The Road to Rock n Roll

Memphis, Tennessee. What a wonderful place. In 2016 I was fortunate enough to take a trip across America, starting at Washington DC, stopping by 11 illustrious places before finishing my trip in sunny Los Angeles. Around 2 weeks in, I found myself in Chicago, waiting for a bus at 8pm in the peculiar side of town. The streets were silent. Store fronts illuminated the sidewalks. Apart from the few people accompanying me, also waiting for the same bus, the city of Chicago seemed to be on lockdown.

Chicago skyline from the navy pier

I had been in Chicago for 3 days by now. The basic touristic adventures took me to all of the places lonely planet had recommended me and more. So I began to wander abit off track. I was staying in HI Chicago Hostel, a very large and spacious building which presented itself as very much a hotel instead of a bed for weary travelers. HI hostels tend to be rather well presented, Hosteling International I believe it stands for. You can find them all over the world. Most recently I stayed in Paris at St Christophers Inn by Gare du Nord, and Fort Mason, San Francisco. What had drawn me to Chicago most was the blues. Chicago has the synonymous name that always becomes paired with the word blues. From Muddy Waters to Howlin Wolf, the music known as Chicago blues was heard all around America and the world for many, many years and still is to this day. But for me, it wasn’t all about the blues. It was about what came after the blues. Rock n Roll. So, I grabbed a bus and headed on down to Memphis Tennessee.

The bus left Chicago just after 8pm. The streets were pitch black, silent besides the distant ringing of a police siren. I hopped aboard and claimed a pair of seats to stretch my legs for the next 10 hours. It started off about as good as any night bus can start. A few chatting couples, a rather loud pair of earphones, and a driver desperately attempting to stay awake. This ended up becoming the first time I discovered that I really, really cannot sleep on buses. The constant noises and movement had me nauseous within the hour, and for the next 9 hours, I sat motionless, with the sweet sound in my ear of what musical delights I had to come in Memphis. A rather obnoxious pair of rather large and rather stereotypical Americans had found themselves sat in the seat adjacent to my own. I overheard stories that night which I hope one day to erase from my memory. Many years down the line and they still burn as fresh as ever.

A pit stop after St Louis, on Route 66

Around half way through the journey, we pulled into St Louis. Musically synonymous with the legendary Chuck Berry. Many might argue that Berry was the original king of rock n roll, before a certain hip shaking man appeared in Memphis, but that’s a whole other story. Right now at this point in time, my interests lay further south of Missouri. So finally after crossing the border into Tennessee things started to look up. The peculiar pair had finally taken their leave and everyone let out a synonymous sigh of relief. The Tennessee air was fresh and the landscape beautiful, just over an hour to go.

Memphis. We had arrived. After cruising on down by the Mississippi river and catching a few views of this historical geological landmark which everyone seems to have their own interesting way to spell, we pulled into a gas station for a quick stop. And we sat there for a while. And another while. And yet more time passed until I realized that no one was getting back on the bus. I was alone. So as I departed the bus and was given a very odd look by the driver, I questioned him where we were. ‘Memphis, last stop.’ Great. I was where I wanted to be, but I had absolutely no idea where I was and where I could go, stuck on the middle of the highway at a gas station.

I sat for a while. Cars began to pull in, collecting my fellow passengers. I began to realize I was a little bit trapped. There was nowhere to walk to. Nowhere to seek help and almost no one to talk to. Thankfully the one or two people left willing to lend a hand informed me of a bus arriving soon. By soon, he ofcourse meant in 2 hours. So once again I sat and waited for 2 hours till my possible carriage to the promised land rolled up, and when it did, I began to move once more.

‘Beale street?’ ‘Close by.’ ‘What about the next one?’ ‘There is no next one, I’ll be back here in 2 hours.’

I hopped aboard, rolled on into Memphis. Caught my stop just by the Shelby county courts. Hopped off at Washington Avenue, wandered by Adams Avenue and Jefferson's after that. B.B King boulevard carried me on to the famous Peabody hotel home to the peabody ducks, past the Memphis music hall of fame and left onto Beale street.

Silence. Pure silence. This is Beale street at 8am. In 12 hours time every step and every stone will be a footstep for many a tourist or passionate local simply adoring the many sounds of Beale. Each step contains the slow transition from band to band, each venue bearing separate but equally passionate creators or emulators of those who came before.

Memphis was the reason I travelled across the Atlantic. I wanted to see it, hear it, and feel the real emotion I knew this place would bring me. Needless to say, the gruelling journey that brought me here made my stay all that bit more deserving. From Sun Studio tours to rocking up and down Beale street to paying homage to a man who's music carried me out of many a tough situation in the years prior. Memphis is a city that I will always hold in close regard and will return to many more times within my life.