The Subway

The Oxford American’s Annual Southern Music issue is out.  The focus is on Mississippi, and it’s a wild and wondrous adventure.  Just having Bo Diddley’s throbbing “Heart O-Matic Love” and “(My Baby Loves) Chili Dogs” by the long forgotten Dusty Brooks in the same place is worth the price of admission. 

But, as with anything that claims to be about something, there are some gaps.  This is information by way of observation only; I cast no fault.  I will endeavor to fill some of the gaps.  Candidly, I haven’t given this much thought, and I’m not sure how much I have to offer in the way of gap filling.  But lets start here: Jackson, Mississippi, in the summer of 1999 at a blues club called the Subway.

That summer I left my home in California to live on Mississippi time, taking a job as a volunteer intern at the Mississippi Post Conviction Counsel Project.  I split my daytime hours between a musty storefront office and trips to Sunflower County to visit clients who would never leave Parchman Farm. 

This was right around the time that Jackson decided to remake itself in the image of Dallas, and years before the state and the city remade and sanitized Farish Street into a “blues trail” destination.  Farish Street was a dark and dangerous place: a pretty good place to buy dope and a very good place to find pre-teen hookers.  I lived in an Eisenhower-era apartment complex at the corner of E. Griffith Street and Farish.  I soon got used to hearing shots fired, generally followed by the empty silence of neither police nor ambulance response.

For the first couple of weeks I found my blues at that corner, at a joint now known as “Frank Jones Corner.”  Perhaps it was Frank Jones Corner then, too, but I remember it being called “Peaches.”  In any event, this was a place as dark and dangerous as they come, though at the time I was too stupid to be scared.  For beverages you had two choices – Bud or Bud Lite – at a dollar a can.  And most nights there was a blues band on the floor cranking out Malaco-styled, “Members Only” type blues.  It was a satisfying way to spend a summer night in Jackson, young, white, beer drunk, and out of place.

In fact, one of the very high points of my life occurred at that corner, late one night when I was pressed into service playing bass.  The band that night was led by a man I knew only as “Captain” because of his white skipper’s cap.  He was mean, and I don’t think we’d ever so much as exchanged a word.  But that night, with his bass player overstoned and missing, he turned his yellow eyes on my and told me that I could play bass.  Yessir.  At the time I could, in fact, play bass, but barely, and not without looking at my fingers.  And it was dark in there.  Very, very dark.  But I strapped on a Peavey bass and watched a very drunk, stooped over old man take the mic – there was no stage – and clear his throat.  Sounded like Bobby “Blue” Bland.  And by the time we played “Member’s Only,” I knew it was Bobby “Blue” Bland.  

Not long after that, after playing an open mic at the George Street Grocery, I got a tip about the Subway: forget Peaches, I was told.  That’s low class, a crackhead joint.  The Subway is where it’s at, on Pearl Street.  Doors open late. 

And so that Friday night I fortified myself at Hal & Mals and, sufficiently drunk, went to the Subway.  Tipped the homeless man with a flashlight five bones for a “guarded” parking place.  Walked down the narrow steps into the basement, into the Subway.  Colored Christmas lights strung all around the room, and they would periodically flash and dance all.  The ceiling was low – I’m not a tall Donkey – and the ducts were made of cardboard.  Stage at the far end of the room.  Beer for sale, but you could also buy a set-up – a bucket of ice and two cups.  Fresh, hot tamales sold out of a window at the house next door.  My memory is that, most nights King Edward and his band held the stage, periodically bringing other players and singers up.  Things really got cranked up around 2 am, and there was no question of carrying on until sunup. 

That first night I went to the Subway, flush with having accidentally played behind Bobby Bland, I slowly figured out the etiquette of the Subway.  How to jockey for a position at the bar, how to buy a set up, how to smoke in those close quarters, how to tip, how to stay out of the way of the gangsters in the back who would kill me for sport. 

At some point, full Donkey, the Christmas lights pulsing in rhythm with King Edward’s take on Magic Sam, stoned and beer drunk and dancing with a black girl from St. Louis, a group of Mexicans walked in, single file.  The room turned, almost flinched, but the music didn't stop.  They were vatos, full shades, slinging guitars.  They locked eyes with King Edward, and by the time they made it to the stage it was on.  The guitar players plugged in; King’s drummer handed his sticks over, one at a time, never missing a beat, and slid off his stool; the horn men got alert; King Edward grinned.  And Los Lobos took over.

Some time later, I can’t say how long, between songs someone shouted out, “Play some Los Lobos tunes!”  The room flinched again.  Cesar Rosas looked up and out.  “Fuck you,” he growled, “This is blues club.”