Mississippi Music Issue: Smirnoff's Editorial (an excerpt)
"Elvis Praying" by J.E. Pitts.
Mississippi Mash Up
Taking on The Big One. Can we do it?
For many, no state in the U.S.A. conjures up more a) mystery, b) allure, c) strangeness—or even d) danger—than Mississippi. (Read, also: clichés and misapprehensions.) Thanks to a mix of imagination and reality, the Mag. State can seem like a foreign country—a zone to be experienced but not comprehended. I've felt this bafflement myself. One reason I targeted Mississippi when embarking on a mostly random road trip in the 1980s was that I was frantic to lose myself in culture shock. Without being able to articulate why, I looked to enter something utterly different from my comfy, modern-feeling home state of California—and no place seemed older, weirder, and more American than Mississippi.
But these aren't the reasons why The Oxford American approaches Mississippi with trepidation—oh, and by the way, we do.
Our fear is based on awe; we are in awe of the cultural richness of Mississippi—and while we have the sand to represent Mississippi music on paper (mag), on metal (CD), and in outer space (online), we at least know we must respect and somehow pay homage to the music and literary gods whose personal affection for the Magnolia State seems beyond doubt.
One way to respect them is to see within their domain clearly.
When people think of Mississippi music, what first comes to mind is probably the blues and, verily, Mississippi abounds with the stuff. For a lot of ears, a lot of the blues sounds alike. A sneaky-good DJ could, however, upend that misperception just using Mississippi artists. She could kick off her rebuttal with the stark, electric urgency of Elmore James, only to simmer down to the sublime, almost dainty, acoustics of John Hurt, followed by the lulling mesmerisms of Junior Kimbrough, who'd segue into the phantom-like Geeshie Wiley, who, when her spell was spun, could lead to what at times almost sounds like the World's First Rock & Roll Band (Mississippi Sheiks), whose down-and-out rollicking could fade into the distant calls and dreamlike pulsing of Othar Turner and family and—well, you get my point...our imaginary All-Mississippi Blues Show has just begun and already we've stirred up a mishmash of styles and sensibilities. With Southern music, there is magic in the variety.
That said, we do not wish to glut ourselves on the blues in this issue and CD. For one thing, the diverse bounty in Mississippi's musical archives demands otherwise. (With a project like this, you gotta report what you hear—even if the range of sounds topples your preconceptions.)
And let's get this straight: The idea of conveying all Mississippi music on a single CD is laughable. So don't even think we'd try to fool you with that bunk. All this single OA CD can do is symbolize, and hint at, and point to, and squint at, and anticipate, and wildly stand in for: the great wealth of Mississippi music that would gush over you if you yourself chose to tap into Mississippi's archives.
Another reason The Oxford American approaches the state of Mississippi with trepidation is that we were birthed there and the pressure of meeting the standards of the can't-be-fooled hometown crowd is fearsome. There is an Oxford, Arkansas, an Oxford, Georgia, an Oxford, Alabama, an Oxford, North Carolina—but the "Oxford" in our name staunchly signifies Mississippi. (Those other fine Oxfords just make us feel special.)
Where you live can trick you. When the magazine lived in North Mississippi, we found occasions to feast on the blues. Yes, Ole Miss attracted bands on the college route but the blues could always be sussed out. We drank canned beer and swayed at Junior's original hoodoo joint near Holly Springs. We perceived R.L. Burnside's greatness up-close. We absorbed Paul "Wine" Jones and "T-Model" Ford. But now, with distance, we wonder about other genres. Why didn't we hear but a flicker of live country music even though Mississippi was once resplendent and profound in that genre? (We also didn't hear too much rockabilly, which is country music revved up with rhythm and blues.) But the fact is that not all that long ago there was a helluva Mississippi country and rockabilly scene.
And for that, I thank the Mississippi music gods, who, right now, right here, in this space and place, fill me with the spirit to name a few very worthy 'Sippi twangsters: James O'Gwynn, Hank Cochran, Warner Mack, O.B. McClinton, Clyde Pitts, Willie Samples, Jumpin' Gene Simmons (not to be confused with Kissin' Gene Simmons), Ray Harris, The Miller Sisters, Andy Anderson & The Rolling Stones (not to be confused with the fake Rolling Stones), Mickey Gilley (his supercharged rockabilly recordings), Mississippi Slim, Glenn Honeycutt, "Lucky" Joe Almond, The Hodges Brothers, Lee Denson, Joe Rickman, Mack Allen Smith, Evelyn Stone, Tag Williams, Johnny Foster, Jackie Lee Cochran, Jesse Rogers, Rick Richardson, Jimmy Swan, Jimmy Elledge, Fuller Todd—oh jeez; how I could carry on. You should not have started me on this. (To bolster my ravings, Bear Family has just this year issued two CDs of great but mainly unknown Mississippi country music; both are delights: Stickbuddy Jamboree by various artists and Diddy Wah Diddy...Ain't a Town, Ain't a City also by various artists.)
I need to say I'm using country as an example, to make my point. I could just as well bring up jazz, pop, r&b, etc., because the state is also crazy rich in them. And that's what must be emphasized beyond all else, because if you are wrangling with Mississippi music (and you should wrangle with it—you should! you should! you should!), you gotta be ready for the long, warm, immobilizing squeeze it gives back. "Father of Country Music"? Check. Born in Meridian, Mississippi. "King of Rock & Roll"? Check. Born in Tupelo, Miss. The "King of the Delta Blues"? Check. Born in Hazelhurst, Miss. (Not to be confused with B.B. King and Albert King, both born in Indianola, Miss.) And was not Sam Cooke of Clarksdale, Miss., at least a Forefather of Soul? Was not Ike Turner, of Clarksdale, Miss., some kind of, at least, Godfather of Rock? Or, wait, is crafty Allen Lowe correct to call (in these here pages) a Riverton, Miss., son, Son House, the Real Father of Rock & Roll (oddly, fellow music nuts, the argument is not as silly as it sounds...)?
And speaking of that genre that informs and connects almost all of American music—the blues—where was "The Father of Blues" from? Well, W.C. Handy, the man who was first to commercialize and spread the blues to a national audience (and whose autobiography was titled Father of the Blues), was from Florence, Alabama. But the actual artist who made the music that prompted Handy to tinker with, to carry on, to remix and market the sound he heard, where was he from? The scene in the Genesis section of Handy's memoir—wherein Handy bears witness to hearing the blues being created on a creaky train platform in the teeny Mississippi town of Tutwiler, in the third year of the twentieth century—is oft-quoted. It is oft-quoted because the scene positively glows. I can't resist either:
A lean, loose-jointed Negro had commenced plunking a guitar beside me while I slept. His clothes were rags; his feet peeped out of his shoes. His face had on it some of the sadness of the ages. As he played, he pressed a knife on the strings of the guitar in a manner popularized by Hawaiian guitarists who used steel bars. The effect was unforgettable...the weirdest music I had ever heard.
Yes, Handy was the Father of the Blues. But in 1903, he was thirty years old, and that raggedy, sad-looking man he describes comes across as older than thirty. How can you be the father of somebody older than you? In any case, where was that unnamed player, that ghost born? Is there a chance the loose-jointed man was born in the state of Mississippi? We will never know for sure but I wouldn't bet against it.
To read the rest of this article, including Smirnoff's liner notes to the Mississippi Music CD, please purchase the issue!
