GKM - the only world he knows

2002 — Music Tour of some Southern States

Now, let me tell you about the 2002 tour, which really did let me meet the ordinary American 'Joe', because, after flying into New Orleans from Washington, most of the rest of the journey was by hired car—and what a journey it turned out to be.

First, New Orleans itself (remember, this was before 'Katrina', the storm that almost destroyed the city). Quite simply, it was amazing: Bourbon Street and the jazz (inside and out on the streets); Cajun music played out on the road by various groups, some artistes wearing Stetsons, and growing long fluffy beards.

After nightfall, ladies on balconies, desperate to allow the passing throng a glimpse of what nature had endowed them with; streamers and banners; eating grits for the first time; sailing up the Mississippi on a great big Showboat 'The Creole Queen' with its (imitation) paddles thrashing, while eating crayfish and listening to a great jazz band; setting out from Canal Street seated in an original old tram to visit the leafy and green suburb of Garden City.

What an atmosphere - magic! Then next day, we were off
on the next stage of this great adventure.

The first remarkable, thing leaving New Orleans, was the feeling of skimming about two inches above water—well, we were, above Lake Pontchartrain. (When later, Katrina struck, and the dykes were broken—we remembered how near water we were at all times—with the mighty Mississippi always there).

Mile after mile, as we traveled north through the state with the same name, we were aware of that mighty flow of water just a little to the west of us, with only the occasional crossing via very peculiar looking girder bridges.

Natchez, Vicksburg, Civil War sites; riverboats used as floating casinos—on through the Delta—heading towards Clarksville and a reconnoitre, we hoped, with people in that birthland of blues music who had known the great names, like Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker.

Unfortunately, it did not happen. A wonderful moment, en-route, however, was the stop at a wayside

eating place. As we entered, a gorgeous, but huge black lady looked up, opened her arms and announced: 'He's mine'.

My wife got a lovely smile. We were then treated to the largest and best steak roll that I think I have ever tasted, juices just running out of it.

Our next stop was Memphis. The hotel overlooked the ball park and a game was going on; there were huge crowds. Next day, Beale Street, Bebe King and the Blues; Sun Recording studios; Schwab's store (which had just about everything in it—including a faded photo of Elvis when living in Tupelo); a bus tour around the city; then next day, Graceland and Elvis.

I was struck very deeply by the evidence of the star's never ending gifts to charity. This side of him seldom gets aired. When friends, back home, are told of paying our tribute to the King, the envy seeps out of them. Rightly or wrongly, he is still loved and admired by a great many.

The jealousy back home becomes worse when we tell of Jackson, Tennessee, which was our next stop. We stayed the night beside Casey Jones and the 'Runaway train' that 'came over the hill and she blew'—still parked off main street.

These good friends were then sunk out of sight with the tale of our run across Tennessee (I like the sound of that word—good to say slowly) that took in Nashville, visits to Grand Old Opry and the rest, to hear first hand 'that there Country Music'.

The plantation that had belonged to President Andrew Jackson, 'Old Hickory' drew us next. From the farming set up examined, it was made very plain to us, the different kind of life led by the rich of those days, from those who formerly had been slaves, as well as that of the poor whites.

From there, we headed south to see 'Ruby Falls', a waterfall deep in the heart of a mountain on the north side of Chattanooga. We found the cascade in a cave, hiding beneath millions of tons of earth and rock; and everything was bathed in a sort of wine-coloured light, soft music playing. Unbelievable!

The guide held an impromptu check on where we all came from; needless to say, we were the only ones from Scotland, a fact that elicited quite a few gasps of amazement—especially from a party of Chicagoans (Is that the right term?)

They were not to know that near this area (and also incorporating territory in Alabama and Georgia) travelled an eighteenth century ancestor from Scotland, Lachlan McGillivary, who started out as a trader. He married a Cree Indian Princess, and went on to build trading-posts among the Upper Towns of the Muscogee Confederacy.

In 1783, his son, Alexander McGillivray became the principal chief of the Upper Creek towns. He was also largely responsible for squeezing $6 million out of George Washington as recompense to the Cree for land dealings. He is to be congratulated—it was hard to get anything out of dear old George in 'them thar days'.

From Chattanooga, we struck east, then south, across the Smoky Mountains, going via Knoxville, Pigeon Forge, Gatlinburg, Cherokee and Maggie Valley.

The stop-over in Pigeon Forge led to an unexpected Country and Western show in Dolly Parton's entertainment complex. All the male guitarists wore big stetson hats—it seemed to be de rigueur, making half of their heads disappear from sight! I don't think it was meant to be funny—it was hilarious. The show that night also led to an insight into the mind-set of mid-America.

'Where y'all from?' asked my neighbour in the next seat. His wife was on his left flank, my wife on my right.

'From Edinburgh, Scotland', said I. There was a disconcerted look on his face. I knew he didn't have a clue where that was, and he leaned over to inquire of his wife. She didn't know either.

To save embarrassment I asked about him, where was he from?

'Oh, I have a small spread over there (he meant over the Mississippi); run a couple of thousand head of cattle'.

'That must be miles away', I said. He agreed, in fact it was more than a hundred of them. He then went on to say that folks, thereabouts, thought nothing of a four hundred miles round trip.

In a round about fashion, his good wife again asked where we were from. We answered, across the Atlantic, which we guessed they had heard of, and left it at that.

Next, it was on to sighting black bears, as we climbed upwards over Gatlinburg in a cable car; and to our question, put to some puzzled Americans, 'What's an RV?', we received some withering looks. Stupid us, we didn't know anything about the 'recreational vehicles' they had been talking about!

And why was there a fireworks factory in Cherokee? No answer. We seemed to find these factories all over the States. Nuthin' like that our side of the pond.