They’re all here: Etta James, Ike & Tina... the timeline continues into Isaac Hayes. I see a poster from the 50's advertising a Roy Orbison Rock & roll concert at the Electric Park Ballroom in Waterloo, Iowa. I wonder if my Dad went. There is a case for harmonica bluesman Frank Frost, and I get excited. Not a relative after all (he doesn’t look German) but in a fit of surname solidarity I buy a CD. Production and race history is here too, with Sun, WDIA, and Lixx Records. We get postcards and move on in search of food.

Across the street and down the alley from the Peabody, we find the Rendezvous — a basement restaurant known for its ribs. The very sassy waiter brings us beans & rice, and the full rack of ribs we get are The Best Ribs Ever. They’re grilled with a dry spice rub and are Absolutely Fabulous. We buy t-shirts commemorating the ongoing porkfest.

We walk to work off some of dinner and head towards the river. Hearing music, we follow it and discover a party in an alley. How random. I get a beer. We agree that this is a weird place. It turns out that this is an annual event put on by the bar next door, Sleepout Joe’s. The band is great, the people are friendly, and I dance off the ribs. En route to Beale Street we walk past WDIA, the first black-owned radio station in the country.

Beale Street is a few blocks south from downtown. In its heyday, it was the smoky, bar-lined alley where the Memphis blues scene developed. It’s still lined with blues bars, restaurants, and interesting stories. In the evenings the street becomes a pedestrian mall. I hadn’t realized that — and so I thought it was just another of the surprising North/South cultural differences when a pushcart vendorlady offered me a beer — on the street.

The main intersection features the Blues Café and BB King’s club. BB King’s two levels serve food and great music. The location and the name draw many tourists — and the six-dollar cover tries to keep them there. The band was great and the deep fried pickles intrigued me (I hadn’t had those since the Eagle Inn in Jesup, IA in '75!) but the bland, bored audience drove us further down the street, searching for a more spirited crowd.

Elvis is everywhere here. The amount of memorabilia in the many postcard shops is staggering. We stop in at one, then duck across the street into the Memphis Police Department Substation. Open 24/7, the substation is fully operative and also houses the Memphis Police Museum — always a fun place to visit when you᾿re out on a Friday night. The many displays show uniforms, badges, confiscated (and imaginative) weapons, mug shots, and a jail cell. Neato.

The Rum Boogie Café uses two stages, one inside and one courtyard. We camp here for a while and enjoy the Mahalia-Jackson- sized-but-sassy singer. The audience is more responsive here and I dance off more dinner before their set concludes. From Rum Boogie we cross the street into another shop, this one specializing in local music. The selection is wide but neither detailed nor cheap. Nevertheless I give in and buy a Frank Frost CD for a romper-stomper eighteen bucks. I hope to hell it’s good.

Walking on we find another group drawing a large crowd in a square. They are hot! Many people are dancing and even more are watching. One woman in particular has many eyes on her — she looks very poor, even homeless, and seems a little touched, but she is shaking it like crazy. We all admire her rhythm and energy, but are a little scared too. The band knows we’re mostly tourists. As they get donations they ask where people are from, announcing it as they thank us. “Thank you kindly! Where are you from? Nebraska!! Chicago! Iowa!!! England!!! MILWAUKEE!!! THANK YOU!!!!!”

When the set breaks we wander on down the street. Eventually we realize we’re overtired and over-stimulated and ought to go back to the hotel — but it’s only after we’re seriously considering tattoo designs that we realize it’s time to go. We stop at the Peabody for dessert and our fatigue only highlights out waiter’s utter clueslessness.