A (Mostly) Musical Journey Across the Deep South - Part 3 (of 3)
I took a solo trip to see more of the United States and learn about its history and music. Here's what happened.
Thank you for spending part of your day with Michael’s Record Collection, and welcome new subscribers! It’s time to wrap up my three-part travelogue of a (mostly) music-related trip across America’s deep south. Thanks for your patience and indulgence during these three unusual issues of this newsletter. Normal service will resume soon, but if you’ve enjoyed these kinds of stories from the road, let me know. I plan to travel more in the future and can chronicle those adventures if there is an appetite for it.
Let’s jump into the final days of the trip.
Day 4
The day is perfect. The sun is shining and the strains of Arlo Guthrie’s well-known cover version of Steve Goodman’s “The City of New Orleans” is blaring from the speakers of my Kia Soul. Its wheels devour the pavement of a southbound section of Interstate 55 in southern Mississippi known as the Bo Diddley Memorial Highway.
It is the fourth day of my trip, and I am headed to the Big Easy as I drive across the deep south, seeking solitude, peace of mind, and a better understanding of this section of the United States. The music, sunshine, and thrill of being in a new place hit me all at once, and the day is so perfect I nearly burst into happy tears.
It’s a gorgeous day — the first time on the trip where it wasn’t either mostly cloudy or completely overcast. The music, the road before me, the scenery, and my anticipation of arriving in New Orleans have me in a great mood. My playlist for the drive consists of songs about New Orleans or the state of Louisiana, by artists who called that city home, or are tangentially related.
Good morning, America, how are you?
Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son
Despite my euphoria, I get a little bummed to pass a sign advertising the Robert Johnson Blues Museum. I’d have loved to stop and see it, but with most of a 200-mile drive still in front of me, I wanted to maximize my time during my first-ever trip to New Orleans.
However, just a few minutes later, I see another sign, and this time the temptation is irresistible, and I have to stop. The sign simply reads “Lynyrd Skynyrd Monument.” I may not have time for an unscheduled museum, but surely a monument won’t take long. I’m blanking on why there would be a monument to the band here in the middle of nowhere, but I soon discover the reason. I pull off the highway and a sign indicates my destination is to the west, so I turn right, not sure what to expect. I drive for several minutes without seeing another sign, and just as I start to wonder if I’ve made a mistake, I see the familiar brown tourist sign in the distance, informing me a left turn would take me where I want to go.
I turn onto a narrow paved road topped with a layer of tar and gravel and quickly find the monument on my right, with a small parking area in front. I discover this monument was built near the site where the band’s plane crashed in 1977, taking the lives of iconic frontman Ronnie Van Zant, guitarist Steve Gaines, and backing vocalist Cassie Gaines, along with assistant road manager Dean Kilpatrick, pilot Walter McCreary, and first officer William John Gray. I had forgotten that the crash had taken place in Mississippi. The band’s plane went down after running out of fuel. The flight crew had tried to make an emergency landing in a field but the plane never made it. The crash was ultimately ruled to be caused by crew inattention to fuel supply, which is mindbogglingly tragic.
A small tent is set up to the right of the monument, and two men are there, chatting to visitors and selling t-shirts to support the upkeep of the monument. I soon discover one of them is Gene Odom, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s former security officer and one of the 21 survivors of the plane crash. I want to buy his book, but I’m not carrying any cash and cell service is spotty, so I can’t make an electronic payment. Oh well.
I spend some time looking at the carvings and reading the text on the monument. If the monument itself isn’t sobering enough, hearing Mr. Odom tell other monument visitors what he saw and heard on that flight certainly is.
“I was on the plane,” I hear him tell one couple. “I’m still on that plane.”
Despite the somber experience, I’m glad I made the spontaneous decision in favor of the unscheduled stop. Meeting someone who worked for the band and was there is a fascinating experience, and I make a mental note to buy Mr. Odom’s book. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s music has been part of the soundtrack of my life, and it feels in some way like I was meant to be here to pay my respects to them.
Resuming my regularly scheduled programming, I return to the highway and continue the journey to New Orleans, ultimately crossing elevated freeway over bayous and Lake Pontchartrain and arriving in the Crescent City.
I find the hostel I booked, but it isn’t yet check-in time, so I plug new coordinates into my phone’s GPS and make my way to Crescent Park. I hear it provides a good view of downtown. I cross over the railroad tracks on the Rusty Rainbow bridge and walk along the Mississippi River, where I see a cargo ship and a paddle boat go by, and I am greeted by a fantastic view.
It’s lunchtime, and not having had a proper breakfast (thanks, Vicksburg Red Roof Inn!), I am starving. Because parking is a challenge in the French Quarter, I return to the hostel to see if I can check in early.
I arrive at the India House Hostel and go inside to find a friendly staff member who checks and finds my room hasn’t been made up yet. However, he switches my room so I can check in early anyway. The staff is super helpful to visitors, providing tons of information about local restaurants and even a weather report for the day.
One of the attendants walks me through the purchase of a 24-hour “Jazzy Pass,” which provides unlimited trolley and bus trips on the city’s transit system, and he suggests I download the Transit app. I do so, and he gives me a quick tutorial. It turns out to be extremely useful. With a trolley stop just a few steps to the east, I can see exactly how long I have to wait to catch the next trolley, meaning I don’t have to stand out in the sun for long at the uncovered trolley stop.
The hostel provides shared or private rooms, has its own pool and free Wi-Fi, and allows guests full run of the kitchen. I dump my stuff in my sparsely furnished (but clean!) private room, fire up the Transit app, and catch my first New Orleans trolley down to the French Quarter.
I already have my food plans set, thanks to some planning ahead. I stop at a place called the Gumbo Shop for something I’d never tried before — crawfish etouffee. It is delicious and easily surpasses my expectations.
My hunger satisfied (for the time being), I wander the French Quarter, checking out shops, bars, and restaurants, but mostly watching the people. It is the first Sunday of the NFL season, with the Saints hosting the Panthers that day, so as the afternoon progresses, I see lots of people in Saints jerseys and a few sad Carolina fans. I take in some well-known local features — Artillery Park, Jackson Square, and St. Louis Cathedral. Then I stop at my next music-related destination, the New Orleans Jazz Museum.
The museum is housed in an old U.S. mint, which explains the mint exhibit on the first floor of the building. I learn a lot about the rise of jazz, with its beginnings in the rhythms, dances, and folk songs of the Louisiana slave community, and how it evolved over time. Of course, there is plenty of space devoted to New Orleans’ two favorite musical sons: Louis Armstrong and Fats Domino.
I enjoy checking out the exhibits and vintage instruments and learning about a form of music that I’d always found a bit intimidating and impenetrable. It makes me want to learn more about jazz and give it a more objective listen.
There are a few more stops I want to make, so I make my way to Pirates Alley and to check out Faulkner House Books, a bookstore that occupies the former residence of William Faulkner. I look for something interesting to read, but I am too indecisive to pick something out. I take that as a sign that I shouldn’t force it and walk out without buying anything while enjoying the idea of treading the same floors Faulkner where once walked.
I stop on Chartres Street to pick up pralines at Laura’s Candies for my wife and peanut butter fudge for my daughter. I eat something ridiculous called “the extreme Reese’s Cup,” which is one of the famous peanut butter cups in the middle of an Oreo, drenched in chocolate and peanut butter icing.
I have forgotten my portable charger and my phone is low on battery, so I can’t take many pictures or any video, because I need the last few drops of energy in my phone to be able to ride the trolley back to the hostel. Before that, however, I stop at Killer PoBoys on Dauphine Street for a gulf shrimp po’boy sandwich. The etouffee had been good but didn’t hold me for long. The po’boy is amazing and I wash it down with a Skater Aid pilsner from Gnarly Barley Brewing in nearby Hammond, Louisiana.
I hop the trolley back to the hostel to charge my phone and change my clothes. Upon arrival, I find my portable charger is also out of juice. Poor planning on my part. I charge the phone with my laptop, but it’s a slow process and I can only get it to 65% before I have to head back out. I plug in my portable charger and catch a trolley and a bus over to Frenchmen Street, so I can see some authentic, local, New Orleans jazz.
On Frenchmen Street, I locate some of the jazz clubs I’d read about online. Before I can pick a place, I am distracted by an art fair. I wander around the stalls, checking out a fantastic array of offerings in all styles by local artists. I also discover I am a person who apparently can’t afford art, so I buy nothing, although I find myself tempted by a cool painting of Louis Armstrong playing his trumpet.
I duck into the Spotted Cat Music Club, eager to partake of some live jazz. Secret Six is playing on the tiny stage, and they’ve got a great vibe, with multiple singers, one of which is a big dude with a hell of a voice who also plays trumpet. The bartenders are great and attentive. I had to get a Hurricane while I was in town and I do. I am duly warned the drink is really sweet. It is, but it is also delicious. After that, I sip some local beers and chat with some folks from Chicago who are in town for work, and then a nice English/Irish lady who sits in their spot when they leave.
Secret Six finish and make way for Pat Casey & the New Sound, the headliners. Both bands are talented, and while Pat Casey & the New Sound may have more technical ability, they also are all too happy to show their chops. Every single song has a sax solo, a guitar solo, a keyboard solo, and even a bass solo (!). It gets to be a bit much for me after several songs, and I find myself missing the more relaxed vibe of Secret Six.
By now, it’s after 10:30 p.m., and I want to see Bourbon Street after dark. I had been told by the hostel staff that trolleys and buses can be a less predictable wait the later it gets. So, I decide to walk back across the French Quarter to Canal Street to pick up the trolley back to the hostel. I am surprised at how dead it is on Bourbon Street. Every place is open, but the bars are mostly empty. I pass at least half a dozen places with cover bands playing to a handful of patrons. Other bars have hip hop blaring at ridiculous volumes (even for me!) with barkers out front trying to get people to enter. No thanks. It’s a Sunday night, so I may simply be here on the wrong night, but since Bourbon Street is more for tourists, and it’s still only around 11 p.m., I had figured it would still be pretty crazy. It isn’t.
I find Bourbon Street to be seedy, dirty, and not my vibe at all. I had eaten a late lunch rather than a dinner, and my tummy is rumbling a little, so I duck into a pizza joint for a slice without looking at the menu. The slice of pepperoni is pretty big and fairly tasty, but it still isn’t worth the $14 I am charged. Bourbon Street!
I don’t see a place inviting enough for one last drink in the Quarter, so I continue to Canal Street without incident and grab the next trolley outward (“inward” is toward the river, “outward” is toward Pontchartrain). Back at the hostel, I read a chapter of my book before turning in for the night. The bed and pillows are comfy and I sleep well at India House.
Day 5
I rise early, despite getting in over 21,000 steps the day before. The hostel has a shower room in the back building near my room, with several individual stalls. Each stall has its own changing area and doors that lock. It’s a nice setup, honestly, and I would stay here again whether I’m traveling alone or with others.
It’s a bit rainy, so I don’t take my usual morning walk and instead pack up and prepare to go. I check out of the hostel and load up the car. My trip is ending.
There are a couple more items on my to-do list before heading back to Orlando. First, I stop at Metairie Cemetery to pay my respects to Anne Rice (I loved her vampire novels), who is interred in her family’s mausoleum. I get a bit turned around in the cemetery but eventually figure it out.
My final stop in NOLA is City Park, which makes for a lovely drive on a misty morning. I steer the Soul through the picturesque green space and stop at the park’s Cafe du Monde location, which locals assure me has as good (or better) beignets as the original location and without the long lines. It is practically empty when I arrive and I ask for one order to enjoy in the cafe and two more to take home.
Sadly, my exploration is over. I have done about as much as I could across four new states in so little time and all good things must come to an end. I find my way to I-10 easily enough and begin the trek to Orlando. I have no playlist set up for the ride home, so I put the music library in my phone on shuffle and reflect on my experiences in Muscle Shoals, Tupelo, Lake Village, Vicksburg, and New Orleans. It’s been brilliant.
About 11 hours later, I arrive home in the early evening, tired but somehow refreshed. I’ve seen a lot of new places and had some great experiences. I highly recommend getting out and seeing things. It’s always worthwhile.