if African Americans are still not equal citizens in the
future? What's she doing, other than protesting? We went in
already sympathetic to the cause - is it changing other's
attitudes?
Racism certainly remains alive and well in parts of the South; from
a retired lawyer from Rhode Island (now a church elder in
Charleston) "you can't do anything, they don't want help, or jobs
and we reward them for having more and more children. They just
like disorder and chaos", or from a historic house guide in
Georgia "they're born with their hand out", like it's some sort of
genetic thing - you know, like frizzy hair and juju lips. They do
at least lower their voices when they say it ...
