Part I

Ten years have flown by since my son and I made a blues journey, starting in New Orleans, at the mouth of the Mississippi River. I think about it now for two reasons. First, I've just returned from a business trip to Chicago, where I spent a couple of nights with my son at "open mic" nights, playing the blues. One night at the Gallery Cabaret in Bucktown, and one at Cafe Ashie on North Clark. The other reason is it's spring, and road fever always grabs me about this time of year. It was spring of 1960 when I read "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac and ended up moving to San Francisco. But that's another story.

Spring still does that to me. And I probably had New Orleans on my mind with the 1998 Jazz and Heritage Festival just having wrapped up the two weekend celebration.

New Orleans is where our trip began by car. Actually it was formulated one night in 1987 when my son Gregg and I were watching the movie "Crossroads" on tape. In case you're not familiar with it, "Crossroads" tells the story of a young white guitar player, a cocky kid played by Ralph Macchio, who meets an old black musician, beautifully portrayed by Joe Seneca, in a New York hospital and takes him back to his home in Mississippi, in exchange for some long lost song by the legendary Robert Johnson. The film was directed by one of my favorites, Walter Hill, who also directed one of the best westerns ever made, "The Long Riders." And the soundtrack was written and to some extent played by Hill's favorite composer and player, Ry Cooder.

You know, it's funny, looking back on that evening more than ten years ago. Gregg was 15 years old, with a deep love of music. He had learned to play the trumpet and drums, and now was learning the guitar. Another kid influenced by John, Paul, George and Ringo. I guess fathers always look for something to connect them with their sons, a common meeting ground where age and rank don't matter. Fishing, baseball, stamp collecting, chess, basketball. We had tried a couple of those. But I loved music, especially blues and jazz. And I wanted to make sure Gregg learned more about music than what he heard on the radio. In other words, I wanted Gregg to get a feel for blues and jazz.

When the movie was over, I asked him how he liked it. "I liked it," he said. A man of few words. "What did you think of the music?", I asked. "I liked it." And he meant it. Suddenly I had a flash of brilliance. "How'd you like to do that someday? You and I go travel the route of the blues." He smiled. I continued, "You know, like go to Mississippi or something like that. " I wasn't even sure what that meant or where it would take us, except I was pretty sure it meant South. Gregg was a pretty quiet boy, didn't say much, kept his thoughts to himself, so I thought maybe this would be an opportunity to make some connections with each other, establish some kind of non-threatening dialogue.

And so it was, a year later, Gregg and I packed a few clothes into my wife's new Honda Accord. Not exactly a blues vehicle: a rusty station wagon, broken down van or '58 Cadillac convertible would have been more appropriate. But efficiency and high gas mileage were the rules of the road back then. I took my Minolta 35mm camera, a notebook, some cans of soda in a styrofoam cooler, and some tapes, including one I had put together especially for the trip. That would be played later. Gregg had his camera, too, a 35mm Pentax he was real proud of.

That Sunday was your standard summer day that gives St. Louis a bad name: Uncomfortably hot. Unbearably humid. 100 degrees. No breeze. Gregg had just finished cutting the yard. It was a prerequisite to leaving on the trip. Our two golden retrievers moped around, panting, looking for a cool spot to escape the heat. I had just returned from Target, where I picked up a few rolls of film for us and a notebook, stopped to fill up the gas tank. Finally, at 4:15, the last day of July in 1988, Gregg and I pulled out of our driveway in Kirkwood, Missouri, headed South. Yeah, capital "S". Grammatically wrong, spiritually right. South on I-55, which runs all the way to New Orleans.

I didn't have any definite route in mind. More of a feeling for following the Mississippi River. We'd start in New Orleans, follow the river around, up through Mississippi, the delta country, into Memphis, then back home to St. Louis. I had told him about jazz starting in New Orleans, then working its way up the Mississippi, generally believed to be in the person of Louis Armstrong, until jazz got to Chicago, then it took off east to New York. Maybe it wasn't completely accurate, but close enough. And of course I had told him about Mississippi, named a couple of towns where famous bluesmen had been born, like Son House and B.B. King, and introduced him to the idea of the Mississippi delta, the cradle of the blues. It was a fascinating story and separate from the "Jazz came up the Mississippi" routine. We'd try to do as much of both as we could pack into 3 or 4 days.

In the car that day we listened to a lot of tapes, most of them blues and early jazz, sort of an audio foundation for the trip ahead. I felt like we were in a movie. My son and I on the road, ahead of us a few days of music, history and sightseeing, watching the flat delta countryside fly by along the hot concrete highway, all underscored by Leadbelly, Tampa Red, Lowell Fulson, Howlin' Wolf, the King boys (B.B., Albert and Freddie), and quite a few more. Also some Elton John and Beatles, his favorites. I didn't want Gregg to get the feeling he was on a forced march, educational style.

Late that night, a little north of Memphis, we picked up WDIA out of Memphis.

"Hear those call letters, Gregg? WDIA. That's a radio station in Memphis."

"Never heard of it," he said.

Of course not. But it's famous. And if we get lucky, we'll stop at the station on the way back."

"Why's it famous, dad?"

"A lot of early blues was played on that station. And soul music. Back then they were called 'race records.' It was a dumb way of saying 'black music.' It's also the first station that ever played an Elvis Presley record."

"The Beatles played some Elvis songs."

It doesn't have to be a great connection, just some connection. And he made it. So far, so good. We listened to a gospel program on WDIA, I tapped the steering wheel, he tapped his foot. We were rocking on down I-55 enjoying Pepsi's, 'Nilla wafers, candy bars, and each other's company. We made 400 miles that first day, most of them boring, and stopped that night a little South of Memphis at a Western Motel in Granada, Mississippi. This wasn't part of our Blues Route yet; we still had 300 miles to go to New Orleans, where the pilgrimage would officially begin.

I didn't get a lot of sleep that night. A midnight dinner at Taco Bell, about the only place open in Granada, after sitting in a car for eight hours with a heavy sugar intake, kept me bouncing between bad dreams and staring at the ceiling. Even Alka-Seltzer didn't do much good. Eventually I got a little sleep. We were up and gone by 7:00 am. South, past Winona, where Mississippi 82 crosses 55. Past Goodman, Pickens, Vaughan, Canton. We stopped in Jackson for breakfast at a Waffle House, within sight of the state capitol. Gregg and I both had waffles, sides of bacon and sausage, and I ordered a plate of grits. Might as well introduce him to the strange ways of the South.

"What's that stuff?", he asked.

"Grits. It's something southerners eat. Try it."

"No."

"It's like Cream of Wheat."

"No way."

"You can put salt or sugar on it. Just taste it. BB King used to eat this when he was growing up in Mississippi."

"Nope."

I had a couple of bites, the rest sat there and solidified. But the waffles were great.

Not long after we crossed into Louisiana, we hit I-12. Instead of staying on 55 all the way into New Orleans, which would have been symbolically correct, I headed east on 12 until I got to the causeway over Lake Ponchartrain. Might as well give Gregg a proper introduction to the Crescent City. As we started across the long, straight causeway, with New Orleans huddled in the shimmering distance like the Emerald City of Oz, I slipped a Louis Armstrong tape into the player, and we rolled across the water towards the birthplace of jazz to the sound of Louie's Hot 5 and Hot 7, playing "Potato Head Blues", "Ory's Creole Trombone", "Savoy Blues" and more from that great Columbia set.

We got into a hot and humid New Orleans around noon and immediately I took a wrong turn. We bounced around a lot of streets that were familiar to me - Canal, Rampart, St. Charles - and eventually found our way into the the French Quarter. Gregg was all eyes, looking every way he could, taking in all the sights of this strange new city.

"We're in the French Quarter, Gregg."

"Neat."

"Right in here is where a lot of great blues and jazz got started."

No answer. Just looking, listening.

"Our hotel is near here. Soon as we get checked in, we'll walk around. Okay?

"Okay. Is there any music playing now?"

"I'm sure there is. We'll find it."

We found our hotel, the Ste. Marie, on Toulouse Street, a wonderful old hotel I had heard about from a friend who used to stay there during the Jazz and Heritage Festivals. It's old, comfortable, and surprisingly quiet, considering it's in the heart of the French Quarter. The Ste. Marie is one of those New Orleans places that looks like absolutely nothing from the sidewalk, just a flat wall and an entrance way. But inside it opens up into a garden, a fountain and courtyard, balconies and thick, green vegetation. Only thing missing was Tennessee Williams, dressed in white linen, sitting at a table, sipping straight bourbon.

Gregg and I spent the first part of the afternoon walking around the French Quarter and acting pretty much like tourists. We both had our cameras and grabbed a lot of shots, from St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square to some strange and interesting street characters. Gregg got a caricature drawn by one of several sidewalk artists in Jackson Square. Not bad, either. As we walked by the Famous Door club we saw a Dixieland band on stage, playing "Fidgety Feet." Might as well start off with a little two-beat Dixieland, I thought. It connected with some of the Louis Armstrong numbers we had heard in the car on the way down.

Gregg was fascinated by the musicians, and by the place itself. The Famous Door is mostly tourist traffic now, with familiar Dixie songs that pull tourists in. And I'm sure they must play "When the Saints Come Marching In" and "Tiger Rag" a half dozen times a night. But on this afternoon, they were into more interesting, authentic songs. Gregg had the kid's version of coffee, Mountain Dew. Check out the caffeine content sometime on a Dew. It'll jolt you. I had a Jax beer. Not good, but part of the local scene.

After a couple of songs, we ventured back out into the hot, humid Quarter and wandered around for awhile. At 4 o'clock heavy dark clouds suddenly started filling the skies, and then the rains hit. A tropical afternoon shower. We ducked into a little restaurant under a balcony and each had a cup of gumbo soup, listening to the thunder roll through the Quarter, watching the old streets washed by the heavy rains. A half-hour later the skies had cleared. We decided to head over to Louis Armstrong Park and Storyville. We crossed Rampart Street and saw Armstrong Park, where the Municipal Auditorium and New Orleans Theatre for the Performing Arts are located. I started explaining more about Louis to Gregg, his place in American music, his genius at improvising, and how many musicians that followed were influenced by Satchmo. I also threw in a little New Orleans history, going back to the slave trade, ships docking in the New Orleans port, the red light district called Storyville, and its eventual dismantlement. As we started to enter the iron gates in the park, a policeman stopped us, asked if we were going into the park.

"Yeah. My son and I thought it'd be interesting."

"Well, you probably want to be careful."

He was friendly about it. But he still surprised me.

"Why?" Great question.

"Sometimes it can be a little dangerous. Not usually during the day. I'd suggest you not try it at night. Just keep your eyes open if you go in."

Gregg and I looked at each other. Unbelievable. A place with Louis Armstrong's name on it? Dangerous? So we walked in, and it was a pretty place, totally non-threatening. But just to be safe, we did kind of a quick look around, saw a statue of Louis Armstrong, and then left. I don't know if they've cleaned up the park since then, but at the time I heard other stories that the park could be a little dangerous.

From there we walked about a block, up Basin Street, to where Storyville used to be. Nothing. To be honest, I don't remember what is there now. But it sure wasn't any kind of vestige of the fascinating history of American jazz and Crescent City culture I had read about. Gregg and I walked back to the hotel. We stopped and got a hot dog and Coke from a vendor, mine with mustard, relish and onions, Gregg's naked. To this day he doesn't put anything on a hot dog.

"Don't eat too much," I said. "We're gonna have oysters tonight."

"No way."

I had less hope for him trying oysters than I had had for grits.

We got back to the Ste. Marie. Gregg went up to the room to sack out for an hour. I picked up a newspaper and an entertainment guide, sat at a wrought iron table in the courtyard, ordered a vodka tonic, and planned the evening's entertainment.