Memphis: Bury Me on Beale St.

As throngs of delighted fans departed the arena, there seemed to be an unspoken consensus among all the attendees. The amoeba of people gradually found it's way to neighboring Beale St., just past the Gibson Factory located directly outside the Forum.



Beale St., for those not from Memphis, is akin to Pittsburgh's Southside, New Orleans' Bourbon St., or Philadelphia's South St. The cops blocked off both sides of this two-block haven, making it the perfect spot to vent a little post-concert glee. Each side of the street is home to bars, music shops, live music outlets, blues gift shops, and more. Beale Streeters can purchase a "Big Ass Beer" for a small fare, and everyone is encouraged to walk around sporting their drink of choice.



As you walk down Beale St., you are hit with a blast of culture absent in most cities. Instead of seeing four different Starbucks in a one-block stretch, you see small businesses rich with culture as you hear blues music pour from the windows of the clubs into the streets. Essentially, it is one big party, but something about it makes you feel more refined than walking down the usual stretch of neon-signed bars.

Marc and I drank our beers while carelessly perusing the sights Beale St. had to behold. We saw what Marc referred to as "Bo's," a term for young, Southern gentlemen with top loafers, button-down shirts, and frayed-brim hats. I unknowingly dressed the bill by wearing the style of the South, minus the hat.

Our travels in downtown Memphis didn't last longer than a beer, knowing that we had a long day of travel ahead. In a different time (hopefully a warmer time), I would love to return to this place and participate in the party. Maybe, if the stars aligned, I would get to pick up a guitar inside one of these places and force my own sloppy version of the blues upon this crowd. Pipe dream? Maybe, but I guess future travels will tell. As for the sights, I'll let them speak for themselves.








Beale-ive it or not,

CPS

Eric Clapton Concert: "My Daddy Named Me After This Song!"

In lieu of depleting funds, we decided to pass on the ethanol we purchased earlier in the day and drive to the concert. Fresh off a blog post from the McDonald's parking lot, I scurried back to the Rest(less) Inn and prepared myself for the fourth Eric Clapton concert of my life. Marc threw on his Clapton/Winwood tee, and we hopped in the car and made way to the FedEx Forum.

First congrats go to the venue. The FedEx Forum is a vast, 18,119 capacity hall, and home to the Memphis Grizzlies. The inside is a combination of nostalgic blues paintings and contemporary design. We set up base camp and started out on a two-mile journey to the summit, also known as our seats. Seats 3 and 4 in row Q of section 215 are flush with the back wall, literally as far from the stage as possible. I think my ears popped on the way up.



Of course, being a half mile from stage didn't bother us from cheering as loud as the lucky fans in the front row. We made it to Clapton, and by God, we were ready.

The opening act, Roger Daltrey, was a blast. He played a a bunch of classics - Baba O'Riley nearly blew the roof off - as well as a Taj Mahal cover...a welcome surprise. The only thing that threw me for a loop was his Old School-esque interpolation of f*** during a few songs. Frankly Roger, I don't want to tell you "Who the F*** I Am."

As the house lights came back on the roadies masterfully recrafted the stage, anticipation grew. Several minutes later, after - in a show of Southern hospitality - I struck up a conversation with a 71 yr. old woman from Tennessee, the lights once again dimmed and the man himself walked on stage. Thousands of people were perched on the edge of their seats, prepared to go nuts upon hearing the first note.

Note: much of the following is based off of co-pilot/"Undisputed Clapton Expert" Marc's professional opinion.

This tour showcased Clapton alone. No other guitarists joined him on stage; instead, he was flanked by two keyboardists.



The night started, well, slow to say the least. Some rhythmic inconsistencies interspersed his usually flawless playing. Clapton seemed off his game for most of the opening songs, but really found his groove in "Old Love." Soon thereafter, the show exploded as Clapton unleashed all hell on a crescendo-ing solo during "I Shot the Sheriff." Marc and I were convinced: for a 64 yr. old recovering heroin-addict, this man knew how to shred.



Clapton really came in to his element during an acoustic set, where he delighted the audience with such classics as "Running on Faith" and "Layla." During "Layla," a beaming Southern girl turned around to share how she was named after this song. Simply adorable Layla, simply adorable.

The show predictably closed with three staples: "Wonderful Tonight," "Cocaine," and "Crossroads." Sure, it was nice to hear these favorites, but I have to ask...when did the encore become such a foregone conclusion? I would have liked to see a little bit more of an unorthodox set, but with so many people assigned to so many jobs, I guess a concert can sometime become a mechanical process.

Nevertheless, the show was a hit. Memphis loved it, we loved it, and I hope Clapton loved it. This could very well be the last time we ever see him, and we're happy to end on a high note.



Pentatonically yours,

CPS

Leg 1.5 to 2: Shepherdsville to Memphis

Elvis, eat your heart out, because we somehow made it.

I napped as we left Kentucky and ventured in to Tennessee. For those who have never been to Tennessee, well, what you see is pretty much what you get. Endless stretches of beautiful forest border both sides of the highway. Other than that, Tennessee is a fairly lonely drive. Our only stop gave us the opportunity to wash the old chariot – likely adding 100,000 more miles to the car’s life.



Perhaps the coolest part of the trip was a Doc Brown-esque trip into Central Time. I looked down at my phone, and then quickly to the speedometer to see if we clocked in at 88mph. Without even realizing it, we gained an hour of time – a welcome surprise, given that we could now take our time instead of trying to beat check-in.

As we passed through Nashville, we eagerly anticipated our arrival to Memphis. Nashville, from the road atleast, is a nice looking city. Maybe the next road trip will lead us through the home of the Predators.



Probably one of the few exciting moments of the drive happened along a quiet stretch somewhere in Tennessee. I took a peek up from my duties as navigator to check the road, and noticed the cars in front of us suddenly parting ways from the center lane. Fearing the worst, I told Marc to get over as quickly as possible. My worst fears were confirmed: someone in a pickup truck had dropped a box of individual serving cereal containers all over the road. Crushed Cocoa Puffs interlaced with Trix across the highway; it was a damn breakfast club massacre. Luckily, no one was hurt, although Toucan Sam was reportedly, "a little upset about the whole thing."



Eventually, after several hundred miles of bleak trees and intimidating state troopers (we must have seen 20 between Shepherdsville and Memphis), we finally made it. I currently sit in a McDonald’s parking lot (thanks for the WiFi McDude), typing this out while residents sit in their cars and idly stare.

A few words about the Ritz Carlton where we are staying – remember in Vacation when they check in to the campground and realize it is, to say the least, not what they expected? It’s kind of like that. The Rest Inn is complete with two shady clerks, a few shady neighbors, and almost enough towels to take a shower. OK, it may be a little bit what we expected, given that we only paid $30 a person, but hey, would it kill to throw a few mini bars of soap in there

(Editor's note: we did find a mini bar of soap. Shortly thereafter, we turned on the TV to discover three...ahem...adult-themed channels among the 20 channels. There's nothing worse before bed than seeing heavily-graphic amateur footage of two overweight "performers." These channels confirmed my fears that this was actually an "hourly rate" motel, if you catch my drift.)



There were two things for us to look forward to in Memphis: barbeque and Eric Clapton. We satisfied one of these cravings in a nifty little joint called Payne’s Barbeque. Dear Lord - I know you’re up there - please send more places like Payne’s. Payne’s is everything we hoped it could be: a dilapidated, family-run shack complete with some of the best meat I’ve ever tasted. Six dollars was all it took to receive a platter full of chopped pork, spicy barbeque sauce, mouth-watering beans, and yellow coleslaw (mustard I guess? Who cares it was delicious). The meat tasted like it had been surgically cooked for the past 8 hours, while the sauce’s actual ingredients are likely under lock and key at Fort Knox. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking some up (thanks Ferris).



As much as I would love to continue, I have a date with the night. Clapton would hate if I stood him up, so until I find a faster WiFi connection than “GebrileOwnsAll,” it’s adios for now. Next update will have pictures of downtown/the concert.

Walking in Memphis,

CPS