Friday morning, the air was dense as the remnants of Denny's wafted its siren scent through the corridors of our hotel. We had decided the previous night that when we all arose, we would be heading to the world-famous Rendezvous for some of their world-famous ribs made with their world-famous dry rub.
I asked one of the doorwomen at the hotel whether we could walk to Rendezvous. Without any condescension in her voice, she said "yes" and explained that it was less than a block away. "Be safe," she cautioned, as all nine of us walked out the door into the stagnant Memphis heat.
For those of you who don't eat a lot of barbeque, first, let me say, you are making a huge mistake. Second, you may not know that there are various ways to prepare ribs, with smoked (the preferred way), baked, and grilled being the most common. Also, there are differing amounts of "wetness" with which ribs are prepared. Some are slathered in BBQ sauce, and some are "dry." The ribs at Rendezvous are dry -- prepared with the aforementioned dry rub. You are able -- and encouraged -- to add your own sauce to the ribs once they arrive, but frankly, it's not really necessary. The ribs were spectacularly seasoned. While they didn't "fall off the bone" as well as some other ribs I've manhandled, they were definitely in the top echelon of ribs that I've eaten over the last 31+ years.
After Rendezvous, there was a fissure in the group. Greg and I wanted to experience some of Memphis's rich musical history, while the others wanted to lose money. A compromised was reached, whereby Greg and I would go to the Stax Museum of American Soul Music and Sun Studios, while the rest of the group would travel to West Memphis, Arkansas to Southland dog track and casino.
Stax Records is a staple of American soul music, and the museum was probably the attraction I most wanted to see in Memphis. Stax was where some of the all-time greats recorded. Booker T. & The MGs were the house band and, along with The Memphis Horns, they performed on nearly all of the Stax songs put out in the '60s. And if you didn't write your own songs, there were guys like Isaac Hayes and David Porter there to help you. Some of the Stax roster (aside from Booker T. & The MGs and Isaac Hayes) included: Otis Redding, Sam & Dave, Wilson Pickett, Albert King, The Staple Singers, Eddie Floyd, Rufus Thomas, Carla Thomas, The Bar-Kays, The Mar-Keys, Johnnie Taylor, Arthur Conley, and The Dramatics. On top of that, Stax is a word combination (combining the first two letters of the last names of the two founders, Jim STewart and Estelle AXton), so obviously that goes a long way with me. The museum (and the accompanying music academy) stands on the site of where the Stax studios used to be, and they have replicated the marquee and the storefronts. It didn't appear to be in the greatest of neighborhoods, but then again, none of the places I went in Memphis seemed to be the greatest. I would highly recommend it if you're in Memphis.
The museum is not limited just to Stax artists, but instead covers all of soul music, including Motown, Atlantic (which was affiliated with Stax for a while), Hi Records, FAME studios (Muscle Shoals), and much more. The tour starts with a short (probably ten-minute) video about soul music in America. The museum itself explores soul's roots (gospel, the blues, early R&B music), and then takes you through the history of soul music. Among the items on display are: Isaac Hayes's pimped-out Cadillac from 1971; one of Tina Turner's dresses; the dance floor from Soul Train; a recreation of the former Stax Studio A, where many great songs were recorded; and a bunch of Otis Redding memorabilia on loan from his widow and daughter, including a ton of family photographs, personal mementos, and telegrams sent to his family after he died (which is a temporary exhibit in Studio A).At the Stax store, I bought my fetus a Stax Records shirt, because I will not abide a kid who doesn't know music. The shirt won't fit her until she's 2. By then, she should have a working knowledge of American soul music. Certainly, she will be able to distinguish the gritty, soulful sound of Stax from the more polished, radio-friendly sound of Motown.
Greg and I walked out of Stax and back into the sweltering heat. Across the street from the parking lot behind the museum is the former home of blues legend Memphis Slim, which appears to soon be getting the help it needs.
From there, it was onto what I would consider the true birthplace of rock and roll: Sun Studio.
Sun Studio is, next to Abbey Road, probably the most famous recording studio in rock history. In 1951, Jackie Brenston and His Delta Cats (one of whom was Ike Turner) recorded the first rock and roll song, "Rocket 88," at Sun. B.B. King, Howlin' Wolf, Little Milton, Junior Parker, James Cotton, Roy Orbison, Rufus Thomas, and Charlie Rich recorded some of their early work at Sun. Of course, the biggest name who walked through the door was an 18-year-old delivery man named Elvis, who recorded at Sun for his first couple years, before Sam Phillips sold his contract to RCA. Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis all recorded at Sun. On December 4, 1956, Sun was host to the famous "Million Dollar Quartet" photo with Elvis, Cash, Lewis, and Perkins. U2 recorded several songs from the Rattle & Hum album at Sun. John Mellencamp just recently recorded several songs for his upcoming album there.Anyway, now that you have a taste for the studio's history, let's get on with the tour. Attached to the studio is the gift shop/record store/soda jerk, where everything starts. I had one of the best chocolate malts I've ever had. The tour itself is relatively short, but that probably has to do with the fact that Sun is so small. You start off in a room upstairs that has memorabilia from Sun's past. The tour guide -- a blonde named Cora with whom Greg was enamored -- ran through Sun's history, and played clips of various songs recorded at Sun.
Then, we went downstairs to the actual studio. The front room, where office manager Marion Keisker worked and greeted artists, has been recreated. You will recognize it if you're seen Walk the Line. What I found amazing is that the walls and ceiling in the studio are lined with the exact same sound-dampening tiles that were there when it was built in 1950, even though Sun was closed between 1969 and 1987 and was a variety of other businesses, including a SCUBA diving store. For one reason or another, no one tore down the tiles to expose the bare wall underneath. This was particularly cool, since the same tiles on the walls can be seen in the background of the Million Dollar Quartet photo.
As you will notice, Evel Knievel was on our tour. In the studio -- which is a fully operating studio today -- Cora played us some more songs and played with Greg's emotions. At the end of the tour, everyone was given the opportunity to take a picture with one of the original microphones. I took Cora up on that offer, and wailed while the rest of the tour looked on with a combination of awe, respect, and concern, the last of which was vocalized by many in the group. I'm sorry, but if I'm in Sun Studio, you better damn well believe I'm singing a song by each of the guys in the Million Dollar Quartet.
Here are some drums. Larry Mullen used these when U2 recorded there. 
After Sun, Greg and I headed to West Memphis to join the rest of the group at Southland. To use a very apt analogy, Southland is to real casinos what the dirt mall is to the real mall in Mallrats. Southland has a dog track, which is cool, especially if you're into watching dogs run fast and losing money while doing so. Other than that, it was mostly slot machines and video poker. The table games were limited and digital. For instance, in blackjack, there were no physical cards -- just screens in front of the dealer and each player. All the dealer had to do was hit a button. It was idiotic, especially considering the fact that 25 yards away were all-digital blackjack machines, which was actually better because there was a virtual dealer who would deal virtual cards to everyone, like in an actual blackjack game.As far as the dog races, those were okay. Dog racing is about as predictable as Chicago's weather in April. Okay, I realize that was a rather hokey analogy, but I couldn't think of anything better (Axl Rose? Carlos Zambrano? A woman's emotional state? The consistency of Harley's bowel movements?). Anyway, in one race, the favorite would win. The next race, the favorite would finish last, and a 39-to-1 shot would blow away the field. This isn't to say that dog races aren't fun to watch. I generally like watching fast things run, even if it is only for 583 yards in 32 seconds. Plus, it's adorable when they immediately take the losing dogs behind "the destroying curtain." Here are Sean and Tony at dog track level.
When we left Southland, our carload vowed that our trip to Tunica the next day would be much better. In fact, we vowed that if we each won at least $3,000, we would all get tattoos of Adam's face on our backs. And I'm not talking some little shoulder tattoo or an ass hat. I'm talking a tattoo that covers your entire back. Other suggestions were that we get Adam's face tattooed on the back of our heads, over our own faces, or on our nether regions. After some spirited discussion, we decided that a full back tattoo would be the way to go.When we got back to the hotel, it was about 11 p.m., and we realized that we hadn't eaten since Rendezvous. To solve this problem, we ordered five pizzas from Papa John's. While waiting for the pizzas to arrive, Adam noticed something running down the hotel room wall. "What the fuck is that?!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face and urine down his recently pressed trousers. It was a small lizard, no more than two inches in length. As it reached a reasonable height, JD did what any good American would do. He kicked it to death. So now, in room 1010 of a hotel in downtown Memphis, there is a lizard corpse smashed against the wall, behind the curtains, where no one would ever think to look unless specifically looking for a lizard corpse.
Within minutes of the execution, there was a knock at the door. Convinced that it was the ASPCA, we played coy. "Yeeeeeeeesssssssss?" Tony asked, doing his best Frank Nelson impression. The husky female voice from the other side of the door said, "Papa John's. Y'all order some pizza?" Our collective angst turned to elation immediately. Tony flung open the door to reveal what is, in large part, both wrong and right with America all at once: an overfed woman in her forties with diction issues delivering food to ten guys she doesn't even know. "I'm probably y'alls' best friend right now, aren't I?" asked the woman. A chorus of nos didn't seem to break her spirit, nor did the fact that her gunt was unhealthily large. Don't tuck your shirt in next time, sweetie.
After she left, concern was expressed that five pizzas might have been too much. Over the next twelve minutes, those concerns were put to bed.
Uncomfortably full and ready to get into something, we headed to Beale Street. Our first stop was Beale Street Tap Room, which was a live music dive bar that smelled more like vomit than actual vomit. We each grabbed a beer and found a table amongst the other ten people there, and we watched the band, which was really excited about what I assume is their only original song, entitled "Britney Spears." The chorus goes something like "I wanna be Britney Spears / I wanna drink lotsa beers." During this song, a middle-aged Australian man started talking to Greg. Greg's description of the conversation was as follows: "He just came up to me and started talking. I don't think I said more than five words, and I couldn't understand anything he was saying. I think he told me to check out a band named X, but he made sure to emphasize that it was not the American band X, but rather an Australian band named X. When he walked away, he said, 'Don't forget X.'" Greg was under the impression that this Australian X was a newer band. Having just checked out their Wikipedia page, it would appear that, like the American X, the Australian X is a punk band from the late '70s. No one is exactly sure why this man chose to talk to Greg (although I believe it has something to do with his creamy white thighs) or tout a band who released the bulk of their albums over 20 years ago, but it happened, and Greg has to live with it. After the Britney Spears band finished their set with a rousing rendition of "Talk Dirty to Me," we headed out the door to B.B. King's.
The band playing there, which I now know to be called BB King All-Stars, was pretty awesome. In addition to the standard instruments, there was a horn section, and a female lead singer who was wailing out an awesome cover of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" when we walked in. We got a table for all ten of us to the left of the stage. The crowd was considerably older than pretty much anywhere else we had been. Of particular note was a woman on the dance floor whose permed helmet of hair has clearly not changed since the Carter administration. She looked and dressed like Richard Simmons. Better yet, she was dancing by herself, humping the column on the edge of the dance floor and generally trying to have sex with the air. It was pretty awesome. But not even she could save us. Butch Rifle was getting antsy, since we were just doing a lot of sitting. He rallied the troops with a call of "let's get the fuck out of here and go somewhere where we aren't sitting." And so we did.
We walked down Beale Street in search of a new destination. In front of Silky O'Sullivan's a twentysomething male, trying to be propped up by his friends, fell to the ground. He slowly got back up with the help of his approximately Samoan friend, who then put his arm around the drunk dude's shoulder and the drunk dude's arm around his shoulder to try to prop him up and walk him away. That didn't really work. This dude was beyond drunk. He couldn't keep his eyes open or the ground above him. The solution to this was essentially a piggyback ride. The Samoan stood in front of the drunk dude, wrapped the drunk dude's arms around his shoulders and neck, then dragged the drunk dude down the sidewalk. This may seem like a grand plan, and it would have been, had the Samoan held on a little tighter. After they turned the corner onto the next street -- and with a crowd of about fifty watching, including several as-yet unmoved cops -- the Samoan's grip slipped. The drunk dude crumpled straight backwards onto the street and smacked the back of his head on the concrete. Everyone watching let out an "ohhhhh" in unison, and this finally prompted the cops to look into the situation. They managed to help the kid up. Meanwhile, the Samoan is telling the cops the drunk dude is fine and that he is getting the dude out of there. I'm just going to put this out there. I have never been that drunk -- never -- but if I ever get to that point and manage to concuss myself, please take me to the hospital or call an ambulance. Do not -- I repeat, do not -- just get me out of there to avoid cops. A side note: the back of the drunk dude's shirt read: "If whiskey was a man, I would have his baby." Mission accomplished.
Invigorated by a street concussion, we meandered down and then back up Beale, settling on Silky O'Sullivan's. Hell, if it got that guy that drunk, they must be doing something right. Silky's, as I will call it for brevity's sake, has both indoor and outdoor options. Indoors, there are dueling pianos. Outdoors, there is a huge beer garden with a band playing at almost all hours it is open. They also have a giant pen outdoors that houses goats. Yes, living, breathing, shitting goats. I don't trust goats to begin with, and I certainly don't trust them when they are advertised as being "diving" goats. Thankfully, this picture I took the next day was a close as I got to them.
Whereas at B.B. King's, we were surrounded by baby boomers, at Silky's, we were surrounded mostly by kids who appeared to be in their early twenties. It was here that I noticed almost all of the dudes under 35 had the same haircut as Eli Manning, and many of them looked equally as blank-faced. This theory would hold true most of the places we went. We were usually the only ones without shaggy hair.Anyway, after sweating on the patio for about an hour, we headed inside to the dueling pianos. We failed miserably in trying to get Adam auctioned off, under the guise that he had no money to get back to Chicago. When he was on stage, no one listened to what the piano players were saying, so we had to buy Adam back for $1,000. Soon after, I heard, for the first time and possibly the last time in my life, a dueling piano version of "Mother" by Danzig.
Unfortunately, Silky's closed at 3, so we had to find a late-night bar. JD and I headed down Beale Street, while the rest of the guys talked to a bouncer about places to go. A scruffy, bearded man I mistook for a vagabond approached JD and me. I still have no idea why. He said "hi," and didn't ask for any money or anything. It turns out he was just some dude from Minnesota, and, as a good-natured Midwesterner, he was just being nice.
It also turns out that he was fucking insane. We learned that this man, whose name I believe was Huckleberry, and a couple friends (Jim, Duke, and King) had been -- I kid you not -- floating down the Mississippi River. They had a raft, on which they slept, which was pulled by a small boat with an outboard motor that maxed out at about five miles per hour. They needed the motor to get out of the way of barges, which "are the rafter's enemy." Huckleberry explained that he and his friends had left Minneapolis a few weeks earlier, and planned to go all the way to New Orleans. We asked how they were going to get back, with a smile and a slightly crazed look in his eye, he said, "We haven't figured that out yet." They might sell the boat and raft, and then figure it out from there. He also explained that he and his friends shit off the side of the raft. They do have toilet paper, which is a relief. Of course, they have to keep that out of the elements, which can sometimes be more difficult than you might imagine, although extremely necessary. Wet toilet paper is about as effective as the No Child Left Behind Act.
While Huckleberry provided a nice diversion, he did not solve the problem of where we were going next. Liz, who lived in Memphis for several years and provided us with a fantastic, self-written guide to bars and restaurants, has always touted a place called Raiford's as her favorite bar in town. It was only a few blocks away, so we walked over there, despite warnings from several townies that we should take a cab, "unless we wanted to get harassed by like thirty bums." We were not harassed by any bums.
I can only describe Raiford's as awesome. It is a converted doublewide trailer. Blue Astroturf lines the sidewalks in front of the bar. When you get in, the walls are all painted white and/or are mirrored. Cream colored leather couches line the walls. There is a genuine '70s disco floor (complete with lights beneath) on one end. Fog is rampant. Only 40s are served. There is also a drum kit next to the DJ booth that anyone is welcome to play.
I expected it to be much busier, but there were only about 15-20 people in the bar. That was all that Butch Rifle needed to work his magic. About twenty minutes after we got there, Butch was on the dance floor with an unsuspecting young woman. Not long after that, they were making out on the dance floor, while Adam played the drums.
Soon, the DJ announced that it was his last song. Not wanting to stunt young love, he decided to turn back on his laptop and play a few more. Finally, at about 4:30, he called it quits, even though it was supposed to close at 4. We all gathered on the blue sidewalk in front, including Butch's prey and her friends. It is important to note that Butch was sharing a hotel room with Greg and me.
The vast majority of us wanted to walk back to the hotel, but Butch, Dave, and a couple other single guys wanted to talk to the ladies. There were no cabs around this part of town, and across the street was a giant old hotel that looked like it had been boarded up for thirty years. But they didn't care. Butch was on his game, and some of the other guys wanted to watch, apparently.
After a few minutes, the rest of us decided to leave them behind, assuming that was the last time we would see those guys alive. We trudged back to the hotel, stopping only at the Red Rooster, where they were nice enough to allow us to piss, even though last call had already happened. Without James to help us home, Beale street seemed that much scarier.
Ryan and I were walking a little bit ahead of the rest of the group, when we happened upon a mildly attractive woman who had just finished talking to an unattractive, possibly homeless man. She asked us if we minded if she walked with us while she was on her way back to her car. Chivalrous as we are, we agreed. She said something about the cops not keeping the streets safe, made a vaguely racist comment, then waived to the cops at the end of the block. When we turned to walk to our hotel, she kept walking straight. Ryan asked her if she wanted us to walk her to her car, and she said no. The reason for this is that she was an undercover cop, apparently trying -- poorly, I might add -- to get us to offer her money in exchange for something of a sexual nature. It was all very confusing, especially since she didn't say anything that was remotely sexually suggestive during our one-block walk. Long story short, no one spent the night in jail for solicitation.
It was about 5:30 when I fell asleep, hoping to get at least seven hours of sleep, which I did, although not contiguously.
In the next installment: Mississippi, vomit, and heartache.
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That ain't a house, that's termites holding hands.
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