418 to Clarksdale

 

Part One

418 to Clarksdale

By Kat Danser

For years I’ve literally dreamed the Mississippi Delta culture…the land, the people, the food and, of course, the music.  Until I was 30 years old though I didn’t realize that my dream life was issuing a strong call.  It wasn’t until hearing Bessie Smith sing “T’Ain’t Nobody’s Bizness” by coincidence (if you believe in coincidence) on a Columbia House give away entitled Roots ‘n Blues Sampler that my connection to blues music was born.

As we blues lovers know the well is deep and rich.  A veritable feast at every sip.  I realized that I could not just take a sip from the well so I dove in headfirst and I haven’t surfaced yet.  As my music career developed so, too, did my wish to take a trip to my personal Mecca…the Mississippi Delta.  And I began to dream again of taking a train…the 418…down south to Clarksdale.  (Not only was that the train number but it was also the exact time I woke up in the middle of the night for the first three months of 2008.)   After some research I learned that the Canadian National Railway system runs coast to coast in Canada and also runs south from Winnipeg along lines that follow the Mississippi River all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.  On March 31, 2008, I left my home in Edmonton, Alberta and headed for my hometown of Waldron, Saskatchewan…ground zero for the journey. 

In 1967 I was born and raised near the hamlet of Waldron on a mixed farm.  Our family home was converted from a two-room granary built on top of an old vehicle landfill site.  (It was a common occurrence to hoe potatoes in one of our three gardens and pull up an old chrome mirror, door handle or piece of windshield glass.)  My father, a CNR engineer, and my mother, a schoolteacher, worked hard to earn $80 a week and we mostly lived off the land.  The relationship we held with the land was equal with our relationship to the rails.  Only a few hundred feet from our home, I recall feeling the tracks rumble and hearing the iron on iron roar.  Many times throughout the day the whistle blew announcing it’s arrival and we were always super careful at the crossings.  The sheer locomotive energy made me want to jump aboard and ride the boxcar to wherever it was headed…freedom!  Instead, I left pennies to flatten reminding me of my desire.

However, on this trip my desire to travel would be met.  This time I held onto my pennies and in the sun’s first light I watched as the train floated by issuing a couple extra whistle blows for my early morning efforts.  Then I followed the highways along the CN lines to Winnipeg and continued to follow them as they diverge south meeting up with and eventually following the Mississippi River into Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi and Louisiana.

There are many names for the Mississippi River – the Great River - the Big Muddy – Miza’zippa – but to me the only nickname I could create that would reflect my initial meeting was ‘trickle creek’.  Following the roads and rails I met this legendary river at her headwaters of Lake Itasca, Minnesota.  Melting snow on her banks and Canadian Geese gliding on the water introduced me to a river that looked like a small Alberta creek.  But by the time I crossed this river again in Memphis, Tennessee she was flooded and two miles across.  Quite a contrast.

I arrived in Memphis on the marking of the 40^th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  The National Civil Rights Museum built on the site of this visionary’s tragic death, the Lorraine Motel, is very moving and informative.  A must see for anyone and especially for blues musicians and fans who long to understand African American history from slavery through the civil rights movement and into present day.  It is here that, in my opinion, a true understanding of blues music is held. 

The historic downtown of Memphis is host to the famous Beale Street.  Thanks to the commitment of BB King and many others the neon signs light the way to live electric blues, beer, ribs and peach cobbler.  Some criticize the street for being “too touristy” but my thought was “thank goodness for these efforts or the history would be completely lost.  Bringin’ folks to the blues one tourist at a time can’t be nothin’ but good for the survival of blues music”.  Regardless of which side of the fence one’s opinions lie, blues music is alive and thriving on Beale Street alongside statues of WC Handy and, much beloved, Rufus Thomas.

 Other than the Civil Rights Museum my most meaningful moments musically were centered at Stax Records in a very poor area of West Memphis.  When you think Stax it’s impossible not to whisper the names of some of the all time greats: The Staples Singers, Rufus Thomas, Al Green, Otis Redding and on and on.  I felt like I’d found a piece of my musical longing in the blues funk of the 1960’s.  It all sounded energetic and brand new being in the studio where it all happened.  Incredible!

Legend has it that the Mississippi Delta begins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel in downtown Memphis and ends in Vicksburg, Mississippi.  As I would discover through reading, listening and talking with locals, this too is in question.  Anthropologists indicate that the official Delta begins in Tunica, Mississippi.  I am joined by many music lovers who contented that perhaps  “The Delta” is more that the actual geography and is also about the energy of art through music.  But hey, this is the blues after all…one-quarter truth mixed with three quarters storytelling.  However one wants to view it, I entered the Delta from the lobby of the Peabody destination Clarksdale on Highway 61 alongside the Mississippi River and the CN Line.  

It is quite the deal to realize a dream and driving into the Delta was awe-inspiring.  The blistering, dry heat on flat alluvial soil exuded the traditional Delta blues energy.  Memphis Minnie, Son House, Mississippi John Hurt, Charlie Patton, Tommy Johnson, Skip James, Howlin’ Wolf, Jessie Mae Hemphill, Othar Turner, Robert Johnson, Louise Johnson…all ridin’ the 418 into Clarksdale. 

I was feeling very romantic as I drove into Clarksdale, that is, until the State Patrol pulled me over and I thought “oh great…my moment is ruined”.  They searched my vehicle inside and out with all the charm of a rock and I learned at the end of it that they were looking for an escaped convict from close by Parchman Farm.  I realized immediately that indeed my own blues story was getting richer by the second with this ‘real time’ story about escaped murderers.  We songwriters are always on the look out for good material and this was already turning into a great store.  A sign of many amazing experiences to come.  

[Stay tuned for Part 2:  Turtle Crossings & Frog Leg Wipers.]