Going down to Red’s
“If the house is a rockin’, don’t bother knockin’…just go right on in!”
The old wooden door swung open, rain soaked people trudged into the inner darkness of the old juke joint. Out side the wind was furiously howling. The horrific bursts of thunder were bone chilling. Lightning illuminated the outside landscape. It was definitely not a night to be out and about trying to brave the elements to see the filming of a local blues band.
“Everybody goes to Red’s.” That was the refrain that we heard everywhere we turned that weekend. Red’s was known as the prime “juke joint” in the area. Always looking for an adventure, I “strongly” encouraged Jim to drive by Red’s early that Saturday afternoon. It was just one street over from Main Street and one block over from Ground Zero. What a difference that one block made! In the afternoon sunshine, all of the warts and bruises were exposed. Red’s was a decrepit, little building in a seedy looking neighborhood. Yup, that is just the kind of place where a not-so-smart tourist goes when he is out of town. Red’s was now the remnants of an old red brick ranch style home that had boards covering the window. Graffiti markings slashed its outer shell. There was a BBQ smoker sitting on the tired front “porch.” The roof sagged. The concrete was uneven and litter graced the front entrance. Yes, it was frightening. The more that I heard about Red’s, I knew that somehow I had to win the campaign to go there. Jim had that “look”…drat! It was going to be an uphill battle at best.
Later that afternoon, we ran into Dusty, the photographer, outside of Cat’s on Clarksdale’s main
street. (Cat’s was a business on Main that had joined a cooperative to sponsor the Sunflower Festival that was happening that weekend.) We learned that Dusty had chosen not to go to the Delta Groove Festival at Ground Zero. He had gone to Super Chickan’s Place at the Bluesberry Café (another infamous juke joint in Clarksdale). Dusty said that it was a “smoking’ good time” at the Chickan’s Place. I then asked about Red’s. Dusty stopped in his tracks and got a big smile on his face. “You gotta go to Red’s. Everyone goes there. We’ll be there tonight. The Spoon Man will be there and they are going to be doing some recording. Man, it’s a good time and a cool place!” THE SPOON MAN…???
Jim’s fate was sealed. We headed to Red’s on that fateful Saturday night. We got there around 7:30 for the 8:30 taping. An urgent alert came in from Super Chickan’s around 9:15. The warning said that heavy rains were on the way and that five tornadoes were touching down fifteen miles away. Val Scott and I looked at each other. We both frowned while contemplating our plight. We just laughed and shrugged. After all, …it was Saturday night and where else did we have to go. If a tornado hit, at least we would be having a good time.
The Mississippi Spoon Man was the headliner that evening with Big Jack Johnson sitting in. Carla, a quiet female in her early twenties, played the bass and had a foot peddle that controlled the drums. Occasionally, she would hit the symbols for added effects. What a site! She had a lot to do…no wonder she was so serious! The Spoon Man, a confirmed extrovert, slapped teak spoons on his knees, had bells strapped to his ankles and tapped his feet to enable all the sounds to meld together. This was definitely an unusual experience!
The inside walls had been removed in the tiny, 1950’s house, making it into one large room. The wood paneled exterior walls on the left side of the building were lined with couches. An eight-foot bar lined the right side of the “room”. The entrance was at the end of the bar. The bar was accessorized with fur-covered stools that were only two foot tall. (I figured that it was a shorter fall when you fell off the stool). There was an old large, white Fridgedare behind the bar. The drink menu was short. The options were sodas or “pounder” cans of beer. The ceiling was another unusual site. The entire span had layers upon layers of heavy clear plastic nailed to the ceiling. It sagged and groaned with debris that was trying to fall through it.
People filed in, people filed out. Each was seeking refuge; all were searching for the music. As Marcia Ball has written, “We were riding out the storm.” The blistering flashes, the severe booms and the heavy torrents of rain intensified. Every time the wooden door open, Val and I shivered from the blustery, chilling winds. Soon, steady streams of water were coming down from the sagging ceiling. “Some” of us were sizing up our odds…Take our chances in the storm or get hit with the burgeoning ceiling when it came down. The plastic ceiling was succumbing to the water and debris. It began to sink lower and lower. It was holding back about a foot of “stuff” that looked dark brown. If it let loose, we would most likely not survive the impact or suffer from the bacterial buildup that had been living in that dilapidated ceiling. Despite the worry, it was business as usual. Red, the owner, just started wheeling out carts, positioning them to catch the rain. This looked like a procedure that was an ongoing effort. Red handed out buckets and cups. Soon, everyone was holding something to catch the dirty water. Red was hustling back and forth emptying out the water. He kept shaking his head and mumbling, “Bad night, bad night.”
The Spoonman soon had a steady stream coming down on him. He moved and actually caught some of the rain with his spoons. The energy was high and everyone was on “deck” for a rollicking good time. Carla, the lady with lots to do, eyed the streams of water that kept sprouting from the ceiling. Soon, it was creating streams onto her electric equipment. She never missed a beat but her eyes got wider and wider. I feared that she would soon be electrocuted. Someone finally got up and helped her move the equipment. As the evening went on, the streams from the ceiling multiplied and got heavier. It was certainly an interesting way to watch a performance. Val and I laughed as we juggled our drinks and our cups to gather the rainwater. We had to move several times because we were getting wet and wetter by the moment. It was an intimate setting that lone evening in Clarksdale. The fury raged outside and the music feverishly went on inside. The evening finally came to an end. I think it was something about a malfunction in the recording equipment. We said our goodbyes and ventured out into the darkness… We had just braved Red’s and were trying to make our way through the flooded streets and downed power lines. The next morning, the sun was up and the sky was clear once more. The storm was long gone, the waters were slowly receding, and to our amazement, the little red brick house was still standing…the storm had huffed and puffed but Red’s could not be blown down.
The old wooden door swung open, rain soaked people trudged into the inner darkness of the old juke joint. Out side the wind was furiously howling. The horrific bursts of thunder were bone chilling. Lightning illuminated the outside landscape. It was definitely not a night to be out and about trying to brave the elements to see the filming of a local blues band.
“Everybody goes to Red’s.” That was the refrain that we heard everywhere we turned that weekend. Red’s was known as the prime “juke joint” in the area. Always looking for an adventure, I “strongly” encouraged Jim to drive by Red’s early that Saturday afternoon. It was just one street over from Main Street and one block over from Ground Zero. What a difference that one block made! In the afternoon sunshine, all of the warts and bruises were exposed. Red’s was a decrepit, little building in a seedy looking neighborhood. Yup, that is just the kind of place where a not-so-smart tourist goes when he is out of town. Red’s was now the remnants of an old red brick ranch style home that had boards covering the window. Graffiti markings slashed its outer shell. There was a BBQ smoker sitting on the tired front “porch.” The roof sagged. The concrete was uneven and litter graced the front entrance. Yes, it was frightening. The more that I heard about Red’s, I knew that somehow I had to win the campaign to go there. Jim had that “look”…drat! It was going to be an uphill battle at best.
Later that afternoon, we ran into Dusty, the photographer, outside of Cat’s on Clarksdale’s main
street. (Cat’s was a business on Main that had joined a cooperative to sponsor the Sunflower Festival that was happening that weekend.) We learned that Dusty had chosen not to go to the Delta Groove Festival at Ground Zero. He had gone to Super Chickan’s Place at the Bluesberry Café (another infamous juke joint in Clarksdale). Dusty said that it was a “smoking’ good time” at the Chickan’s Place. I then asked about Red’s. Dusty stopped in his tracks and got a big smile on his face. “You gotta go to Red’s. Everyone goes there. We’ll be there tonight. The Spoon Man will be there and they are going to be doing some recording. Man, it’s a good time and a cool place!” THE SPOON MAN…???Jim’s fate was sealed. We headed to Red’s on that fateful Saturday night. We got there around 7:30 for the 8:30 taping. An urgent alert came in from Super Chickan’s around 9:15. The warning said that heavy rains were on the way and that five tornadoes were touching down fifteen miles away. Val Scott and I looked at each other. We both frowned while contemplating our plight. We just laughed and shrugged. After all, …it was Saturday night and where else did we have to go. If a tornado hit, at least we would be having a good time.
The Mississippi Spoon Man was the headliner that evening with Big Jack Johnson sitting in. Carla, a quiet female in her early twenties, played the bass and had a foot peddle that controlled the drums. Occasionally, she would hit the symbols for added effects. What a site! She had a lot to do…no wonder she was so serious! The Spoon Man, a confirmed extrovert, slapped teak spoons on his knees, had bells strapped to his ankles and tapped his feet to enable all the sounds to meld together. This was definitely an unusual experience!
The inside walls had been removed in the tiny, 1950’s house, making it into one large room. The wood paneled exterior walls on the left side of the building were lined with couches. An eight-foot bar lined the right side of the “room”. The entrance was at the end of the bar. The bar was accessorized with fur-covered stools that were only two foot tall. (I figured that it was a shorter fall when you fell off the stool). There was an old large, white Fridgedare behind the bar. The drink menu was short. The options were sodas or “pounder” cans of beer. The ceiling was another unusual site. The entire span had layers upon layers of heavy clear plastic nailed to the ceiling. It sagged and groaned with debris that was trying to fall through it.People filed in, people filed out. Each was seeking refuge; all were searching for the music. As Marcia Ball has written, “We were riding out the storm.” The blistering flashes, the severe booms and the heavy torrents of rain intensified. Every time the wooden door open, Val and I shivered from the blustery, chilling winds. Soon, steady streams of water were coming down from the sagging ceiling. “Some” of us were sizing up our odds…Take our chances in the storm or get hit with the burgeoning ceiling when it came down. The plastic ceiling was succumbing to the water and debris. It began to sink lower and lower. It was holding back about a foot of “stuff” that looked dark brown. If it let loose, we would most likely not survive the impact or suffer from the bacterial buildup that had been living in that dilapidated ceiling. Despite the worry, it was business as usual. Red, the owner, just started wheeling out carts, positioning them to catch the rain. This looked like a procedure that was an ongoing effort. Red handed out buckets and cups. Soon, everyone was holding something to catch the dirty water. Red was hustling back and forth emptying out the water. He kept shaking his head and mumbling, “Bad night, bad night.”
The Spoonman soon had a steady stream coming down on him. He moved and actually caught some of the rain with his spoons. The energy was high and everyone was on “deck” for a rollicking good time. Carla, the lady with lots to do, eyed the streams of water that kept sprouting from the ceiling. Soon, it was creating streams onto her electric equipment. She never missed a beat but her eyes got wider and wider. I feared that she would soon be electrocuted. Someone finally got up and helped her move the equipment. As the evening went on, the streams from the ceiling multiplied and got heavier. It was certainly an interesting way to watch a performance. Val and I laughed as we juggled our drinks and our cups to gather the rainwater. We had to move several times because we were getting wet and wetter by the moment. It was an intimate setting that lone evening in Clarksdale. The fury raged outside and the music feverishly went on inside. The evening finally came to an end. I think it was something about a malfunction in the recording equipment. We said our goodbyes and ventured out into the darkness… We had just braved Red’s and were trying to make our way through the flooded streets and downed power lines. The next morning, the sun was up and the sky was clear once more. The storm was long gone, the waters were slowly receding, and to our amazement, the little red brick house was still standing…the storm had huffed and puffed but Red’s could not be blown down.
~Jonnye Weber
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