by Chris Price
Crossroads the film came out in 1986, and made quite an impression on this thirteen-year-old boy. In addition to a pubescent obsession with wanting to actually be the Karate Kid myself, a new fixation was taking over – the guitar. Specifically, getting good at it as quickly as possible and with minimum effort.
Imagine my delight then, upon learning that Macchio had made a film about precisely that. With Steve Vai in it. All I needed to do was sell my soul, sit back, and wait. Virtuoso guitar skills, money and fame would be mine, very possibly even girls into the Faustian bargain. I watched Crossroads somewhere in the region of seven hundred times.
Years later I learned that Jimmy Page had done the same (sold his soul that is, not watched Crossroads seven hundred times, though by all accounts he's a fan of Macchio's more recent TV work). So that's why Led Zeppelin were so good. They cheated. I wanted the adoration heaped upon my idol, but was too idle to put in the hours. Just one thing stood between me and it: I was crap at playing the guitar. There was nothing for it but to sell my soul to the devil.
So the chance of standing on the very same crossroads where Robert Johnson had signed the contract which made him the greatest, most imitated, most influential bluesman – fuck it, most influential musician – on earth, was not one we were about pass up. Joe needed to learn the ukulele, and fast. We were a week away from our final stop in Winter Haven, Florida, where a performance of 'Return of the Grievous Angel' on guitar and uke would mark the end of the trip. Time was running out.
The journey to Clarksdale took us through flat, featureless fields of nothingness past countless hoardings advertising, in the way American roadside signs so often do, tantalising attractions several hundred miles up ahead. Just 214 miles to Diamond Jack's casino, only 168 to The Bodyshop strip joint ('with truck parking!') and, according to a ten-foot-tall oriental lady licking her luscious lips at us all the way along I69, a mere 106 miles to Jade Spa massage parlour, also with truck parking (all that trucking must play havoc with your back).
This was the the Missisippi Delta, a flood plain between the Mississippi and Yazoo rivers whose regular submergence under the swollen waterways along its perimeter have created some of the most fertile cotton fields in the world. Cotton is a very, very thirsty crop, which is why when grown in less suitable environments it can ruin an ecosystem quicker than a Republican government. But it found an ideal home in the Mississippi Delta, as did tobacco and sugar, all simple to grow and easy to harvest provided you had enough time, energy and... what's that other thing? Oh yes, slaves.
Which is why the Mississippi Delta is a predominantly black area, and why even at the turn of the twentieth century, two generations after the abolition of slavery, two thirds of the independent farmers were black. Out of this blossomed an independent culture quite unlike any other, and along with it came a musical mix of work songs, spirituals and chants known as the blues.
Every October since 1995 a debate has rumbled to the surface of the British music media. The reason for this petty annual squabble is the MOBOs, an awards ceremony devoted to the celebration of black music in the UK. MOBO stands for 'music of black origin', and therein lies the argument: what exactly is 'music of black origin'?
'Music with roots in black culture' is the common response, which seems a perfectly laudable stab at a definition. Hip hop, for example, undoubtedly emerged from black New York in the mid-seventies, and soul can trace its lineage back to the torch singing of Billie Holliday and her peers. The same can be said of the Best Jazz, Best Reggae and Best Gospel categories of the MOBOs. But why – and this is what gets folk so hot under the collar – don't the MOBOs ever give awards for techno, or funk, or blues?
No awards ceremony can cater for all possible music genres (though Lord knows the Grammys tries) but this rather arbitrary drawing of lines has always enraged several journalists who subscribe to the belief that all music, all modern music anyway, is of black origin. The backdrop to this is Clarksdale, at the heart of the Mississippi Delta. Because it's here that modern music first drew breath, and the person who drew that breath – Robert Johnson – was black.
Today, Clarksdale looked like many other small American towns, with one significant difference. To the casual passer-by, it appeared to be closed. Every store, gas station, bank, restaurant and 'emporium' in downtown Clarksdale had apparently shut down long ago; behind every dusty window sat clusters of ageing products on sagging shelves. Even the pawn shops had gone out of business. It was like driving around the set of a twenties gangster movie during a writers' strike.
'God this is grim,' said Chris.
'It sure is.'
'The only places that are open are churches.'
First United Methodist Church passed to our right. Then a Baptist church. Then an Episcopal prayer house followed by another Methodist church. Apparently Clarksdale is a very God-fearing place.
Chris shook his head. 'Do you know what, I think I'd believe in God if I lived here.'
Silence. More churches.
We drove around, got prodigiously lost, then drove around some more before finally rolling, by means of a deserted drive-thru bank, into one of the many empty parking spaces in front of a red-brick rail shed, home of the Delta Blues Museum. Founded in 1979, it proudly claims to be the 'the state's oldest music museum', narrowly edging out the Hattiesburg Institute of Hard House by a matter of weeks.
The Delta Blues Museum is a noble attempt to do justice to a very slippery subject matter. Blues came from this very town, and blues changed popular music forever. Think of your favourite band. Now think of your favourite band's favourite bands – the artists who influenced them. Keep going and you'll likely pass through the Beatles, maybe Elvis at some point. Keep going. Eventually you'll get to Robert Johnson. Before that, either it wasn't 'popular' or it was chamber music.
But like any museum of music or hall of fame, when you try to cram a century of abstractions into a single room you're left with all the paraphernalia of music-making but none of the soul of the songs themselves. And that's what we were here for. A few guitars, a harmonica or two, some articles of clothing and several pieces of wood that were once a wall in Muddy Waters' house filled the cases and lined the walls, but in truth there wasn't much to engage the casual blues investigator.
A sign in the section devoted to Robert Johnson read: 'Johnson is said to have sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads in the centre of Clarksdale in exchange for the gift of music, although this is largely based on romantic speculation.' It also rather presumes the existence of God, the devil and indeed the soul in a saleable form. But Clarksdale, Mississippi is not a place where questioning such things is considered acceptable behaviour.
Our interest piqued but not sated, we strolled out, uncertain of how to fill time until the meeting with Ol' Horny. Across the gravel from the museum was a whitewashed weatherboard hall with twisted Venetian blinds in the windows and two broken-down sofas on the stoop. It looked like a bar, and it smelled like a bar, the perfect place to kill time while we waited for the devil. We were musical tourists in Clarksdale and we wanted a beer – preferably in a venue owned by Clarksdale's most famous denizen Morgan Freeman – and Ground Zero fitted the bill.
Up the steps, through the door and into a music venue slash pool hall slash bar where scarlet neon signs shouted the drinks and the music that made America. Long tables ran the length of the room between the stage at one end and a cluster of red baize pool tables at the other. We ordered a couple of Brooklyn lagers, ambled over to one of the pool tables and hesitantly put down a couple of dollar bills. We had only just spun the eight ball into the rack when an elderly gent in a battered trilby slipped smoothly from his bar stool and sidled over.
He winked at Chris. 'Care for a game son?'
He was so authentically old delta that Chris and I exchanged glances which said 'Is he part of the tourist entertainment?'
'Sure. But I'm not very good,' confessed Chris. As an assessment of his pool-playing abil
ities this is a little like Amy Winehouse describing crack as 'a little moreish'.
Our friend rolled the cue ball under his palm and placed it into the 'D'. 'Care to make it interesting?' he gummed, through ill-fitting dentures, and reached into his inside pocket. Chris raised an eyebrow in anticipation of a slick and well-practised hustle.
The face of Abraham Lincoln was rolled out onto the table edge. 'Fi' dollars?'
'Sure,' said Chris, and put down one to match.
'Or maybe a little mo'?' twinkled our friend, reaching into his pocket once more.
Would it be another five dollar bill? Or a twenty? How much was Chris willing to bet, given that losing was a near certainty unless the man lost the use of his arms in the next four seconds? Even then it would be a close match.
Onto the table flopped a packet of Detrusitol tablets – 'for the treatment of incontinence'. Wow, he must really figure he's got us scared. 'That ain't right,' he said, scooping up the pills and switching them for a fifty dollar bill.
'I can't run to that,' said Chris, sucking his teeth. 'But I'll play you for five bucks.'
'Aw, it ain't even worth chalkin' ma cue,' said a crestfallen Fast Eddie, picking up his greenbacks and sliding back to the bar.
Several games and just as many Harland victories later, we headed for the exit. Fast Eddie called after us: 'Are you comin' back? Morgan's gonna be in tonight for the show.'
'Really?' squeaked Joe. 'Morgan Freeman's going to be here? Tonight? Well then we're probably definitely coming back.'
Morgan Freeman! Get in! We skipped back to the car.
'Could our luck get any better?' said Joe, pulling out of the car park. 'We go to Joshua Tree and bump into Polly Parsons, then we get an invite to Johnny Cash's house, and now we get to hang out with Morgan Freeman at his bar in Clarksdale, Mississippi!'
'It's almost too good to be true, isn't it?'
'And the timing is perfect. On the very night we sell my soul to the devil, we raise a beer with the star of Seven. Seven deadly sins – that's bound to help, surely?'
'How can it not?'
We found a generic motel on the outskirts of town and checked in. Joe caught up on the World Series while I blogged, then we showered and readied ourselves for a night out with Morgan. Arriving back at Ground Zero, we found it completely devoid of customers. It was barely 7 p.m.
'How about I spank you at pool again while we wait?' said Joe.
'Go on then. If we keep going long enough I might fluke a win.'
'Care to make it interesting?'
'Oh, fuck off.'
8 p.m. rolled around and a few more people drifted in. More spanking. No Morgan.
'Another spanking?'
'No thanks. The band will be on soon. Let's get a beer and a table.'
9 p.m. Starting to fill up. Still no Morgan.
10 p.m. The band came on. By now the place was jumpin' and jivin'. Still no Morgan.
11 p.m. The door swung open. It was Fast Eddie. Joe bowled over. 'He's not coming, is he?' 'Who?' 'Morgan.'
'Sure he is. Told me so himself.'
'When?'
'This mornin'.'
'No, I mean when is he coming in?'
'How should I know? I ain't his keeper. Stick aroun' brother. He'll be here.'
Joe slunk back to the table. 'I don't think Morgan's coming.'
'Of course he isn't. Fast Eddie's probably on the payroll. A dollar for every tourist through the door.'
'I guess he has to pay for his incontinence tablets somehow.'
'Come on, let's go. We need to be at the crossroads before midnight.'
The crossroads. I knew exactly what it would look like. A remote and dusty intersection, sepia-toned and bordered by fields of cotton stretching to the horizon, not unlike the one at the end of The Shawkshank Redemption where Morgan Freeman jumps down from a pick-up in search of Andy's buried treasure. Not dissimilar, in fact, to the one in Crossroads where Johnson waits nervously in the moonlight for the devil to show, tumbleweed drifting across his toecaps and dust swirling at his heels. We pulled up.
Two enormous blue electric guitars, floodlit and mounted twenty-five feet in the air, criss-crossed the intersection of Highways 49 and 61. We had found the right place. As if to assuage any lingering doubts, a hoarding announced in foot-high lettering beneath them that yes, this was indeed 'The Crossroads'. A Church's Chicken fast food restaurant squinted under the white lights of a petrol station on one corner of the junction. On the other was the Crossroads Furniture Warehouse. It felt a little like reserving a table in a secluded bistro and turning up at the Hard Rock Cafe.
Ever so slightly tipsy on the beers we had put away at Ground Zero, we sat and staked out the crossroads like Taggart and Rosewood tailing Axel Foley tailing Victor Maitland. Joe perched the camera on the dashboard, pointing it through the windscreen at the guitars suspended above the road. They slowly moved into focus, then out again as the camera zoomed in on Church's Chicken behind. I waved my watch in front of the lens. Time: 11.48 p.m. Place: The Crossroads.
I readjusted the viewfinder to zoom in on the guitars again. 'We need to make sure we're ready for him if he turns up. And he needs to know we're here to do business when he does.'
'How are we going to do that?'
'Well, the first thing is knowing him when we see him. We don't know what kind of car he's going to be driving, or what he's going to be wearing. Actually scratch that, we do know what he'll be wearing...'
'He'll be wearing...?'
'Prada,' I burped, confidently. 'The devils wears Prada.'
'And presumably he'll have horns, a bifurcated tail and a fork. Unless cliché is one of the seven deadly sins.'
'Good point. And when he does come, he needs to know we're in the soul-selling game.'
'We could make a sign!' squeaked Joe.
'Like a "For Sale" sign, you mean? Good idea. Have you got a pen?'
'There's one in the glovebox.'
I took it out and began writing: 'For... sale... one... soul... What do we want for it?'
'Well, I want the gift of music. That's the deal, right?'
I carried on writing, pen lid clenched between molars like Jack Nicholson smoking a Havana. 'Gift... of... music... or... near... est... offer... apply... with... in.' I jumped out of the car and lodged it underneath the windscreen wiper, then hopped back in. 'What time is it?'
'Eleven forty-nine, we've got ten minutes. What are the seven deadly sins?'
'Why?'
'If we commit all seven, right here right now, he might turn up. What are they?'
'Er, wrath... gluttony...'
'Gluttony – that's a good one. Are you hungry? We could get some Church's Chicken.'
'No, but if we put some chicken away that's real gluttony isn't it. One down, six to go.'
'And wrath. You were pretty fucked off when you lost at pool tonight. You're the sorest loser I've ever met.'
'I am not a sore loser, Joe. You're a fucking smug winner. I've never seen anyone look so fucking pleased with themselves for potting a ball.'
'I potted six balls on the spin and you turned around and said they were flukes!'
'Well they were.'
'They were six fucking great pots.'
'There you go, pride. That's two right there.'
'Whatever. Do you want me to go and get some Church's Chicken so we can do gluttony?'
'Good idea.'
'What do you want, just a chicken burger or something?'
'Just... everything. Get me everything. But hurry up, we've only got nine minutes.'
'OK, OK, you stay here and work out what the other deadly sins are.'
Joe jumped out and ran across the intersection to Church's Chicken. I was alone in the car with my thoughts, a video camera and a head full of Heineken. I monologued to pass the time.
'Absolute. Fucking. Wanker. He didn't pot those balls deliberately. They were all flukes. All of them. OK, maybe one of them was quite a good shot. But he
did this other one where two balls went in at once and he tried to make out like he did it on purpose. Nobody does that on purpose. So... pride – right there. Wrath we've done, gluttony he's doing. Er... lust, is it? Lust is definitely one. Envy? Yeah, envy. He'll probably try and tell you I'm envious because he won the game. Or I'm envious of his ability to play pool. Well I'll tell you that he cheated. Cheating is one of the seven deadly sins. Or if it isn't it should be.'
Joe was heading back to the car with armfuls of fried chicken.
'Here he comes look, skipping across the forecourt like he's the kind of person who regularly pots two balls at once in a game of pool.'
He opened the car door and got in.
'Hi mate!' I yelped, a little too enthusiastically. 'I think I've got six out of seven.'
He handed me a box of wings. 'Great. What's avarice?'
'That's the same as gluttony isn't it?' I panted, sucking air in over a mouthful of hot chicken. 'We've done that.'
'Have you seen him yet?'
'It's only eleven fifty-five. And we need one last sin. What's the last one?'