Highway 61 Regurgitated: Mary Lucia visits Memphis
by Mary Lucia
June 28, 2016
Every time I told someone I was taking my first road trip to Memphis, I was met with. "What? You've never been??" Seems almost criminal that you can call yourself a music-history fan and not already made the trip to Mecca via Highway 61.
I've done quite a bit of traveling, and never have I gotten so many tips on what to do. Everyone seems to know the very best place to get blackened catfish, where the cleanest truck stop restrooms are, and what legendary musical must-sees I had to add to my list. Who knew that Tennessee held all of the world's secrets and answers? Being a person of many questions, I couldn't wait to hit the road with the man I love and the perfect soundtrack. Load up the Spotify with all the classic Stax and Sun recording artists plus a healthy dose of Kelly Clarkson, Nick Lowe, Etta James, The "Coug", Badfinger, The Faces, Ministry, Big Star, Bob Dylan, Nat King Cole, Oasis, TLC, Stones, Jon Doe, Izzy Stradlin, Velvet Underground and Beyoncé. OK, stop me — suffice to say, that shit was tight.
Taking the longer and more scenic route of driving along the Mississippi River, I saw my first eagle. I know, shut up. Keep in mind I get jazzed seeing a hoodrat bunny in Uptown. Making a stop in Arkansas, we found ourselves chatting with a huge amount of very friendly natives. One woman manning a tourism desk at a roadside stop asked me if my tattoo was a bobcat. I told her no, it was Satchmo who was a Maine Coon, so while large, she was not a feral wild animal. Marlene proceeded to tell me in great detail about how she raised a wild bobcat who slept on top of the fridge, and all was good until the neighbors' pit bull got after him, and her husband had to beat the dog with a bird feeder pole. They brought the bobcat — who I'll call Lester — to the vet, and the vet clinic burned down. I tried as hard as I could to act like I'd heard stories like this all the time. Damn Yankee. But I quickly noticed that no matter how janky the interaction, everyone was sincerely polite.
First night in Memphis was mostly wandering downtown lighting other people's smokes (my Rick Steves travel tip is if you want to make friends in the South, get a lighter). Beale Street was a corny tourist trap; try as I may, I had no interest in kicking it in the Hard Rock Café-styled BB King's restaurant. No matter; we had plenty on tap for the next day: I had to figure out what to wear to Graceland.
Driving down Elvis Presley Boulevard was everything it should be: seedy and swarming with Ed and Betty's. Parking next to 900 RVs with every state represented in license plates only built my anticipation. I've heard a ton about Graceland — people describing the rooms in detail — but knowing that I would see with my own eyes the green-carpeted walls and ceramic monkeys and abundance of RCA TV sets was a kick. Oddly knowing that Sam Phillips had sold the king's contract to RCA for chump change made it all the crazier that Graceland was filled with "gift TV sets": Thanks, Elvis. You sold eight million records for us this month, so here's a free TV set, which by the way, you paid for. Thank you, ladies and gentleman. Thank you very much.
Nerd alert: I had to Google Elvis's height, because at 5'6, I nearly clocked my head into several low ceilings — granted, they were all plushly carpeted. How did 'Cilla's beehive make it through the Arabian Nights Billiard Room entry way? I kept my snark to myself every time the joint was referred to as "The Mansion"; I thought without the racket ball court and the horse farm, it would probably go for $248,900 in Minneapolis. Hell, throw in the indoor shooting range and they could fetch another C-note. I stood alongside everyone soaking in all its decor with utter reverence. If Mike Brady had designed the Sistine Chapel perhaps.
We were indeed well received at Graceland.
Next stop, Stax Records. A steamy 98 degrees outside. Sitting down in the air-conditioned theater to watch the short Stax documentary, I got chills just seeing the iconic finger-snap logo on screen. Various Stax artists talked about the history of the label, spelling out clearly that they did not share the same intentions as Motown. They knew who their audience was. The roster was racially integrated, and many women played pivotal roles. Gospel, soul and country. Got it? Good. Walking through the brilliantly curated museum was jaw dropping: Oh, Hi, Booker T's organ he used on the recording of Green Onions — you look so nice just a few steps away from Isaac Hayes' actual Cadillac, complete with funked-up fun fur interior. He's a bad mutha. Shut your mouth.
A series of Terry Manning's photographs on display included possibly the coolest shot ever of Chuck Berry and of Big Star's Chris Bell. As we exited the gift shop with our bags filled with Stax swag, I knew this was an experience I would hold onto for a long time.
The next day's agenda was the Civil Rights Museum, which is built off of the Lorraine Hotel where Dr. Martin Luther KIng was assassinated. Powerful stuff looking up at the balcony outside of room 306 where he last stood. The weight of this historical site didn't feel right to snap selfies in front of. Inside, the thoughtfully curated museum held our nation's history, brutal and many times hard to look at and fully absorb. Yet there was a real spirit within these walls: one of suffering and fighting for basic human rights, acts of courage and tenacity. I loved the huge number of children who were taking this tour, and I tried to imagine how they were taking all of this in. You could easily spend hours here.
Switching gears, we were off to Sun Studio. I kept likening a lot of this experience to when people meet Tom Cruise in person and remark, "He seems so much bigger in the movies, he's just a little guy". That only adds to the wonder that this music was created in tiny spaces, yet everything about it was HUGE. Sam Phillips was looking for a sound yet to be identified as rock 'n' roll proper — get your head around that. Howlin' Wolf, The Prisonaires (a band of actual inmates that had to be accompanied by armed guards), Ike Turner and Elvis Presley all stood here at one time, all hoping to make something happen with their music. In the case of Jerry Lee Lewis, he didn't come to the studio with a well-produced demo tape in hand; rather, traveling up with his daddy asking if there was a piano he could play seems unreal. Man, I'm glad he did.
Huddled in Sun's recording studio, looking at the vintage gear and photos of Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee and Elvis, again my mind drifted to what the room must've felt like with all of that talent assembled at one time. What did it smell like? Who in the room was packing speed or heat?
At the end of the tour, we shuffled out and asked Jason our tour guide questions. Lamely, all I could come up with was, "Were there any restrictions to the imbibing of alcohol during recording sessions?"
"It was liberal," was the honest answer.
Still buzzing from Sun Studio and walking down the railroad tracks along the Mississippi River, I got my first look at a magnolia tree. Splendid. It was also noteworthy that on several occasions we noticed random acts of kindness on the streets. People coming out of delis with a bag of food and giving it to someone who looked like they really needed it. People noticing those who go unnoticed and treating them with dignity.
Next day was to see Ardent Studios, a still-working studio; in fact, on that day, I heard someone playing a piano in one of the studios with an open door. It was Greg Dulli. Knowing that the members of Big Star all had copies of the key to let themselves in to record whatever drunken jam in the middle of the night made me want to re-watch the Big Star documentary. Ardent, like everything in Memphis, is preserved. No fancy upgrading. If there was a shitty plaid sofa in the control room in 1974, it is still there and you are looking at it, son.
A huge thrill was to get a private tour of Sam Phillips' office, led by his nephew, Jud, who was possibly one of the friendliest guys I've ever met. Again this place was small, small, small. It smelled a bit aquatic as if it had been underwater for a decade or two. The reception area had two groovy chairs and a small desk. There was the perfectly intact bar with gnarly wall paper. Can you imagine who might've sat on one of those stools knocking back a Coca Cola and negotiating a contract? Jud Phillips casually asked us if we knew Jack White. Turns out Jack had just picked up the reception-area sofa to reupholster. Why not?
Inside Sam's office was a trip. Was it in here that Sam contemplated selling Elvis's contract? Good thing he did, as it kept the studio afloat to go on to work with a myriad of legends. Lesson learned. Take a risk in life, why dontcha.
The Peabody Hotel was the next stop, where the plan was to sit in the grand lobby and watch the "changing of the ducks." Twice a day, the lobby fills with hundreds of people to see five ducks walk out of an elevator and scamper into the fountain, then at 5 p.m., with much pomp and flair, they are led back to their suite where I imagine they order room service and rest with cucumbers on their eyes in little white-towel turbans.
Lansky's has a store in the hotel; it was Elvis's official clothier for some time. On the wall were a few signed photos and a guitar signed by Steve Jones and John Lydon of the Sex Pistols. Connecting the dots from England's premier punk band to Memphis was further explained that "Rambo" — John Lydon's friend/ roadie/ overseer of all things Rotten — got married at The Peabody, where Johnny served as best man. Now I really want to know what he wore.
The trip was flawless. If there was any regret, it was that we found out last minute that Jerry Lee Lewis was having a yard sale the next day. Not an estate sale, but a yard sale. It wasn't going to be diamond-encrusted pianos and silk smoking jackets for sale. Immediately I fantasized about owning one of the Killer's ashtrays or Garden Weasels. It was about a half-hour out of Memphis and we didn't have the time, but just to have done a drive-by and shouting out the car window at no one in particular, "How much you want for that rake?" would've sealed the deal of all of my rock 'n' roll dreams.
Looch has left the building.
