Memphis remains a tourist's dream

Part two of our blues travels finds us closer to home. Armed with a clearer notion of what we'll find and the story behind it, we've decided to explore more familiar terrain, the Memphis area. A greater sense of knowing doesn't diminish our enthusiasm, however, nor does it affect our sense of wonderment.

We also know that we probably won't find anything new related to Memphis blues. Most of the rocks have been overturned already, the skeletons let out of the closets. But revisiting one's roots, we soon realize, is always a worthwhile endeavor.

Naturally, our morning begins traveling south, into Mississippi. We go so far as Horn Lake, to the New Park Cemetery, which is noted on the staff's business cards to be the "South's Most Beautiful."

We're surprised by the cemetery's size - 100 acres, 70 of which are "developed" - but are first taken aback by the heat and humidity. (We decide that a curious phenomenon arises when travelers cross the Mississippi state line - the heat index jumps at least 10 degrees. What a welcome.)

New Park is the largest African American cemetery in the Mid-South, Hal Mandelman, the cemetery's president, tells us as we stand on the quiet grounds.

In among the graves decorated with plastic flowers and colorful mylar balloons, we find Al Jackson, Jr.'s, a Stax recording artist and member of Booker T. and the MGs. Age 40 when he died, Jackson's marker says, "For I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep."

We also find the graves of Carl Lee Cunningham, Jimmie King Jr. and Phalon Jones, three Bar-Kays band members who died with Otis Redding in a December 1967 plane crash outside Madison, Wis. Although it was a devastating loss to the music community, even more tragic was how young they were. All three were still in their late teens.

Queen C. Anderson, a Memphis gospel legend, is buried near the cemetery's office. She, too, died young, at age 46.

B.B. King's older cousin, Bukka White, a noted musician in his own right, is somewhere in New Park, too. Even after we check the cemetery's records under his birth name, Booker T. Washington White, we still can't locate his gravesite. Other music writers and photographers have tried to find it, too, Mandelman reassures us. We appreciate Mandelman's time, but leave feeling like we missed something.

Then it's back to south Memphis. Traveling along Hernando Road, we find the Hollywood Mt. Carmel Cemetery, where Furry Lewis is buried. Overgrown grass hides many of the cemetery's markers, some of which are handmade. Lewis has two markers at his gravesite. The original, which is hidden under grass, dates his birth as March 8, 1893. Towering over the original gravestone, Lewis's new marker, an alleged gift from fans, dates Lewis's birth as March 6.

After some discussion, we can't decide if seeing the new marker cheapens our experience. The smaller, nondescript one, which lists him simply as a bluesman, somehow seems more appropriate.

Remembering that the blues is indeed very much alive, we decide to meander over to Green's Lounge. Last December, the venerable blues club, at 2090 Person, was destroyed by a fire that began in the kitchen.

Signs of life are evident. A new roof tops the club and inside, three men work on gutting what's left of the kitchen. Progress is slow, the trio reports. In addition to the heat, one worker said he hadn't been feeling well because he sampled too many neck bones. Never fear, though, Green's should be up-and-running in the next few months, they tell us as we leave.

Once again, time interrupts our morning travels. Responsibilities call us back. We make our way Downtown, toward the neon marquees of Beale Street. By no means, had we seen even a slice of Memphis's blues history.

Ironically, though, we had witnessed the complete story during our short tour. We started at the resting places of some of the city's most respected early musicians. The experience got us in the right frame of mind and, in a way, made us proud that Memphis is the final resting spot for so many musicians who shared their musical gifts with the world.

Green's Lounge represented more than just a rebirth, it was a confirmation that undiluted blues, music that's neither glossy nor for the tourists, is still beating strong.

Lastly, coming upon Beale Street signaled a different sort of renewal. Twenty years ago, it had been close to death itself. Perhaps its gleaming success has paid the most appropriate homage to the blues and gospel musicians whose graves we had seen earlier.