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So here's the story. . .

It was a Friday at 4:00 p.m. when Diane Williams, The Storyteller and my bestest friend in storytellin’ land and I, rolled out in her 4x4 thru Madison County, out of Jackson. 151 miles to Clarksdale, toward Tallahatchie County, cruisin’ pass grit-colored concrete of the Nissan auto plant tucked in a stretch o’ Mississippi grown collard greens.passing through Yazoo City and onto the infamous cotton country of Greenwood—home of the Cottonland Museum— onto the two lane Emmett Till Highway pushing 80, music blasting. Comin’  from behind us hot on our trail, we barely heard the southern siren of a patrol car of Delta’s finest. We pulled over steel-faced, four-wheeled, patty roller Mississippi state po’lice ma came to the drivers window and asked, “Ya know why I stopped you mam’

” I leans over in my most friendliest wanna-be-Southern belle accent n’ axed 'em how’d he catched us and ifn' he used radar? 

I was invisible—he didn’t bat an eye. 

“Please, Ms.Williams, handing over a friendly ticket,

and gently growled "Call dat number on the bottom and be careful ma’am.”

The great urge to tell him we was tryin’ ta beat da’ sunset n’ gets to the great actor n' the voice of God,  Morgan Freeman’s Ground Zero Blues Club.  

We slowly rolled on, silenced by the warning. I unzipped my little Ashbory Bass out of the case and commenced to make up a blues saga about Emmett Till. I picked out a few notes in time to the hip-hop beat static on the radio as we 55’ed on up the road, passing Ruleville, home of the great activist Fannie“tired of bein’ tired”  Lou Hamer,  the great blues man Johnny Billington’s house down yonder on da right, and rolled on through the community 

of Ita Bena, Mississippi, childhood home of B.B. King.

A metal sculpture of  guitars stood on the corner of route 49 and 61 marking  the mystical crossroads as the birthplace of the blues in cotton and catfish country.. We rolled into Clarksdale, passing Family General, Subway, Fred's and The Cheap Furniture Store. Rounding the corner, standing on a huge vacant lot, was Ground Zero. A big, old brick warehouse building at the end of a dead end road.

Cars were parked on the grass near an abandoned  railroad line. Ground Zero’s front porch was keepin’ company to a group of young Caucajuns girls, sitting crossed legged cuddled up comfy like on the old beaten n’ battered couch. I grabbed the handled on the ragged, worn, cabin-type doors all marked and scratched up with autographs in permanent black marker n’ paint. We stepped inside, 7:00 p.m—dinner was callin!

Dis place was a big juke joint, fo’ real doe. , Grafetti autographs, signs, slander, cussin' and salutation writin’ on everything n’ everywhere. From the old, dusty blinds in the window to the walls. Plastic flowered tablecloths hung over the metal tables,  flapping on , marked n’ beat up old kitchen chairs, bathroom doors, and walls all marked up with scribble scrabble— around a sign that read, no writin’on the mirrors!

Two stain-clothed pool tables on the right stood the test of time as youngun's pushed pool balls around, entertaining themselves while waiting to eat with their parents nearby. 

I’m tella ya, Bro’ Morgan went all out on funky low class decor. No chance anyone could mess up dis place any worse den it already was—a broken chair hung from the rafter and a big wood carving of a Rastaman’s head looked grimly down on all the folks, locals and tourist,  dressed up and down, scattered throughout the tables, benches, and bar.

As spirit moved us, we gazed around for empty seats, there was Morgan Freeman’s wife, Myrna and her daughter Morgana waving at us to sit with them..  Diane bein’ a director on the Mississippi  Arts Commission n’ all, and Mryna, a member of that particular board, embraced in greeting. After po’lite introducin’ I said to Myrna, “I have something fo’ yawl.” I went to the car and got my CD that I was intending to give someone to give someone to give to someone to give to Mr. Freeman himself. Now I was not in no way  expectin’ him to be on the premises wit alla Hollywood stuff he was doin, So to find his wife socializing right before our eyes, honey,was a good sign, , so I gave all my promotional paraphernalia directly to the gracious wife and lovely daughter.

The Freeman ladies kindly accepted my humble offerings. Ms. Myrna a artist in her own right, designed the costumes for Oak and Ivy, a Dunbar play, so at least we had Dunbar in common and we could be cousins, in a Creole sort o’ way. So I gave her my Dunbar Lias’ Mother and the Sister Wings spoken word CD’s I just recorded. Who knows, she just may want to do the costumes for the production of my Dunbar play. Her husband will be hankerin’ to produce for me one day—a real down-in-the-Delta production. I can dream, can’t I?

So now, speakin’ of women shows, Memphis Woman & Fried Chicken revue was showin’ that night featuring the Freeman’s adopted granddaughter, A’dena, and four other young drama students dressed in various costumes of Southern-style. The belle, the servant, the hottin’ tot gal, Creole lady, and mountain gal. What a red-dressed colorful delight! And they could sang too—solo and together!

A group of little girls dressed in white choir gowns joined them from the floor singing traditional songs of the South from “Summertime” to R&B classics like “Baby”. Memphis Woman sparkled, gearing up for an upcoming trip to a fringe festival way over in Europe. 

Back at  our table a group of Golden Girl ladies  had drove all the ways from Arkansas to come see the “Memphis Womans” sat at a table next to us. They were a Southern-style friendly lot. We chatted back n’ forth. I did this n’ she did dat. Ms. Eda Claire, a retired librarian and arts advocate, was very interested in our life as storytellers.  . Ida Claire belonged to a high falutin’ social clubs, bringing in performers all the time and wanted all the information she could get We gave her our cards and I took her address to send her my stuff. Neva heard from em’ since.

Dinner arrived and Eda Claire offered us some of her fried green tomatoes. I figured if they made a movie about them they must be pretty good eatin’ so we obliged. Dey was da propa Dellightful cuisine to accompany our tamales, bowl of collards, catfish, scrumps and salad, seasoned fries, and sweet tea. Talkin’ bout’ good eatin’! Ground Zero got it goin’ on in da kitchen fo’ sho’!

One of de hostess wit de mos’est, a brother, whose name escapes me at dis writin’, was in a safari short outfit promptly befriended me and asked what kinda instrument I was carrying. I opened the case and showed him my precious Barry Blak and told him I wanted to play my little bass geetar that night, if at all possible!

I had called earlier in the week and axed Roger when de open mic was goin’ on. Thursday, no good. A five hour drive n’ workday. We had to do Friday—no work on Saturday. So the safari brotha said if it was OK with Big T if I could do a lil sumtin’ sumtin’ wit my bass, Barry Blak. I chilled, waiting for the star to come forth.

Terry “Big T” Williams and The Family Revue Band is he and alla his cousins. They was headlinin’ and on arrival I got a proper introduction to Big T from the safari brother. Big T looked at my little, shinny, bushy-haired, light-skinned self and cracked a polite kinda smile. I looked up to Big T—pretty, black-skinned, pearly white, slick down doo, tall, robust, dressed in country blues black jeans n’ shirt—a fo’ sho MADE IN MISSISSIPPI kinda man!

Big T’s young-boy crew in tow—sixteen-year-old Jermaine on a bass bigger den him. White doo rag, gold-teefed youth on drums, and an older brother holding’ down the rhythm geetar. So I tells him I come all the ways from Philadelphia, PA (we passed Philadelphia, MS on the way up) for some blues lessons. I showed him lil Barry and he looked at it and shook his head real serious. “You can play that?” “I'm tryin,” I responded.

Big T walked off backstage leaving me with a maybe feeling in the air. He came back out with the boys and they rips n’ roared thru his opening set—boogie blues, lowdown blues, lovin’ blues, soul blues, jam, juk n’ jivin’—n’ that was just the sound check!

They stopped—the sound system wasn’t up to Big T’s high blues standards that he’s accustomed to, being he’s a teacher at the Blues School n’ Museum in Clarksdale and one of de most popular bluesmen in de Delta. System in check, dey came back n’ hit us again. I boogied n’ bounced around with a few obligin’ brothers—Tom, Diane, whoever hit the floor. Eda Claire and the Arkansas posse tapin’ their tables and feets as they waited to hear me do something on stage.

Big T jammin’ hot n’ hard while I was getting down to what he throwin’ out. I hadn’t had much R&B exercise in years so I was takin’ full advantage of testin’ out my workin’ limbs for a change. Then, Big T called a fifteen-minute break and went behind the beat up back room door dressin’ room, again!

I called the safari host brother over and axed him to check with Big T if I could do something while they was breakin’. He came back shakin’ his head in a reluctant manner, so I axed, “Is T star trippin’ on me or what?” He said, “seems he ain’t feelin’ ya rat now ‘cause his contract.” I says, “It’s cool, I’m gonna leave den. We got 150 miles back to Jackson and I ain’t tryin’ to steal no bodies show.” 

Just then, Big T comes out directly to me. Knowin’ musicians egos an all I tells him I didn’t want him to back me up—I know he’s the star tonight—I just wanted to do a little poem and play by myself while the intermission was on. 

He declared, “Well I have this white girl who be wanting to sing and I can’t be having folks up who ain’t in my contract all the time.” He don’t like to be doing gigs when they make him play behind other folks. I tell him I understand all that but I don’t need no backup n’ I ain’t no white girl. N’ cuz of slavery, me and him could be cousins!

He smiled and looked me dead in the eyes. “You want to do it right now?” “Yeah, rat now!” I handed him my cord and he plugged it into the biggest bass amp I had ever seen in all my two years o’ bass playin’. I hit the first note of  “Love Must” and his eyes lit up. The bass player came out from behind stage and grinned—they was feelin’ little Barry Blak. I hit it and Big T asked me my name again and jumped up on the stage to the mic. Announcing loudly, “Please welcome SISTAH REDBONE, all the way from Philly, who gonna do sumtin fo’ yawl!” I kept playin’, glidin’ upstage cool n’ deadly toward da mic and concentrating on each heartbeat o’ bass. I softly axed him to lower the mic to my lip level, he obliged, and I vibed on the mic. “Some people fall into love to fulfill a fantasy.” The next thing Big T done took up his geetar and start ta playin’ real sweet behind me like we done practiced all our lives together. It was sweeter dan Diane’s sweet potater pie, us’in bondin’ke long-lost lovers.

Needless to say, I was nursing a little cold in my throat all week but like Roger said it would gib me dat real Delta-blues-woman-type of vocal sound—raw n’ raspy tone. I spoke slowly n’ sexylak, sangin’ soft n’ keep in time on the bassline. Big T n us’in was feelin’ each other fo’ sho. I peeked at folks from over the five dollar blues shades I had jus’ purchasd fo’ my debut from behind the bar. Out in the house everything was black. The sound system monitors makin’ me soundin’ like a fo’ real sangin’ blues sistah. I was on cloud seven yawl! I heard a hollah, a whistle, a go on gurl from the darkness of the bi hall, and female voices urging me on!

Diane and friends were on de flo’ backin’me up and singing along loud, nice, and strong. “I will never fall in love. I will never fall in love. Love must fall for me. Fall in love with me.” The night was warm, smokey n’ serene. Folks stopped talkin’—Sistah Redbone was born again in blues yawl!

I was full of the spirit that carried me to Ground Zero, Clarksdale, Mississippi. Smack in de moment of bold-barren blues with Big T,  I leaned back into him. He leaned his head onto my shoulder and our heads touched in unity as we merged into my signature ending of a reggae dub lick, under the lead of his sweet-singing blues geetar.

Claps, shouts, whistles carried me off the stage as my dear soul sister Diane was waiting to embrace me in smiling support. I had made a dream come true to perform at Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Juke Joint! I had affirmed it weeks before I left Philly, and it happened. What could be better than that? I’ll tell you what!

Big T and the boys commenced to tear the roof off the sucker. We were all hip shakin’ on de floor one more time! Co-owner, Bill Luckett, leaned over and hollered to me that he’s the co-owner of the joint and he and Morgan were gonna bring Big T to their spot in Memphis. I nodded and hollered back, “I know dats right!”

I turned and bopped into the arms of an eighty-three-year-young pretty, old, Black brother dressed in all black. We cut it up while dancing the Philly bop—he wore me out! The music stopped as Big T pondered over the next jam wit his boys. I went to the stage and looked up to Big T and asked him to play “Road Runner” by Booker T, my vacation anthem of 2005! Big T smiling down on me, he turned and teared into another boogie-bangin’ anthem of love—something bout’ “Time After Time.” He then let go the words to solo on geetar, and no he didn’tin’! He motioned for me to come up— well he didn’t have to do it twice! I ran around the side up the steps and jumped back onto the stage—but what to do? I said to Big T, “Wait! I don't know the words.” Big T hollered back, “Just make some up.” I turned to the mic settin’ there in the dark waiting fo’me to spit. I looked up ina brief moment of meditation and I let loose! “Time after time you been on my mind. Everynight and everyday, I like to think of you dat way. Time after time. Even doe you leave me behind, I’ll take you back baby, ‘cause I lak it like dat!”

        I chanted a countdown from ten to zero n’ we TOOK OFF! Pulling from down deep in my soul all the blues, rock n’roll up inside alla years o’ livin n’ lovin! Everybody came out —Etta James, Big Mama Thornton, Millie Jackson (yeah I’m repentin’ now), Janis Joplin, Howlin’ Wolf, James Brown, Little Richard, Chuck Berry—ALL OF ‘EM!

 Diane swore she saw Jackie Wilson and Elvis come forth thru the wiggles of my 5’4 knee-knockin’ frame as I moaned, shouted, and growled on the mic!

Big T done gib me the holy ghost blues! Body rocked, rolled, boogied, jammed, broke down, hollered, spoke in tongues, arms flared, jean skirt sailin’, wailing, vocals breakin’ up and down riding the rhythm of bass n’ drum. Da drumma was givin’ me some owweeeeee!

Cousin Big T and me made a public display of blusical musical love that night! Riddin’ the roots of blues, coming to a barin’ soul boogie climax. I ain’t never visualized in the privacy of my own musical boudoir. The dance floor was packed with folks dancin’ and feelin’, freestyling, holiness jammin’. I could feel body heat heat rising up to kiss my face, I continued to testify ad libbing on the moment of musical madness. Den bam! Drum roll soared to the end. I let out a howl as long as I could hold my breaf’ Tina Turner flipped outa her weave and Janis Joplin rolled over in her grave!

Big T sent me back to Ground Zero and what was left of my mind. I floated off the stage to the silence in my head. I heard Big T's voice in the distance. “Yeah, now dat’s the blues too yawl!” 

Big T welcomed my see ya lata with a hearty embrace under his right broad armpit. Apologizing, he looked down on me with the most handsome smile and confessed.

“Sorry I underestimated you, Sistah Redbone. You bad.”

I looked up to the light of my musical minister and said tiredly....“It’s OK, I'm use to it.”

Published in HINDSIGHT 2020 on Toho Publishing, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania