The King Is Dead

At 7am I begin the task that is essential on any civilised road trip. Clean-out the car. You’re living in it for Gods sake. It is an intimidating first five minutes; Ashly’s foot well is almost knee-deep in empty taco bags and water bottles, half-finished guacamole containers and petrol receipts. The boot/trunk is worse – the same as above but more of them plus bags of presents for our lovely friends and a pile of badly folded maps of states we have passed through and will not be returning to. I borrow a black sack from the hotel and brutally get-rid.

The car is now ready for the day I have long dreamt of: We’re going to Memphis! Home of everything precious, centre of the rock’n’roll universe. There is absolutely no way I was rolling into Memphis in a dirty car. We have our morning map meeting (see tips) and there is a big pink highlighter circle around…. Memphis!

The drive is serene and beautiful, we are not paying too much attention to the abject poverty in Hickman or Tiptonville – too busy greedily sucking in the splendour on 94 around Cayce KY or Moscow KY.

The radio’s telling us BB King is dead. We are going to Memphis the night that BB has died. You couldn’t make it up. There will not be sadness as he’d had a life most could only dream of, and we will obviously be extremely fucked-up on Beale Street later. There are half-mast flags in Arkansas and Tennessee, the radio plays ‘The Thrill Has Gone’ and the death of a great man just seems right. He’d love this.

Four states in one day: Kentucky, Missouri, Arkansas and Tennessee. Blytheville AR must have been a classic Main Street town, now it looks like a back water in KwaZulu Natal. Hickman KY seems utterly gone… both of us are quiet driving these towns. 

Who cares! We’re in Memphis! The most expensive and prestigious hotel is The Peabody and that’s where we’re making camp, ducks and all (see tips) before the pilgrimages begin:

  1. Sun Studios. No words needed.
  2. The National Civil Rights Museum. Even fewer.

Nobody needs to be told about these places, you just go and make peace with yourself. I do the shit with ‘Elvis’ mic’ in the big live room.  We all pass through the The Rosa Parks bus in silence. Room 306 at The Lorraine Motel is a small room that will always stay with anyone who has seen it.

Ashly had not been to a restaurant since Minneapolis so she selects one from a poncy website; it’s way out of town – a cab ride. I bow to Ashly wanting to see a tablecloth again but would rather get off my knockers on Beale Street. The restaurant is full of nice white people. It’s raining, really raining, angry God rain. I speak to the car-guys to get a cab back to town. No cabs.

Nice Car Guy,

‘So, I’d guess it’s your anniversary?’

‘Yeah, funny, got it. Point made.’

‘I’ll drive you back to town.’

‘$20?’

‘Cool.’

He uses one of the clientele’s cars and drives us to Beale Street.

Beale St on the night BB died is predictable in its indulgence. Huge-ass girls drinking the fish-bowls, a blues band in every corner of every bar, and a sense of release. We go comfortably mental and don’t worry about tomorrow as this is all part of the schedule (see TIPS) and Oxford MS is only a few breaths away. Ashly is equally amazed and delighted and claims she’s an “Anorexic midget” next to these magnificent girls in very tight clothes – huge amounts of awed respect from both of us is sent their way. The promenade up Beale Street is something to behold, the rain is blinding but nobody cares. Our schedule for today said simply ‘Memphis! Memphis stuff!’