photo by @prince_perry
We made a pilgrimage to Aliceville, Alabama for The Freedom Blues Festival In 2006.
We arrived at the only motel in town after a long and tiring drive. The owner greeted us with our towels but eyed us suspiciously when Michele asked for two. After some persistent arguing, he gave in, handing out gauze thin towels to us all with two to Michele.
Our rooms, smelling faintly of disinfectant and damp hadn’t fared well in the Alabama heat. The air conditioner wheezed out a death rattle of cool air no match for the humidity beyond the door. Someone made the bad choice of shag carpeting for the floors. It was now so suspiciously moist we didn’t dare take off our shoes. The beds were clean though and we were weary.
Later we drove through the bright Alabama sunshine to a Festival that wasn’t marked and had directions like, “turn at the big fight sign across from the barn.”
Reassuring. On we went, hoping for the best only to see a hand-lettered sign that read, “Coon fight $5, bring your own rackcoon.”
The fight sign?
We consulted our map, took a leap of faith and turned into a grassy drive several yards later, hoping we weren’t going to see trouble at the end of a double-barrel.
There were two broken down trailers and two empty lawn chairs but not a car, not a sound and no signs of the Freedom Festival. Then an ancient looking guy sauntered out of the deep shade and moseyed over to the car.
“Even,” he said.
“Yawl hep fu da blz?” As one, everyone’s head swiveled toward me as, having family from the South I was the official translator for the trip. “Yessir,” says I dropping unknowingly into my own deep Southern cadence. “Are we in the right place?” “Um,” says he. “Atta be fi duller ech mizy.”
Again the heads swiveled. “It’s five bucks a head,” I explained. Ken forked over $20 as I asked. “Yessir, now whereabouts do we go for the festival?”
“Se dem tres oh yondr? Be tru dare.” He pointed. “Dare?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. He was pointing to a grassy path between two trees. “Um,” he nodded and sauntered off.
We drove between the two trees and found lots of people setting up worn folding chairs and spreading blankets in the late afternoon heat to face a makeshift stage.
Freedom Festival crowd was friendly and filled with babies, old folks, young couples, mothers and fathers and grandparents big on dancing and partying to the blues. We made some new friends and best of all, Michele convinced Willie King, a great and generous musician and the founder of the Festival to let us play. So, with the help of blues drummer Willie James, and a young guitar player from Old Memphis, Ken, Michele and I took the stage in the sticky Alabama evening and played the blues.
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