Day 2: Chuck Who? I'm Not Following You, Blowin' In the Wind & the Sins of 

Memphisto

Monday April 27, 2009

Memphis, TN

Well at least it was dry today and a good day for kite flying. The torrential downpours gave way to gale force winds as I was blown across the state of Misery (i.e. Miserlou aka Missouri). Jeez these people drive fast down here.

I left Canton @ 7:14 AM as reported earlier with my mind set on taking pictures of the woman's room at Chuck Berry's Berry Farm where he was busted for allegedly having hidden cameras under the toilet seats. I pulled off at the Wentzville exit and stopped at the local QT gas station to ask the locals where Make a Buck's farm was.  (Note this was written before Mr. Berry’s passing and may seem caustic and somewhat disrespectful and were unduly colored by an encounter I witnessed years earlier with Mr. Berry .  Since his passing, I have read of many stories, like that of blues musician Doug McCleod, who as a young serviceman returning home to St. Louis on a commercial flight, spied Mr. Berry and asked him for his autograph only to have Berry insist he stay next to him in first class as his guest.)

The first person I encountered was a very cool brother about my age who was sitting in his car with the windows down as I pulled up. He commented on my nice bike (all covered in bug guts) so I figured I had the opening so why not: "Do you know where Chuck Berry's farm is?" I questioned. "Ya know, I've lived here 5 years and still don't know, if you find out please tell me" the man replied. "Sure" I told him and went inside the convenience store. Inside I asked the someteen something kid behind the counter who looked at me like I was an alien and said "I dunno mister, but we have maps over there". I went over to the rack and went thru all the St. Charles and St. Louis county maps but no reference to Mr. Hail Hail Rock N Roll. A couple of older white folks walked by so I popped the question, at least they knew who I was talking about and confirmed it was "somewhere in Wentzville" but they didn't know, "we're from Troy" they told me, as if that meant something to me.

It was obvious I was getting nowhere so I headed back outside to my bike and the black guy in the car was still there: "Well, what'd you find out?", he asks. "Hell, those white people never heard of him", I tell him. "Figures" he replies, so we start chatting.

I tell him about my one personal encounter with the originator of "Maybelline" back stage at the Minnesota State Fair in August of 1988 and the tantrum he threw at my friend in the back up band. The man laughs a knowing laugh and then waits so as not to appear like he is trying to one up me and then goes on to tell me a similar story about Chuck, shortly after 911. Apparently Chuck wanted to drive his Cadillac up onto the grounds of some park and the powers that be would have none of it and boy did he throw a temper tantrum. He then adds, "My cousin works for the people in charge of the rights for Miles Davis' estate. He tells a great story about those two going at it one time". "My Gawd", I stammer, "talk about the clash of the titan egos". "You said it", he laughs, and then adds "You drive safely" after I announced my trip plans before heading out.

My next stop was a gas station and convenience store that I only mention for my friend, Andy, who owned a custom motorcycle shop with the same name. The name of the place was "Fast Lane" and the sweet attendant told me she had three drive offs because she forgets to ask people if they had gas when they come up to the counter.  I copped to my gas and paid the nice lady.

About an hour later, needing a break from the gale force winds, I pull into a rest stop. A nice couple about my age were eating sandwiches outside their immaculate, champagne colored Prius as I pull into the stall next to them. The guy says: "It must be tough trying to keep it on the road today". "Yeah" I answered, "but it's better than the rain in Iowa yesterday". "Iowa" the couple says in unison, "where are you from?" "Minnesota" I answer. "White Bear!" they exclaim. We get to talking and they are a couple of psychologists, John and his wife(?). Turns out they are heading to New Orleans too. They are going to do a Habitat for Humanity project, God bless them. When I asked if they were driving thru to New Orleans today, they said no they were stopping in Memphis. "Me too" I tell them. After filling them in on the Ponderosa Stomp and asking if they knew my psychiatrist, they did, I tell them "if we see each other again, I'm not following you" to which the psychologists both respond, "don't worry we're not paranoid". "That's good“, I laugh, and then deadpan "I am" as they drive off.

I reach Memphis a little past 3 PM. It's 84 degrees and due to the lack of space in my saddle bags, I am wearing a winter coat, jean jacket, turtle neck, t-shirt, snow mobile gauntlets and a stocking cap under my helmet. To say I am hot is in understatement. To make matters worse I have taken the wrong turn into a rough part of town, and in Memphis that is saying a lot. I see a cop car parked at a gas station so I pull in and as I pull up to the pump I start to ask a person standing nearby for directions to the Stax Studio Museum but before I can, he ducks into the store.  Like most business establishments in Memphis, the gas station looked more like the county jail with bars securing all windows and doors.  As I pay for my gas  I ask the clerk where the Stax Studio museum is and he starts to explain: "Just a couple a blocks" and proceeds to tell me in a half decipherable southern accent to go to the corner of McLemore and College which is about all I understood.

Rather than asking for clarification, in typical male fashion I set off trying to replicate his instructions and, of course, get lost.  Luckily I just happen to come upon Willie Mitchell Ave (the famous Hi Records producer) which I take as a sign from the Music Gods and turn onto it.  I follow that until I see a car wash fund raiser and pull in and ask the somewhat amazed crowd of high school aged African-Americans (all of whom gave me a quizzical look as if to say “who is this sweaty Eskimo honky?”) but when they hear I am looking for the Stax Studio, they warmly greeted me and gladly gave me directions.

As I proceed down McLemore I begin to see in the distance the Stax Museum marquee and my emotions start to take over.  I am so excited about finally reaching one of the highlights of my trip that I do not notice the large “NO PARKING Tour Bus Landing Only” sign on its side that had been toppled by the wind.  Like an idiot I  pull up and park smack dab under the marquee, precisely where you are not allowed to park. As I am standing in the middle of the street taking a picture of my illegally parked bike, a large African American Memphis police officer comes out shaking his head, incredulous that not only is a motorcycle parked in a no parking zone but its rider is standing in the middle of the street with his back to traffic.  The officer frantically motions for me to “Get over here!”  and greets me with “What in the Hell do you think you‘re doing!”

Totally oblivious to the situation, and with dialog straight out of an Albert Brooks movie, I run up to the officer gushing a mile a minute  about how I am from Minnesota and rode all the way to see the home of some of my favorite music and ask him if he would take a picture of me and my bike posing under the marquee. Fortunately for me it was at this point that the exasperated officer notices the blown over no parking sign and chuckles as he goes over and lifts the sign back up to the standing position.   “This is a no parking zone” he says, to which I apologize profusely and inquire as to where I can purchase a ticket for the tour. 

The officer then informs me that I have missed the last tour of the day and the museum closes in about Fifteen minutes.  “Oh no!” I cry out.  I then proceed to tell him how this was my only opportunity to see it as I am on my way to New Orleans and touring Graceland in the morning on my way out of town.  Rolling his eyes at me and then looking up with a “Why me Lord” expression, he says in a somewhat resigned fashion,  “Wait here, let me see if I can talk to someone inside for you”.  Before leaving the officer sizes up all the gear strapped to my bike and highly recommended I move my bike around back and into the secured lot.  So cool.

Before I can take the officers advice, a member of the staff comes out and I repeat my neurotic homage to “Lost in America”.  Trying to soak up all the information and emotion being thrown at him in nano-second time, I notice the person I am blithering at eye’s are darting around as if he’s thinking “Is this guy for real?” and “Where are the candid cameras?” In an incredible act of graciousness he agrees to take a couple of pictures of me and my bike under the hallowed, replica marquee of the former movie theater come studio.

Even though the museum closes at four and the last tour of the day had ended I am allowed to go in for what amounted to a whirl wind private tour.  Since time was tight and I was by myself, they dispensed with the pre-tour orientation and therefore I missed the part about no camera or picture taking allowed.  

Remembering the camera I had in my jacket pocket,  I thought nothing about snapping photos throughout the museum until I had reached the very end of the tour.  At this point a woman who was obviously connected to the museum staff (or possibly the museum director?) approached and informed me there were no cameras or picture taking allowed.  Woops.  I apologized and immediately put it away.  

The following video is a slideshow of the photos I took.