November 23, 1936—in room 414 of the Gunter Hotel in San Antonio—RobertJohnson began strumming his guitar. Legend has it, the Mississippi native playedfor three days straight, recording 16 songs, all while facing the wall in the hotelroom. He died 19 months later at the age of 27.

Johnson, arguably the greatest bluesman to ever live, may be dead and gone. But some 70 years later, I journeyedwith EBONY Senior Photo Editor Dudley Brooks down to the Delta––where it all started––in an attempt to answerone question: Does the blues still live on?

Every year, thousands of visitors make a similar pilgrimage, hoping to connect with the spirit that gave the bluesher birthright and Johnson his untimely death. Ultimately, most make it to Clarksdale, Miss., where they get wasted at thelocal juke joints and strike their best “rocker” poses at the intersection of Highway 61 and Highway 49, the leg-endary crossroads where Johnson said that he sold the devil his soul in exchange for talent to play the blues. In themiddle of the street, some even strum their air guitars as they imitate Johnson when he sang, “I went down thecrossroads, fell down on my knees, asked the Lord above, ‘Have mercy now, save poor Bob, if you please.’”

102 EBONY l OCTOBER 2010 OCTOBER 2010 l EBONY 103

ON

MOREBY KEVIN CHAPPELL

For many gripped by the Blues, time stands still, life moves on

PHOTOGRAPHY BY DUDLEY M. BROOKS

THANA

The Mississippi Delta

SONG

For visitors, the blues has become their newfound art, a hip form ofexpression to help get them through these recessionary times. Butfor the locals I met, the blues is not a song you sing half-drunkduring karaoke night at the local bar. It’s not a Buddy Guy poster someteenager hangs on the wall in a college dorm room. The blues is a wayof life, a melancholy existence that is nostalgic only in the varying meansand modes it finds to kick them right square in the ass. Hundreds ofinterviews later, I still can’t describe exactly what the blues is. But aftershooting bull for days over case after case of beer under the unrelentingMississippi sun, I damn sure know it when I see it.

It sounds like Clarksdale resident David Tribble. “Yeah, I’ve seenthem White people stop traffic up there on 49,” he says, steppingthrough the frame of his screenless screen door, maneuvering around

empty beer cans in his front yard as his wife downs another one des-tined for the heap. “If you don’t know anything about the crossroads,why the hell you taking pictures? You don’t know anything aboutthat. You ain’t never chopped no cotton. You ain’t never lived in oneof these damn one-room shacks. You ain’t never done none of this.So why do you want to know about it? I had a White woman stop me… she was from Missouri, some part Missouri. She stopped me andasked me, ‘What is that white stuff?’ I said, ‘That’s cotton.’ She said,‘You mean to tell me, it comes straight out of the ground?’ I said,‘Yeah, it comes straight out of the ground.’ I said it just like that. Ifyou don’t know, I will tell you any damn thing. Any damn fool knowsit starts as a seed, it buds, busts open and then you’ve got cotton. …They come here, it makes money for the town, but it doesn’t do any

OCTOBER 2010 l EBONY 105104 EBONY l OCTOBER 2010

damn thing for us. It ain’t coming out here on the street. All the busi-nesses around here are still shutting down. I ain’t doing nothing butworking every day. I work 10 hours a day, and still scuffling. I got paidtoday, and I’m just like I was when I went to work two weeks ago.Clean pockets.”

Put that to music.It looks like old-time bluesman Robert “Bilbo” Walker. Born in

1937 on the Borden Plantation in Clarksdale, he still drives his old RVfrom juke-joint gig to juke-joint gig, still chases the young girls and stillis eager to please the White folks. “If I got 50 Whites in there, I’mgoing to make more money on that night than I would if I got 150Blacks in there crowding the place out,” says Walker, 73, dressed in acrushed-velvet suit and wearing a curly wig as he sits on a wooden bench

in front of Cat Head, a White-owned blues and folk art store in down-town Clarksdale. “Because the White men get to feeling good, and theWhite girls, they get to feeling good, they might put one $10 bill in thetip jar. And when you play something they really like, and they get a fewdrinks in them, they liable to come up there and put $50 in there next.A Black man come up and give you $5 that night, you ain’t gettingnothing else from him. He might buy two drinks that whole night, thenhe going to the casino with the rest of it, if he got anymore.”

Put that to music.Or better yet, put on your walking shoes. If you thought you knew

a little something about how to fight a tight fight with a short stick,come along, I have some people I want you to meet. We’re just gettingstarted.

| BLUES FOR LIFE | Blues guitarist Robert “Bilbo” Walker, 73 (opening spread andabove), strolls along his farm in Clarksdale. Miss. He just opened his own juke joint. “Weget started about 8 o'clock. We play a little while until I get tired and sleepy. Then I gohome and go to bed.” Juke joints (top), a way of life for many in Clarksdale, featureartists such as bluesman Razorblade (left).

a

104 EBONY l OCTOBER 2010 OCTOBER 2010 l EBONY 105

“

”waythe blues

of life.

is

MAKING BIG MAMA PROUDShortly after entering Clarksdale, I see a sign outside of a nondescript

building that reads “Big Mama Fast Food & Groceries.” On theinside—beyond the cracked sidewalk and creaky wood-frame door—I didn’t find Big Mama, but I did find Big Mama’s sons, R.L. andAnthony Wilkins, selling everything from sodas and chips to cell phonesand cigarettes. They even grill hamburgers.

To others, it may only be a corner store. But to the Wilkins brothers,the modest enterprise in the heart of the Delta has become the corner-stone where family, faith and forgiveness intersect. And boy, did theyhave a story to tell.

“Once the casinos came in, that changed the game for us,” R.L. says. That’s where Big Mama has worked for years, about 40 minutes

up the road at a casino in Tunica, Miss. The locals call it “Little LasVegas”—miles of slot machines, blackjack tables and craps pits built inthe middle of what used to be farmland. Big Mama used to work inthe field picking cotton. In the summer, her four sons and two daugh-ters would help her in the fields.

“She was our mother and our father,” Anthony says. In fact, at onepoint, Big Mama worked three jobs. She drove a school bus in themorning, worked at a furniture store during the day, and then workedthe cotton gin at night in the field.

Dealing with their indiscretions, Big Mama got Anthony and R.L.out of more than a few messes. Dealing with their ambitions, she gotthem into their own business.

First, the indiscretions. Anthony’s sex drive is the stuff of legends. Hefathered his first child while in eighth grade. He’s now 45, and has 12

kids (11 daughters and one son) and 36 grandkids. He readily admitsthat he has made mistakes in life, one of which landed him in prison.“Nobody’s perfect but Jesus Christ,” he said. “And Big Mama.”

Now, the ambitions. Despite their missteps, Big Mama still believesin her sons. She constantly tells them that. Big Mama helped her sonsopen their store, even though she knew that some people around townwould not patronize it because they figured the Wilkins brothers werestill up to no good. “Even now, they say that we do this and we dothat,” Anthony says. “Instead of saying, ‘Them boys are trying to makeit down there,’ they say that we ain’t selling food in here.”

Right now, Anthony says that he’s taking Big Mama’s lead, takingit all in stride. But how long can he turn the other cheek? “You canpiss me off now,” Anthony says. “You can piss me off real bad, and I’llbe like a totally different person with y’all cats then. I’m just tellingyou the truth … I don’t need no friends. Only friends I got are mymother and Jesus Christ. That’s all I got.”

Put that to music.I left Big Mama’s realizing that there is perhaps nothing more

Southern than a storefront business, and nothing more Delta than adesire not to work for “The Man.” In Clarksdale alone, Jay and hisfamily have a grocery store, the Greens have an accounting firm andJohnny Hawkins is a bail bondsman who sells real estate. Then thereare the Newsons, who own a string of businesses on MLK Boulevard,and the Hicks brothers, who own a washerette and a restaurantknown across these parts for its legendary hot tamales. “You know,they did hot tamales for Dale Earnhardt,” R.L. says. “Yeah, man,a lot of famous people get their hot tamales from them.”

106 EBONY l OCTOBER 2010 OCTOBER 2010 l EBONY 107

THEY CALL HIM ‘MR. HARRIS’Just outside of Big Mama’s, I couldn’t help but notice a man lean-

ing on his pickup truck. He wore a cowboy hat as black as his face,which was as dried up as an old pitted prune. His name was JohnnyHarris. His stoic mug attracted me to him. His slow, methodicaldrawl kept me there way longer that I had anticipated.

Smoking a cigarette, the 57-year old says that he was waiting forhis lady to get a new cell phone. He tells me that she accidentally ranover her old one in her car. Turns out, the Wilkins brothers are run-

ning a special. “You pay $42 a month for one flat rate andyou can call anywhere you want to call for the same $42 amonth,” Harris says.

Once they get the hookup, they are hitting the road fora short vacation. Their destination: St. Louis, some 300miles away. Harris moved to Clarksdale in 1969, and leftabout four years ago to buy some land about 10 miles downthe road in Alligator. That’s right, Alligator, Miss. Moreabout that later. “I’ve got 25 acres,” Harris says. Then heoffers up a tidbit that makes his story one that is uniquelyDelta.“I’m the only Black guy that’s got a horse.”

I soon discover that by knowing Harris was headed to St.Louis, I know more than he’s told all the folks in Alligator.“When I go somewhere, I keeps it to myself,” Harris cau-tions me. “I don’t tell nobody; sometimes you tell peopleyou’re leaving and they get juiced up and decide they wantto break in your house, take something, you know, andthen you have to kill them.”

“Kill them?” I ask.“Yeah,” Harris says. “They say I’m mean, anyway. I’m not mean.

There’s just certain peoples that I deal with, and certain peoples I don’t.Like you, for instance. There’s certain peoples you deal with and certainpeoples you don’t.”

But I’m not talking about having to kill them. Then again, I’venever been a country boy with 25 acres and a horse trying to make itin Alligator, Miss.

Harris says that he likes the folks in Alligator. His only rub withthem: “They don’t go nowhere,” he says. “It’s like they’re scared to

| TOUGH LIVING |Jennifer Davis (left)

lives in a dilapidatedtrailer in Alligator, Miss.,

with her grandsonMarqorius, who has a

learning disability. Davishopes Antwone

Wallace—aka BlakPowea—(opposite) can

help her fill out the necessary paperwork to move into a betterapartment down the

street. Powea, originallyfrom Chicago, leaves

Bruno’s on his ATV, the ride of choice in the one-square-mile

town. Dotting the Deltalandscape (this page,

bottom), small churchesare places where gener-

ations have come toescape the blues.”

SECLUDED.I know everybody.

Everybody knows me.It’s

in the country,

RESPECT.

“I’m out

old Jennifer Davis and her 2-year-old grandson Marqorius Davis.They call him Scoop. He’s her son’s son. Like many Black grand-mothers in the Delta, Jennifer is raising Scoop. Not an easy task,considering Scoop is having speech and hearing issues. “His motherlives in Clarksdale [with Davis’ son], but I guess she couldn’t dealwith him because when he’s upset, he grits his teeth like you would-n’t believe. I guess it bothered her. But I got used to it,” she says.

The two live in a dilapidated-looking trailer that she says Bruno isrenting to her. It sinks down in the middle, floods when it rains, hassporadically running water and a really bad rat problem. It has beenbroken into several times. In fact, as we talk, a guy who she says brokeinto it recently, actually walks by. “Him and his old lady, they got mymicrowave, my TV, my DVD, my clothes,” Davis says.

“Somebody told me that you got my TV,” she says to him. Heignores her and keeps walking.

‘STUCK IN TIME’As I drove through miles and miles of cotton fields headed back

to Clarksdale, my mind was spinning. Too much beer, too muchMississippi sun, too many late nights at too many juke joints, too manyfolks with too many stories that I didn’t quite understand.

What I was beginning to appreciate about the blues is that sometimesyou’re living it and can’t shake it. But sometimes it is a self-inflictedcondition based on misconceptions, fear, false limitations and histor-ical precedent.

I needed to confirm my theory—and quick. So where did I go? Whereelse—to the Black man’s shrink—the local barbershop on MLKBoulevard. There, I found Derrick Johnson, the town barber at theshop owned by the Newson family. As he set up his clippers and pre-

pared for his first customer, he broke it down for me.“They’re stuck in time,” says Johnson, 35. “It’s falling down from

generation to generation. If someone don’t come and break the cycle,it’s going to keep going. Four hundred years of slave mentality.”

Johnson, who joined the military and has traveled extensively, saysthat when young men come into his barbershop for a $12 cut, he workson their minds while he’s working on their heads. “They say, ‘Well,I’m making it right now. Barely, but I’m making it. I’ve got a bird inthe hand. I ain’t worried about the bird in the nest,’” Johnson says.“But I tell them, ‘You’re talking about birds when there are someeagles out there.’”

Put that to music.“Poverty is everywhere,” he continues. “The Delta is not based on

poverty. The Delta is just based on a lack of knowledge. It’s just sad.The only reason I know as much as I know—and I’m not bragging—is because my mind is broad. I done been to 42 states. I done stayedin three or four. I made it in each state that I went to. And they respect me.”

In the end, my travels through the Mississippi Delta made me real-ize that the people living the blues all want to make a little headway,chart a little progress, get a little respect. Unfortunately, to breakthrough the constraints that have kept them bound to the blues some70 years after Robert Johnson’s death, more may need to think out-side the box and go against conventional wisdom.

Hell, some may even have to make a deal with the devil.

108 EBONY l OCTOBER 2010 OCTOBER 2010 l EBONY 109

get out of town. The people that live in Alligator staysin Alligator.”

A construction worker by trade, Harris says that hekeeps to himself. And when he does have to deal withsomeone, he says that he prefers dealing with Whites.“The bottom line is, you respect the White man andthe White man’s gonna respect you. I say, ‘How areyou do doing, sir? Excuse me for a minute.’ If you gotsomething you want to say to a person, say ‘mister,’‘ma’am,’ ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir.’ If I don’t respect you, younot gonna respect me. Every White person downhere calls me ‘Mr. Harris.’ They don’t call me ‘Johnny.’They say ‘Mr. Harris.’”

Put that to music.Before we parted, Mr. Harris told me one more

thing before he headed off to St. Louis. “You shouldgo down to Alligator. It should be jumping rightabout now,” he said. “Ain’t no police down there.They police themselves. And don’t tell them that I’mout of town.”

Will do.

WELCOME TO ALLIGATORAs soon as you enter Alligator, two things are obvi-

ous. Many of the residents of the fifth-smallest townin Mississippi like to imbibe alcoholic beverages, andBruno’s Package Store is the place of choice. It’s 4o’clock in the afternoon and half the town is outsidegetting their drink on. Although signs are postedeverywhere forbidding patrons from loitering, no oneseems to pay that any mind. Not even Bruno Fava, who most likelyposted the signs and is inside selling pints, quarts and fifths as fast ashis stubby Italian fingers can work the cash register.

The scene is intense. Hoopdies are constantly pulling in and out,dropping off people, picking up people, almost running over people.If the blaring rap music that penetrates the parking lot doesn’t driveyou a little batty, Paul Thomas bum-rushing you will. If there’s stillsuch a thing as a town crier, he’s it. Except the Brother is not on ahorse. He’s riding around Alligator on an ATV.

Thomas knows everyone and everyone’s business. Today he’s play-ing hip-hop promoter, taking me next door to the source of the rapmusic––an open room with a pool table and a jukebox rigged up toplay CDs made by the teenagers in Alligator.

“Ain’t no drugs; ain’t nothing but music,” Thomas says as he intro-duces me to a teenage girl—Bilbo’s girlfriend—whose CD is playing.“All they do is rap. Early in the morning, about 6 o’clock, everybody’ssitting around drinking and rapping. We ain’t got no swimming pool.We ain’t got no rec centers. We ain’t got no baseball team, no softballteam, no basketball team, no hockey team, none of that. Ain’t noth-ing else to do but rap.”

Put that to music.Then, Thomas seems to have an epiphany. “Man, you got to meet

Blak Powea.”I say, “Black Power?”He says, “No, Blak––Brilliance, life and knowledge;

Powea––Presence of wisdom, energy, answers. He’s the man. He’sgoing to make us all famous. He’s got a studio at his home. He’s theone that made all of the CDs. Let me go see if he’s at home.”

With that, Thomas goes off on his ATV. I go inside, buy a 40-

ounce from Bruno and loiter with the rest of the Alligatorians. I did arrange to meet Blak Powea at his house the next day. When

I arrive, he was out back loading two-by-fours onto a trailer. He takesa break, invites me into his house (which he is in the process of ren-ovating) and tells me his real name: Antwone Wallace. “But you cancall me Blak,” he says.

“Around here, I’m working with five artists exclusively,” says Blak,who is 37. “The artists I got, I basically molded those guys.”

Inside Blak’s studio, there are more books than tracks. “It’s just asmall little setup, preproduction,” says Blak, who also raps. “It’s downright now, but it’s all good. I got stuff I need to fix. I just haven’t hadtime. Been out of town traveling.”

“Traveling?” I said. “I thought people who live in Alligator stayin Alligator.”

Well, it turns out, Blak is not from Alligator. He’s from Chicago,an outsider who is admired by the locals perhaps because he’s from abig city. He and his wife moved to Alligator seven years ago. He’s oneof the few Alligator residents who owns a house. According to the2000 census, the per capita income in Alligator is $9,567. Most inone-square-mile town rent apartments and trailers from Bruno.That’s right. First, he sells them the liquor. Then, he sells them a placeto pass out. Straight up gangsta.

Surrounded by acres of farmland, Blak’s house backs up toAlligator Lake. He admits that he likes being a big fish in a smallpond. “I got Hollywood right here,” he says. “I’m out in the coun-try, secluded. I know everybody. Everybody knows me. It’s respect.”

There’s that word again. If there are 220 people in Alligator, I left there thinking there have

to be at least that many peculiar stories. I met people such as 38-year-

| ‘I DON’T NEED NO FRIENDS,’ | says Anthony Wilkins, who, along with his brotherR.L., runs a convenience store that their mother helped them open. “Big Mama taught us tobelieve in God,” he says. A worshipper (above) gives glory to God in church.

”but JesusChrist...and

PERFECTBIGMAMA.

“Nobody’s

EDITOR’S NOTE: Shortly after returning from St. Louis, Johnny Harris,according to published reports, shot his girlfriend in the back as shewas trying to run away, then beat her with the gun. Shortly after killingher, Harris killed himself with one shot to the chest. Infidelity is believedto have been the motive.