Delta bound: River region still fascinates blues fans

"When you look at the levee you can almost see the workers toiling away," says a friend as he crosses into the northernmost tip of the Mississippi Delta via Highway 61. Suddenly, the terrain abandons Memphis and all its shabby commercial trappings for flat Delta farmland, bounded on the west by the levee and on the east by a small ridge.

"To think that the levee was built with mostly hands and sweat is pretty amazing," he continues, driving further into Mississippi. His two passengers nod their heads and murmur only, "Yeah."

It's spring in the Delta. Farmers are in the fields, spraying and planting this year's crop. Already the heat and humidity have established their presence.

We head further down Highway 61 and spot a Mapco gas station/convenience store. It's the last full-service rest stop until the casinos, now only a half hour's drive from Memphis, thanks to the recent highway expansion.

We stop at the Mapco. Refuel. Buy snacks and drinks, and an idiot-proof map of Mississippi.

We have only one afternoon to see some northern Mississippi Delta sites. Casinos aren't on the agenda. Rather, we're on our way to find out something about this region: Why it was here that blues music was born more than a century ago. And why, today, the Delta is more magical than ever.

We decide upon our first stop: Robinsonville. Although it's a tiny community -home to not more than a 100 people it seems - there's still a clear demarcation of who lives where. Small, wooden platform homes line one street and larger brick homes, shaded by large oaks and magnolias, line another.

A tar-paper juke joint quickly attracts our attention. An older black man is "tending" to it, sitting on a black metal chair on the porch. Although the sun is at its peak, he wears a red-and-tan flannel shirt, red suspenders and a tan fabric cap.

"How are you," our driver timidly asks as he approaches the porch. "I was here awhile ago, but you probably don't remember me. I brought some friends with me today."

Something inaudible travels from the old man's mouth. We can only surmise using our untrained lip-reading skills that the juke is called either the Magic Cafe or the Budget Cafe. How all three of us arrive at totally different names, we don't know. "Do you mind if we look inside?" "No." That's the only part of the "conversation" we understand.

Nothing but a jukebox - offering as much Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey as Little Milton - and a few odd chairs welcome guests. Literally, it's not much bigger than some homes' living rooms.

We find out later that a jukebox is replacing live acts more often because juke joints aren't getting crowds like they used to; former patrons are spending their money at the casinos instead.

We say thank you and goodbye to the mystery man. "That place is definitely on the endangered species list," our friend says as he opens the car door.

A half hour later we find ourselves in Tunica. Following a respected source's directions, we hope to find signs of a "Tunica nightlife" on the north side of town. After an unsuccessful attempt, we circle around the town square, then pull into a service station where two older white men sit passing away the day.

"Stay out of that neighborhood, it's trouble," one of them says, after we tell them why we're in the area.

Immediately, I am reminded of an Alan Lomax story. In his book, The Land Where The Blues Began, Lomax tells of the time he got into trouble with a Tunica county plantation manager for taking away Son House, the manager's "best tractor driver" and several other men without permission for an impromptu recording session. The county sheriff informed Lomax that he had gone in "one of them barrelhouses with four or five of the roughest niggers in this county" and that next time, Lomax should seek police protection.

Some 50 years later, people are still watchful. We pull away from the station, headed directly toward the north side of town.

After scanning the handful of juke joints and cafes in Tunica, we head to Lula, Miss.

Today, Lula is a scant reminder of its 1930s heyday. About half the storefronts are vacant; others are teetering on closing their doors.

Only the famous railroad tracks remain. They were what brought Art Laibly, a talent scout for Paramount, to town in early 1930. Laibly eventually convinced Charlie Patton, who was reportedly performing at the Lula depot at the time, to travel to Grafton, Wis., for a recording session. Patton later recruited Son House to accompany him. The rest is history.

The mid-afternoon sun tells us we have a few more hours before we must head back to Memphis so we cross the mighty Mississippi River into Helena, Ark. It's much hillier on this side of the river bank where old Victorian homes grace the bluffs.

We drive straight to the Delta Cultural Center, which holds an impressive collection of blues-related paraphernalia, and, more importantly, is air-conditioned.

Time is quickly fading, so we pass on Bubba Sullivan's Blues Corner, an acclaimed record store located catty-corner from the cultural center.

As we begin our trek back home, we come across a true goldmine, Eddie Mae's place at the corner of Missouri Street and Walnut. The proprietor herself is sitting out front, sipping something from a plastic cup. My friend hints that the woman might be Frank Frost's wife.

I ask her if she would mind having her picture taken. "Oh, I don't know," Eddie Mae says, "I'd rather not, I guess. I'm not really dressed for any pictures." Smiling, I tell her that of course I understand although I'm thinking otherwise.

She obliges me wholeheartedly, however, when I ask to take a peek inside. "Are you Frank Frost's wife," I ask as I make my way around. Yes, she has been for 10 years, she says.

Has she been keeping him in line, I ask. "Yeah. But you know how it is after awhile," she says with a smile.

Eddie Mae is a courteous hostess, telling me of her plans for the place. "I want to put some pictures up here," she says, pointing to the expansive bright blue walls. The "artwork," or decades-old posters, lay on the pool table. A jar of pickles and chip bags clipped on a metal holder wait for customers at the back of the room.

Again, we start our trek back, but not without trying to find the area where Sonny Boy Williamson's boarding house once stood. Now it's a parking lot.

My friend, however, finds the New Beginning Church of the Living God. We sit for a moment, the car idle, the air-conditioning blaring. He tells us of one Sunday morning when he drove to West Helena alone. He was driving around; the streets were empty. He came across the church and instantly heard the most vibrant, emotion-filled gospel music. He talks as though that moment still fills him inside.

We finally head back north on Highway 61, the sun beginning its decent, more traffic moving south toward the casinos.

Author Bruce Cook once wrote that the South is a more personal place and "is its misery and its glory; it may ultimately be its damnation or its salvation."

Weeks after my trip through the upper Delta, I have conflicting feelings about where we've been and what we've seen. Admittedly, there's a gritty, dirty, musty feel to the region on the surface. Looking around, there's not much going on.

I repeatedly go back to one conclusion: Something still bubbles underneath the Delta dirt. Although jukeboxes might replace live acts and juke joints might continue to close, the music is not dead here. Maybe it's just taking another form.

I do realize one thing, though. I am a visitor and that is all I will ever be.