Discovering the birthplace of America’s music.

To be fair, my ignorance of the blues was at least partially systemic. Despite emancipation and federally legislated integration for African Americans, lingering de facto segregation meant that many whites didn’t know — and didn’t want to know — about the lives of Black people, let alone their music. 

Sure, white musicians eventually bridged the gap by adapting the blues to create jazz, country, pop, and rock. But I was born in the sixties, after much of the groundwork was done, I’d never even heard of early Black artists like Robert Johnson, Son House, and Henry Stuckey. Each had laid a foundation for the music of my youth — and I didn’t know a single one. 

All that was about to change, however, as Mississippi took me back to school. I had arrived in Jackson, capital of what I knew was the country’s poorest state, and still I was a little startled to be confronted by such stark poverty. Broken concrete streets were largely empty, and homes that looked abandoned were not. Most businesses were boarded up. 

When I first dropped the kickstand in front of The Big Apple Inn, I thought it had closed. The tiny storefront was covered in steel mesh and the awning was dirty and torn. Had it not come recommended, I would have taken one look and kept riding. Inside it was no better, with paint peeling off the walls and no restrooms, which was probably just as well. And the letter board menu was limited: burger, tamales, or pig ear sandwich — my choice for $2.10. I was encouraged to see they were doing brisk business, and after all, I was in the South, so I stepped up to the counter. 

“Can I order the pig ear sandwich?”

After unrolling my brown paper sack, I dared to lift the bun and indeed, there was a slow-cooked pig’s ear seasoned with condiments. As long as I didn’t think too hard about it, honestly, it was pretty good — like bologna.

Getting an Education

Beyond Jackson, the last hints of the Appalachians petered out and before me lay a landscape every bit as flat as a Canadian prairie with bright white cotton stretching to the Sweetgum trees on the horizon. This was the
Mississippi Delta and I was riding north on US-49, one of two major routes on the Mississippi Blues Trail, a state-wide scattering of plaques marking events in the history of the genre.

It was early afternoon when I arrived in Bentonia (pop. 319) and dismounted in front of a squat cinderblock building next to a decrepit cotton gin. The Blue Front Café was…