Every blues fan, and lots of music fans, have all heard of the legendary Crossroads somewhere in the Mississippi Delta. It's the place where the devil is said to linger and offer blues musicians the world in exchange for their souls.
Most people say the Crossroads is a fictional place that exists only in myths. One of my dreams has always been to find the Crossroads and play music there.
Read below the fold for pictures and the story of how this dream was realized last Tuesday.
Disclaimer: This is not a politically-charged piece. This is a story about the blues. I suggest listening to something with slide guitar while you read this. If you have trouble finding something to listen to, please allow me to point you in the right direction. Also, props to my bud Kaje for helping me get the photos off of my camera. It's a long story, but it was a hell of an ordeal just to make these pictures public.
The Legend of the Crossroads
Ever since moving to Mississippi, I've become obsessed with the legend of Robert Johnson, the Devil, and the Crossroads. I've done extensive research on the myths surrounding the blues' most enigmatic performer, made several trips into the Delta, listened to and played a hell of a lot of blues with a hell of a lot of people. But I've never found the actual crossroads where Robert Johnson made his deal with the devil to become the best guitarist to ever live.
RJ made the alleged pact with Satan just before he went off to Hazlehurst to buckle down and get serious about his playing. As a kid, RJ was a devotee of Delta Blues pioneer Son House, and followed him around everywhere he played, trying unsuccessfully to imitate his sound. Son always said Robert was never much of a player as a kid, until he disappeared for about six months. the next time Son House saw RJ, he said the kid played with phenomenal ability, unlike anyone else he'd ever seen. He was so good folks started telling each other that RJ had to have sold his soul to the devil to be that damn good at the guitar.
So the story goes, RJ was walking down a dirt road deep in the Mississippi Delta, and saw an old black man with a black dog by his side, standing under a fruitless apple tree where the road crossed with another dirt road. He asked RJ if he could borrow his guitar, and RJ obliged. The devil then tuned up and played the blues as perfectly as anyone could ever play an instrument. He then handed the guitar back to RJ, and the deal was sealed when RJ played those same notes back at the devil. RJ died in 1938, poisoned by some jealous husband at the young age of 27. He only recorded 29 songs and 12 alternate takes of those songs. The power of his mystery is only exceeded by the power of his music.
Most folks believe the crossroads is in Clarksdale, where highways 61 and 49 cross one another. This is where the tourists go. I've been to that crossroads, but I didn't feel the blues when I stood there. Since then, I've been determined to look for the crossroads and make music there. Eric Clapton swears the real crossroads is in Rosedale, MS, where highways 1 and 8 cross each other. I have friends from Rosedale familiar with the story, and they assure me there's not a damn thing at 1 and 8. If you look up where the crossroads is on the internet, research eventually stops at "nobody is sure exactly where the crossroads is, or if it even exists." Some relegate its existence to be of myth and not reality.
Finding the Crossroads
After one recent late night out (I think it was karaoke or open mic somewhere) I came home around 1 or 2 and put on some music before going to bed. A friend knocked on the door about fifteen minutes later. My dog stood up and growled. My friend apologized and told me he was too drunk to drive home at that moment, and needed to sit still for a half-hour or so. I made him a glass of water, and he and I made small talk.
I mentioned to my friend, a Delta native, that I was working on a short story about Robert Johnson and the crossroads. My friend sat up, suddenly a little more sober.
"You ever been to the REAL place?" He asked.
"No, I've been to the one in Clarksdale at 49 and 61, but I know that's not it," I said. "Have you?"
My friend took a gulp of his water.
"Yeah man. It's hard to find, though. But when you find it, you'll know it."
My friend stood up and recited directions for me, making sure not to slur his speech.
"You need to take the I-20 West, to Vicksburg. Then you need to hang on 61 North until you get to Leland. when you see Highway 82, bust a right and go East."
I opened up Wordpad on my computer and hurriedly typed down what he said.
"Okay, 82 East. Then what?"
"You're gonna go down 82 East for about a mile. Then you'll see a little paved road on the left. That's Doolittle road. Take that, and go down about 5 miles. The road's gonna end and turn into a dirt road, and you're gonna turn right on another dirt road called Russell Road. you still with me?" He said carefully.
"Yeah," I said as I typed. "What then?"
"Go down Russell about 2 or 3 miles, until you see a sign on the left that says Longswitch Road. If you see Charley Patton's grave, you gone too far. Take Longswitch, and go about 3 more miles until it ends on Bamboo Road. Go right on Bamboo and keep going until you see Helm Road, on the left. This is where the road starts to get rough.When Helm meets with another dirt road, cross it and keep going on Helm.
"Then, in the distance, you'll see the apple tree that bears no fruit. That's the crossroads." He said with conviction. "You gotta find the tree. That's how you know you're there. You gotta go, man. You got to."
I wrote the directions down, and looked up my directions on Google Earth. The resolution wasn't great, but the directions seemed to check out, as I was eventually led to two dirt roads that crossed deep in Sunflower County. I thought about nothing but the crossroads for the next several days, until after my job interview on Tuesday. I had the rest of the day off. So I called my buddy Slop, who had his own recent experience where he swears he met the devil at a crossroads just outside of Clarksdale.
"Hey, you busy today?" I asked. "I'm going to the crossroads. You need to come with me. Bring your guitar."
"Hold on," he said, before hollered across the room to his wife.
"It's Carl. We're going to the crossroads. I'll be back tonight," I heard him say. I heard her yell back.
"What are you going to the crossroads for?"
"...'Cause it's just time to go to the crossroads."
I heard her sigh in the background and give him her permission.
"I'll be there in twenty," I said, before hanging up.
Driving Through the Delta
When you drive through the Mississippi Delta during harvest time, you can sometimes see the cotton farmers smile as they drive their combines down the neat rows of crops. Cotton did really well in 2010- it's Mississippi's third largest cash crop at almost $600 million per year, just behind poultry and timber. It's amazing to see the smiles on the faces of the cotton farmers as they finish their harvest, wide grins that can only come at the end of a year's worth of hard work, from people living in squalor.
After picking up a check from the high school for subbing, Slop and I hit the road. We stopped to get fuel for ourselves and my car in Vicksburg, just 45 minutes or so from Jackson. There's an underpass on 61 not long after you get off of the 20, and there's nothing but ribbons of highway, flat horizons and dirt roads beyond the underpass. If you want something from civilization, you have to get it before you leave Vicksburg. There's plenty of cotton and soybean fields, but not much else. This isn't a small area; about 40% of Mississippi fits that description.
Delta people are very private. There are a few gas stations and lunch counters scattered around the poor rural areas of Washington, Sharkey and Issaquena Counties, with dozens of rules covering the front doors of each establishment. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my suit, vest and tie I was still wearing from my job interview earlier that day. I had the whole white-boy-visiting-from-the-city look about me, for sure. Slop and I tried to get coffee at several gas stations along the road, but we were turned away. The owners said they didn't have a coffee pot, but I figured it was more because we were outsiders. This is the South, so folks are really polite about telling you you aren't welcome. And of course, some folks are more forward about it.
Eventually we got to Leland, where Highways 61 and 82 meet. I remembered my friend's directions and looked for Doolittle Road about a mile ahead. I hung left and drove on.
The Apple Tree That Bears No Fruit
The road came to an end after a few miles, and a dirt road took its place. I didn't have a GPS, and neither did Slop, so we remembered the directions given to me by memory. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to set. Light broke through the thick gray clouds in occasional spots. The flat landscape surrounding us on all four sides was cast in an eerie early evening light.
There was a small wooden bridge that crossed over a stream, and as soon as I crossed the bridge onto another dirt road, I could feel a pull, a sense of urgency. There was an almost tangible electric feel all around. I could feel the power of the Crossroads as I drove closer to where I had been told it was. Longswitch road ended, and Bamboo road began. There was no Bamboo around- there were, however, a few houses in a neat row next to some farming equipment. I wondered how many times the folks who owned this farm had seen cars full of hopeful bluesmen looking for the Crossroads. I hoped they were blues fans who thought it was pretty cool to have the Crossroads on their property.
Pretty soon Bamboo ended, and I saw a sign with "HELM" written on it, posted on the corner of the road in front of me. I turned a left, and then took an immediate right onto Helm. The road got incredibly rough at this point. My 2004 Saturn Ion was still handling the rocky, rough roads like a pro. There were more than just potholes; entire sections of the road were ridden with craters and seemingly bottomless pits. I drove and handled incredibly slowly. Slop didn't say anything, but I could tell he was nervous. He didn't know where we were. Truth be told, I didn't either. It could be that my drunk friend was bullshitting, and had never even been to the Crossroads. Then I looked up from the road, and noticed one lone tree standing above the rest of the flat landscape.
This was the apple tree that bore no fruit. The tree of knowledge that stood dead and stripped bare.
The pull was overwhelming this time; I could feel the power of the place. My fingers itched to play drums. My lips burned for a harmonica. This was the epicenter of the blues, the place where the most enigmatic and skilled blues guitarist of all time met the devil and made the deal that made his music immortal. I parked the car, and Slop and I stood under the apple tree in the biting cold. Slop starting playing something in E, so I went the blues scale route, took three steps up and played my A harmonica. I improvised lyrics as Slop played, and slapped the head of my djembe to the rhythms in my head until my fingers hurt. We recorded for a good 45 minutes on my digital handheld Marantz. It was dark before we knew it.
Driving back, I got to thinking about all of the Crossroads legends I had heard, and at the crossroads in my own life. I'm still in the state I moved to to take a job I no longer have, and trying to find purpose as I wait tables, bounce at a club and substitute teach. I'm considering paths ranging from starting my own political communications firm, hitting the road with friends and making it as a musician, and some folks have suggested it'd be profitable for me to go to Los Angeles or NYC and try to make it as a stage/film actor. I had the sudden urge to go to the Crossroads out of the blue, and I had to go. That day.
Some find inspiration at the crossed guitars at 49 and 61. Some might take the Clapton route and go to where 1 and 8 meet. For me, the Crossroads was off of Highway 82. Slop swears he met the devil in Clarksdale, where he tells me he was taken to a dirt crossroads off of a rural route. But more than anything, I think the Crossroads finds you, not the other way around. You have to be at a certain point in your life to find the Crossroads and have a real experience. But when you find it, you definitely feel it.
I never did see the devil, though. I guess he's got Tuesday nights off.