Hell hounds on my trail – The Boneyard

MONDAY:

Finding a phone number for Robert Johnson’s grandson was the easy part. Getting out of New Orleans in time to meet him proved more difficult. I had spoken to him on the phone a few days earlier, when I was still up in Woodstock. We arranged a day and a time to meet in Hazelhurst, Mississippi; the tiny town where Robert Johnson was born. It was a few hours north of New Orleans, so we had planned to hit the road at first light. But Chad didn’t show up in his rat-coloured car until late in the morning. We had to step on it. We hadn’t been in the car for five minutes when Chad said he had to pull over for a leak. This continued up the road every 20 miles or so. When we finally arrived in Hazelhurst two hours late, the grandson had already left. But the town was still there, and we had a look around. Nothing had changed in the last 100 or so years: It was like stepping back in time. A few miles up the road in Crystal Springs, the Robert Johnson museum was awaiting us. We called in and spoke to the receptionist before we pulled a couple of guitars down from the wall to play a few rags.

We got back in the car: Next stop was Bolton, birthplace of Bo Carter and Charlie Patton. Again, it was like stepping into another era. This whole journey was old America. We made a few more stops along the way, until we reached Bentonia, a small farming community. It had a railroad track, a church, and the Blue Front Cafe – the juke joint where Skip James used to play. We ordered a beer and some ribs. Jimmy, the owner, was the only one there. He was as old as the place was. Been there forever. He seen Skip James play back in the day, and even learned to play from him. He picked up the guitar and sang us some songs. What an eerie sensation. The moon was almost full outside when a train went passed and rattled the whole building. After we left, we got a hotel in the nearby Yazoo city and hit the hay.

TUESDAY:

This was a big day. As an appetiser, we went to Belzoni, where Charlie Patton once lived with his wife. Rumour has it that she once slit his throat in an argument. He survived, and they managed to stay together. After this, we went on over to Holly Ridge. This is where Patton was buried, in a small graveyard behind a farm. This was sacred ground we were standing on and we knew it. But it didn’t end there. We travelled along to the town of Avalon, where Mississippi John Hurt lived his entire life. His one room shack is still standing on the family grounds, and we sat on his porch and played a few songs before we got attacked by a hive full of killer hornets. Then, we took a dirt road high into the mountains, got out and walked a path that led into a forest, and it was there we found Mississippi John Hurt’s grave. This knocked me out. We spent a long time there, swapping songs and paying our respect. He probably got sick of us ruining his peace after a while, so we got moving. There was more to see.

Firstly, we went to Greenwood’s baptist town: A very poor and run down area where Robert Johnson spent his final days before he got poisoned to death by a jealous lover. This place was rough. We felt unsafe and we were definitely being watched by the surrounding locals. They did not want us poking around on their turf, so we got moving and back on the road.

Then, we came to Money Road, and found the small country church that we had been looking for. To the left of the church was a large tree, and to the left of the tree was Robert Johnson’s grave. There are three places that claim to be the grave site of Johnson, but this is most-likely the real deal, as it is just up the road from where he spent his final days – plus there are eye witness accounts of the burial. His family also clarify that this is his final resting place. Robert Johnson: The man who sold his soul to the devil. If that wasn’t eerie enough, just a few yards up the road from Johnson’s grave, was the site of the grocery store where the young Emmett Till was murdered. That hit us hard, sending chills up the spine.

It was a heavy day already, but it wasn’t over yet. It started raining heavily on the road, and it had turned to thunder and fork light lightning by the time we reached Dockery Farms. For blues enthusiasts, this site is where the delta blues really began. Plantation workers who lived on the farm at the same time included Charlie Patton; Son House; Tommy Johnson; and Pops Staples. After a hard day’s graft, they would sit on a porch and play the guitar, all learning and influencing each other’s styles. From here, they would all eventually spread out and play this music in various juke joints along the Mississippi Delta. Their influence soon spread all over America, and eventually, all over the world. It was a holy experience to sit on the same spot where they once sat, guitars in our hands, playing the music that they created, as the thunder and lightning roared around us.

A little bit dazed and in a trance from the day we just had, we drove on up to clarkesdale, and spent the night in Morgan Freeman’s bar. And it was still only Tuesday.