The Great American Diner

USA, Day two. I was excited. And hungry. Time to find the Great American Diner.

This was one of the quintessential American experiences I’d been looking forward to - part of the good ol’ America eulogised in films and modern literature. The authentic America, unique and untouched by modern chains and their homogenising tendency.

Influenced by a hundred movies, books and magazines I had a vision in my head of what my ultimate diner would be: a fifties-style restaurant, intimate and noisy, crammed with ravenous customers, the back-to-back tables lined up along windows lit up by neon signs.

Smiling waitresses would patrol the black-and-white tiled floor, chewing bubblegum and offering endless coffee refills, whilst behind them on the red vinyl-topped seats along the chrome-fronted counter locals would plop themselves for sustenance: a lardy trucker scoffing down scones and gravy; a gaggle of peanut-butter kids slurping noisily on milkshakes, perhaps even a harassed-looking cop stopping by for a gallon of coffee.

The jukebox would be on, pumping out Elvis and Jerry Lee and out in the car park a gang of brylcreemed bikers would pull up on their Harleys…

My stomach rumbled and I came back to New Orleans.

My mouth was salivating like Pavolov's dog by now and I approached the reception in our hotel and asked the friendly chap behind the counter if he could recommend anywhere good to eat.

“How about I send you to MacDonalds?”, he replied. Without a hint of irony.

Stunned and starving we wandered through the soulless streets of the Central Business District, resolving to enter into the first diner-looking place we came across. Shortly one came up ahead - ‘Krystal’ - surely it would be ok.

We couldn’t have been further from the truth.

From behind the counter stony-faced staff stared fiercely back at us, clearly loathing both their job and their unfortunate patrons.

We munched on rubbery chicken nuggets and starchy chips, observing the schizophrenic woman nearby who was jabbering away to herself about the swingers club which is apparently opening opposite.

Looking up at the wall I was amazed to discover that this emporium of misery was not alone but indeed one of chain, each one offering an identical experience. Synthetic. Plastic. Soul-destroying.

Time to start again. America can’t all be like this, there must be my diner out there!

I resolved there and then to scour this land in search of it, my mission to hunt down and devour the finest food they could offer in a bid to create my own hit parade of American diners.

Tom’s top ten American diners

1) Louis’s café, Baton Rouge, Louisiana

In a scruffy part of town, some way out from downtown lies this gem of a diner. It was everything I hoped for and more - the good old American diner in all its glory.

There were red leather and chrome stools lined up along the counter, just as they should be. Behind it a couple of two cooks busied themselves over steaming pans behind and a large flat hotplate piled high with streaming hash browns.

One of them, a dozy fellow in a Mickey Mouse hat threw more onions on, muttering to me ‘only a few months and I’ll be getting’ me a proper jawb’ while his colleague - a gruff old timer with a deep cajun drawl - hurried frantically between pans to keep up with the orders. He wore a Louis’s café t-shirt, the owners face staring out from behind the grease, along with the slogan ‘Warrior. Statesman. Frycook.’

Black and white checkered tiles covered the floor, where back-to-back benches were arranged against the windows, above them hung neon signs for American beers and the café’s sign, reflecting in the puddles of water gathered on the swampy ground outside .

Back inside a skinny young waitress with large hoop earrings took our order. A Chicken breast sandwich with crispy bacon, salad, three cheeses and chicken, served on a po-boy (grilled French baguette) with hash browns (chunks of potato fried with spring onions).

I washed it down with tea and copious free refills and admired the scene all around me: lively, happy, families, swathed in beads, heading home after Mardi Gras parades.

I’d had hit the jackpot first time! Could anywhere else better this?

2) Mama Hamil’s Southern Cooking, Jackson, Mississippi

Welcomes don’t come any warmer than those at Mama Hamil’s. Perhaps it was because we were foreign and they all wanted to dig our accents but then everyone else seemed to leave with a smile as well.

It must have been the food. This is southern hospitality at its finest: the best ‘country cooking’ and the best service around.

We were enthusiastically greeted and introduced to the head chef, the entire staff seemed to come and introduce themselves before a place was reverently cleared for the matriarch herself.

Mama Hamil was the deep south personified - god-fearing, polite and hugely hospitable - and beside herself that she had customers ‘all the way from ingerland’. Her voice was wonderful and sing-song in that Mississippi manner and she regailed us with stories from the area and her own trip to London.

We tucked into a buffet that’d vanquished an army of Mongols. There was a a huge spread of vegetables and meats, all of which the staff insisted we tried.

I munched my way through fried okra, butter beans, black-eyed peas, boiled sweet potato, turnip greens, sweet corn, rutabaga, BBQ ribs, pork hunks and meatloaf. Then, as my stomach started to protest I was steered towards the puddings - well it would be rude to refuse. So I tried just three: banana pudding, bread pudding and peach cobbler, all sweet and delicious.

Finally, feeling like Mr Creosote , the grotesque Monty Python character who little explodes from overeating I had to refuse kind’s Mama’s offer of ‘just another piece of pie’ and call it a day. We bid our farewells and left with big smiles and a complimentary bottle of Mama’s special BBQ sauce.

3) Arcade restaurant, South Main St, Memphis, Tennessee

This famous old diner has been going for some time and over the years has become a much-loved institution.

It stands at the southern end of Main Street, an area which was once buzzing back in the sixties, before falling victim to the inner-city decay which characterised Memphis in the seventies.

Now with the regeneration of the area and situated just around the corner from the Civil Rights Museum the Arcade is starting swinging once more as people come back to the area.

It’s popular with locals and tourists alike and we joined the queue waiting for a table as our trolley driver stopped by at the counter for coffee.

Elvis used to be a regular here back in the day and the place has featured in a plethora of movies including ‘Walk the Line’; ‘Mystery Train’; ‘Great Balls of Fire’; ‘21 Grams’ and ‘The Firm.’

It still retains much of its fifties-style ambience whilst the décor also hints at the owner’s Greek background, with photos of busy moustached chaps on the wall and a light Mediterranean feel.

The chow was certainly marvellous and I highly recommend the ‘Number One Breakfast’, a veritable feast featuring biscuits (scones), gravy (not the British version: a thick, creamy white sauce), bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, hash browns.

Plus they brewed the finest cuppa I found in the country - worth travelling some distance for.

4) Mickey’s Diner, St Paul, Minnesota

Mickey’s is one of the few old dining cars still running. Founded in 1939 it’s on the National Register of Historic Places and the big corporations have found themselves having to build around it.

It stands there defiantly, a cream and red cabin anomalous amongst the tall sleek modern buildings, holding out against the tide of sameness that seems to sweep all before it.

Inside Mickey’s is small and cosy, with little elbow room between you and your fellow diners within its narrow confines. Customers squeezed up along the counter while we squashed around a small table, fiddling with the mini-jukebox which each table boosted though none seemed to work.

It seemed overwhelmingly popular - with a queue of waiting customers patiently stood against wall - and has played host to the famous, from featuring in Easy Rider, to feeding the Beach Boys, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Meryl Streep.

The gruff though humorous waitress baffled me with range of egg options that only an American can offer and soon I was tucking into a delicious feast described as an ‘All American breakfast’: two sausages (round slices), two eggs and potatoes O’Brien (an an enormous pile of hash brown potatoes, onions and green peppers).

We left, making room for some long-suffering people in the queue. Well worth the wait.

5) City Café Diner, Chattanooga, Tennessee

Open 24 hours, Chattanoogans are lucky to have this place, located right in the heart of downtown. It’s one of those serendipitous places that you only chance across by accident or - in our case - on the recommendation of a cabbie.

Outside the frontage is draped in star and stripes, inside it’s the full works. Jukebox pumping out rock music, neon lights, busy kitchen, happy customers and, somewhat strangely, purple seat covers.

The attentive waitress kept the drinks flowing as we poured over the large menu. Seeing I was hungry she helpfully suggested the ‘Hobo’s Banquet’.

A fine choice: homemade fries with American cheese melted on top, fried eggs piled on top of that, and top off with gravy (of the American, white sauce, variety). Biscuits (scones) accompanied this, along with a side of Canadian bacon, just for good measure.

A very welcome place for this little hobo.

6) Lou Mitchell’s restaurant, Chicago, Illinois

Another place which seems to be a bit of a local institution. It’s certainly got a venerable history, being founded back in 1923.

Situated just around the corner from Union Station, on a busy avenue, it proudly its status with large flashing signs.

It’s a larger, busy affair inside, tables and chairs, with a few set around several mini-serving counters. We opted for the latter amongst the coffee-and-a-paper locals.

Customers are welcomed at the door and each given a doughnut hole. Ladies and kids also get a mini box of Hershey’s duds. Nice touch.

My fry-up came served in a skillet (saucepan) - it was more presentable than it sounds and the sausage and eggs slipped down a treat.

Not as filling as I’d hoped though for that price. Perhaps it’s the cost of the ingredients, most of which seem to be organic. Organic diners - whatever next?

7) Leo’s Diner, Cambridge, Massachusetts

A modest little place which belies its grand surroundings, situated as it is just off the Harvard campus.

Leo’s is a decent little place for lunch, albeit one where many people seem to call in for takeout rather than linger.

Inside it’s all sit-up stools and yellow vinyl counters, pictures of famous patrons plastered all over the wall, from the rubber-faced Rolling Stones and Carlos Valderrama, the Colombian footballer with the electric shock hair, to local boys Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

A busy little moustachioed man in a beret beavered away quietly and efficiently behind the counter, calling us up to the counter to collect our food. No bubble-gum chewing waitress here.

There was something else missing as well: noise. This was a curiously quiet diner, perhaps the studious atmosphere over the road has rubbed off it - I spotted at least two Harvard students in earnest discussion over their fry-up.

As for the food? Well it was worth the weight, with a generous thick omelette stuffed with bacon and broccoli, complemented nicely by thick fries and buttered toast.

Leo’s - a greasy spoon to oil that large brain of yours.

8) Comfort Diner, New York City, Manhattan, New York

Situated on East 45th Street this place is in a great location for refuelling after burning the credit card on Fifth Avenue. It’s in the heart of Manhattan - Grand Central, the Chrysler Building and the UN are all nearby.

Inside it looked like an upmarket Burger King: booths and tables and stools around the serving counter. The jukebox played a fine selection of Motown and Rock & Roll hits; the staff seemed, not unusually for the US, all Mexican.

The menu also offered a slightly classier (and pricier) selection than the average diner.

The general ambience seemed to suffer from lack of natural lighting giving the place a slightly cramped feel. This was Manhattan after all.

We took a booth near the door and ordered the buffalo burgers. They proved to be mighty filling, coming in a toasted bap with salad, coleslaw and sweet potato fries. Look out for their own mustard too, a mild yet tasty concoction, coming in their own labelled jars.

A cosy, albeit slightly sterile, place to come on a cold, wet day.

9) Miss Syracuse Diner, Syracuse, New York

Another dining cabin and one surely not known to the outside world. Downtown seemed empty, almost abandoned as we made our way here on a cold, wet Sunday morning. Perhaps that’s why it was so quiet.

And perhaps that’s why it felt more homely and hospitable. The staff seemed on first-name terms with many of the customers who were clearly regulars.

Small but perfectly formed inside, the cabin was filled by booths along the window, a couple of small tables in the corner and a kitchen out back, watched over by a gangly youth.

The local radio station garbled away as the overly-attentive waitress took our order and kept returning every couple of minutes to apologise for the ‘delay‘.

It was worth the wait and soon I was digging into links (sausages), fries (cubed potatoes) and onions, two eggs (over easy) plus toast, tea and juice.

The real American deal, Syracuse-style.

10) The Filling Station Café, Bryson City, North Carolina

Not a diner by any stretch of the imagination but still worth squeezing in due to its distinct character and great service.

The owner turned out to be a New Yorker, a ’half back’(i.e: he’d moved to Florida only to soon get disillusioned with the place, move again and end up half-way home, here in North Carolina).

He turned out to have an interesting story and proceeded to tell us it as he shouted our orders to his staff.

We’d gone through the motoring-themed menu chalked up on the wall - ‘Dipstick’, ‘Timing belt’, ‘Filler Up’ - etc before settling on the Cuban, a mighty sarnie I’d heard about back in the bar across the way (I’d be given specific instructions on how to order it).

Anyway it was brimming with meat, cheese and salad and certainly delicious. Well worth a little detour - you never know you might get a free chocolate cookie…

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The deep South - A musical odyssey

‘I’m going to Jackson, I’m going to mess around. I’m going to Jackson, look out Jackson town.’

- Johnny Cash and June Carter

“Are we going to Jackson just because of Johnny Cash?”, Lara asked?

No, I replied. But I had to admit that he was at least a partial motivation for it.

The state capital of Mississippi lay on our route, the second stop on our musical odyssey through the Deep South.

Leaving behind the jazz of New Orleans we headed for the blues of the Mississippi delta. And not without some trepidation.

Back in The Big Easy Fox News had screamed at us about a recent jailbreak in South East Mississippi: ‘Lookout folks - it’s lockdown in the county!’, a worried-looking chap with a large microphone reported excitedly, ‘these guys are bad and dangerous!’

Prisoners on the run in Mississippi; I was sure I’d heard that somewhere before.

Back on the road the string of Mardi Gras beads led all the way up through Louisiana and across the border, seeping into Mississippi gas stations, cars and the roadside diner where we pulled up for dinner.

Sat amongst red-eyed revellers I looked up from my BBQ pork po-boy to catch the new President’s address to Congress. Somewhat boy-like himself, Barack Obama gave a confident address, commanding the attention of the house and even a few of my fellow diners.

Again I sensed the renewed wave of optimism, one which has appeared since our brief visit in December, and to which people are drawn, desperate for a candle in the gathering economic darkness.

It‘s particularly interesting to witness the first few days of the first black President’s administration unfold here in the south, a region forever associated with the horrors of racial discrimination and still struggling, many believe, to fully shake off its hangover.

Entering the state capital of Jackson we look out for the visible effects of the unofficial segregation we've heard about, where the racial divide often seems to replicated economically.

Tied intimately to this are crime patterns and our host, the delightful Lizzie, stakes her town’s claim to the apparently much-vaunted crown of ‘crime capital of the US’ (Americans seem as obsessed with this as the British are with house prices), but it doesn’t wash with us.

If our part of town is anything to go by it seemed a pleasant enough place - letterboxes at the end of drives, basketball hoops in driveways, BBQs on lawns - and populated with perhaps the friendliest locals we have encountered all trip.

Once again our accents went down a treat, provoking gentle curiosity and kindness at every turn.

As an aspiring young musician Lizzie soon introduces us to the local music scene - it’s not the delta blues but we do catch a blistering performance of zydeco music,a Louisiana speciality.

Every Jacksonian under the age of 30 seems to be busily engaged in making their own albums and we soon find ourselves in Lizzie’s own recording studio, contributing suitably plummy English accents to an her self-penned anthem ‘Happy Minutes’.

With the infuriatingly-catchy lyrics still whizzing around my head I remember Johnny Cash and - now being in Jackson - I ask around about the 'Jackson' song.

No-one seems sure - it's more likely to be Jackson, Tennessee, Cash's home for many years.

More curious American words enter my homemade and burgeoning American English dictionary. Round these parts everything seems to be described either ‘awesome’ or ‘big ass’.

I’m not the first to notice that for many Americans, in Basil Fawlty’s words “It’s all about bottoms, isn’t it?”

Leaving Lizzie to another jamming session we headed north and soon I found my feelings for this land turning once more from admiration and love to irritation and loathing.

Without our own set of wheels we were prisoners of the pitiful public transport system. In these parts, this meant there was only one option - the Greyhound and its regular helping of stony-faced staff and ‘no soliciting’ signs, the unwashed and the unwanted.

It pained me even more to stick to the interstate, speeding right past the towns of the delta, the breeding ground of the blues and a place I’d been eagerly anticipating for many months. Better luck in Memphis.

I glared out the grimy window, the flat unrelenting landscape only broken up by bulbous water towers and roadside hoardings advertising for medical centres (most of them baptist), the latest Willie Nelson concert and one naming and shaming two grim-faced fellows for ‘convicted sex crimes against children’.

Public lynching may be a thing of the past but here the stocks still seem to remain.

The blue skies were gone by now, their place taken by dark swollen clouds which turned to cold drizzle as we stopped in another anonymous town for a short break.

Our amply-proportioned fellow passengers piled out and waddled over to a nearby restaurant out to restock with fried crawfish and fries.

Friday night Fish and chips, Southern style.

A lone Mexican alighted amongst them, his cream plastic cowboy hat shining out like a beacon and bringing a smile to our faces, a reminder of the millinery delights south of the border.

Down in Mexico he wouldn’t stand out from the crowd but here he looked lost and alone, adrift from his homeland in search of a better income.

An hour up the interstate the Tennessee flag fluttered in the strengthening breeze and Memphis hove into view.

Home of the Blues, Soul and Rock ‘N’ Roll, surely here we would find our much-sought after live music here.

After a vain attempt to catch the blues in the raw form, unadulterated, deep down and dirty, at a small venue out in the suburbs we slid through the snowy roads back into town, driven to the juke joints of Beale St.

Once hallowed haunt of blues artists they now seem a hollowed-out core, commercial operations catering for the Hard Rock café crowd and offering watered-down fare.

The picture was the same the next day at the legendary Sun studios, where Jerry, Johnny and Elvis cut their first records - and at Graceland, the gloriously over-the-top home of the latter.

With their music still ringing in our ears we headed on once more to another great music city lying to the west - Nashville.

Another Greyhound. Another stony-faced, round woman on the desk. More pungent passengers and hopeless hobos.

Their spirit crushed, our fellow passengers sat morosely in the waiting room, drawing back into the hoods of their loose-fitting leisurewear some kind of proxy amniotic fluid.

Gordon Brown’s weary face stared out from CNN, his drawn features a stark contrast to those of the sprightly new US President. The coverage showed them talking earnestly over coffee and tilting their heads behind large dais at a press conference.

The rolling newsbar brought the latest economic woes: Northern Rock loses billions in the UK since being nationalised; Ford sales have plummet 48% in the US. Barrack and Gordon stood shoulder to shoulder: these problems are ‘global’.

An hour later we were heading west and, if the large roadside hoardings we passed were anything to go by the lands we were entering are even more redneck: gun and knife shows, fishing appliances and baptist pastors staring out from their lofty perches.

We stopped briefly at an old bus station in a town called Jackson. Is this the town Johnny sang about? There was no time to find out, as our fellow passengers hastily stubbed out their cigarettes on the tarmac and we continued.

The snow remained on the ground as we headed east and we found ourselves amongst low hills, the first since Mexico.

The generously-built lady next to me tucked into a meal of fried chicken and corn bread and we passed a large tour truck painted in the Stars and Stripes, ‘Freedom and Family Tour’ emblazoned boldly across it.

Country music. We had to be nearing Nashville, ’the music city’ .

I couldn’t help listening to Bob Dylan‘s ‘Nashville Skyline’ in anticipation.

Half an hour later the aforementioned skyline itself gleamed at us, the smart towers of downtown glinting orange in the sunset.

The streets looked smarter, the atmosphere more austere in comparison to Memphis. Everywhere I looked I saw a church - we were, as our couchsurfing host, Jason, put it ’in the buckle of the bible belt’.

Together with his wife, Tamee, he has counted 17 churches between his house and the café where we dined: baptist, evangelical, church of god, seventh day adventist to name a few.

Such is their popularity that the police have to come out to direct traffic on Sundays.

To the backdrop of live music (cajun, once again) our conversation turned to the musical delights of this city.

Not only the home of country, there’s hillybilly here, and rockabilly, and in the engrossing Country Music Hall of Fame we read all about them.

Dolly Parton, Hank Williams, Jimmie Rodgers, Merle Haggard, they all crooned at out us from video screens, replete in their cowboy hats and rhinestone jackets.

The streets outside rang to the sound of the fiddle and the southern drawl, drifting out from venues on Broadway and even loudspeakers at road junctions.

Yet to me one voice stood out from them all: the deep, sonorous sound which sends an earthquake through me every time I hear it.

“Hello, I’m Johnny Cash”

And so it was that we found ourselves in a cemetery, after dark, in the small town of Hendersonville.

With the help of Jason’s whizzy iPhone (every American seems to have one - cricked necks and arthritic fingers must be a big problem here) we located the grave of the Man in Black.

He lay next to his wife, the love of his life, both graves etched with passages from the bible. It was a modest plot on a small grassy slope, overlooking people’s backyards, a couple of gas stations and a hotel.

I stood and looked at the final resting place of my musical hero. Jackson to Hendersonville.
Mission complete.

But the musical odyssey continues. We‘re making for the mountains. There‘s a man waiting for us there, and he‘s brandishing a banjo…







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Elvis.com: Taking Care of Business

"Nothing really affected me until I heard Elvis" - John Lennon


We boarded a plane today, something I never thought I’d be doing on our travels around the world without flying.

This was no commercial airliner though, and indeed it was going nowhere, parked up on a piece of tarmac just off a busy highway.

Clearly the former owner had been a person of some means: this jet was blinged to the max. There were lush thick sofas, leather seats, a double bed, gold seat belt clips, even gold leaf basins in the toilets.

But then this wasn’t any old plane: this was the Lisa Marie, and this wasn't any old owner - this was the former plane of none other than the King of Rock ‘N’ Roll, Elvis Presley.

And whilst the Lisa Marie may once have flown through the clouds, taking Elvis on tour or indulging him in spontaneous missions (taking his dog to a vet in Boston, visiting Denver for peanut butter sandwiches, visiting the Rockies for half an hour to show his daughter snow) today she was going nowhere, parked up on a piece of tarmac just off a busy highway.

She stands as a dusty display in an outdoor museum, just one of the many exhibitions at his old stomping ground, now a pilgrimage site for his legions of adoring fans, the Mecca of rock and roll: Graceland.

Welcome to elvis.com : Taking Care of Business.

TCB. Elvis’s favourite acronym was emblazoned on the back of the Lisa Marie and his other jet, Hound Dog II, on his cars, throughout his house and even on his clothes.

It seemed rather a naff slogan for such a cool cat, surely more befitting of a small-town haulage company rather than a man who could make girls swoon with a single shake of his hips.

Indeed the slogan seems more pertinent since ‘The King’s’ death, Elvis bequeathing us not only a great musical legacy but a whole retail park dedicated to his memory.

For the dedicated Elvis fan the dollars start flying out of your pocket the minute you turn into Elvis Presley Boulevard.

If you've time on your hands (and at Graceland you need it) you can stay at Heartbreak Hotel (situated on Lonely St, naturally) or park up your RV (those enormous bloated caravans Americans seem to insist on taking with them, as it they’re anticipating an alien invasion) on the campsite behind.

The house is, of course, the big draw and Elvis's former manor perches on the top of a grassy slope opposite the visitor centre, accessible only by shuttle bus.

The visitor is shepherded straight through the front door of the building, more a large house than a great mansion and straight into the Presley family’s inner sanctum for a voyeuristic glimpse into their private, intimate, lives.

It felt strange to walk through their rooms, inappropriate - almost ghoulish - to intrude into their world, handing over fistfuls of dollars for a thrilling peek at how the family lived, commenting on the furniture and the crockery, staring at the framed photos of beaming parents and happy children.

I couldn’t help being aghast at the ludicrous décor of course, frozen as it is in a weird 1970s timewarp, a decade notorious for bypassing all acceptable boundaries of taste.

Not one to be outdone Elvis smashed past these boundaries with great zeal, choosing to decorate each room to its own individual theme.

The visitor moves between these rooms rather like contestants did between zones in the Channel Four game show The Crystal Maze.

There was the TV room (black, white and yellow colour scheme, mirrored walls and ceiling, and a bank of three TVs for simultaneous viewing - an idea borrowed from President Johnson, apparently); the pool room (thick, heavy material from floor to ceiling, like a dingy bordello) and the lounge (a ‘jungle’ room, complete with slippery leather furniture, indoor waterfall and thick, green shagpile from floor to ceiling.

A fellow visitor standing next to me couldn’t help but be impressed: “I gottasay, boy, he’s classy!”

We proceeded to the raquetball room, one a playground for Elvis and friends, now lined with rows of platinum discs and, inside glass cabinets some of his legendary costumes: sequined jumpsuits with massive lapels, tight at the crotch, flared at the ankle and split down to the belly.

From the screens on the wall the King struts about in such costumes, the final word in bad taste.

This coverage of his later live shows showed a decidedly pudgy Elvis, sporting the kind of sideburns you’d expect find in a zoo behind bars, gyrating before adoring fans and sweating heavily through innumerable Las Vegas shows.

The mawkishness cranks up another notch still when we come to the ‘meditation garden’, the final resting place of the King himself. Private family graves; public shrine.

In front of a tinkling fountain, his grave, between those of his family lies festooned in flowers and toys, limp star and stripes and notes of heartfelt professions of adoration.

Fans still flock here from far and wide. One enormous wreath on display was sent from the ‘United Elvis Presley Society Belgium' (United? Was there a split into factions, I wondered? Perhaps a divide along ethnic lines, the Flems disapproving of the Walloons interpretation of Blue Suede Shoes).

Away from the house there was more of course: an exhibition dedicated to Elvis’s many films, another to his many cars, and one entirely about his days in the draft.

The latter provided a particularly fascinating insight into the Elvis phenomenon.

When they heard that E.A Presley was due to be drafted the various branches of the armed services vied for his services.

One glance at the images of the impossibly handsome young batchelor - already a pin-up for many -willingly doing his duty and its clear why they would have been keen to have him in their ranks.

The propaganda value alone during this time of the Cold War must have been almost incalculable.

A grinning Elvis poses happily whilst having his head shaved at an Arkansas boot camp, a rugged Elvis in military fatigues tinkles with his tank deep in the Bavarian woods. Soviet propagandists must have been green with envy.

Yet even a hardened, cynical military general cannot have calculated the value of Elvis once he’d passed to other side. Beyond the grave Elvis is still generating millions of dollars.

The merchandise stands wall-to-wall, at the exit of each exhibition and in every shop in between them. There’s Elvis posters, pens and steering wheel covers, keyrings, CDs and films, t-shirts, ringtones and playing cards, dolls, monopoly and karaoke sets...

But it doesn’t stop here: for the more ambitious there’s an opportunity to let Elvis into just about every corner of your life.

You can get married at Graceland’s ‘Chapel in the Woods’ or listen to Elvis every minute of the day on Elvis Radio.

Indeed if you have the money there seems to be no limit.

Fancy a go on Elvis’s pool table? All yours for $100, with a certificate of authenticity and a Polaroid of the moment thrown in.

Or perhaps you’d like to splash out on a replica Elvis jumpsuit, complete with buttons and sequins. Yours for only $3,300.

Elvis might have passed away some 25 years ago but the tills are still ringing. The King is dead, long live Elvis®.

When the shy boy from Tupelo, Mississippi strolled in through the doors of Sun Studios back in 1953 he didn’t know he’d be launching a music career that would define a generation and change
the world.

Such was his popularity that when he died, aged only 42, in August 1977 hundreds of thousands turned out to see his casket.

As we chowed down in the ‘Chrome Grille’ café (sat in a Cadillac, of course) I munched metaphorically over the Elvis phenomenon and couldn’t help drawing a parallel between Elvis and the United States.

Big, brash and lovable; thrilling, exciting and new.

Extravagant, excessive and greedy; tacky, tasteless and wasteful.

Could he have appeared in anywhere else other than the United States?

Like him or not, even today Elvis retains his legions of devoted fans. Indeed he seems as popular as ever, a simple search for him on google returning 52,600,000 results.

And whilst people still come to Graceland, streaming through the gates in their hundreds of thousands every year, his songs will keep spinning and the tills will keep ringing.

The King is dead, long live Elvis®. U-huh.







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Midnight Cowboy in Memphis

Memphis. The city that brought the world blues, soul and rock ‘n’ roll.

Home to Graceland, the legendary mansion of Elvis Presley, and Sun and Stax studios, the recording studios which introduced us to the King of Rock 'n' Roll along with other greats such as Johnny Cash, Little Richard, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, Isaac Hayes…

My ears were salivating at the thought of it all.

That is if they weren’t dropping off. It was cold - very cold - and my great floppy lugholes were bearing the brunt of it.

I was starting to bitterly regret the run-in I had with a rather enthusiastic barber back in Guatemala and wondered what on earth was going on with the weather in this country.

The day before we’d been in Jackson, Mississippi, where the sun was shining and the thermometer was reading 25°C (77°). We had been wearing t-shirts and sunglasses as we caught the Greyhound out of town, passing on the way an electronic billboard flashing a tornado warning.

And yet four hours later up the interstate, as we alighted at Memphis, Tennessee we were greeted by the kind of icy blasts you’d encounter in the depths of winter back home.

The thermometer had plunged to a meagre 3°C (38°F), and it was falling fast.

The rain was beginning to turn to hail and by the time we’d reached our new lodgings the promise of snow hung in the air.

As I stood shivering on the doorstep of our couchsurfing host, cursing the holes in my shoes I realised I couldn’t put it off any longer: the music would have to wait, it was time to go clothes shopping.

I loathe this mundane activity and was looking forward to it with a looming sense of desperation when the door opened and our host, a strapping Argentinian biochemist named Adolfo, opened it.

“Hi you must be Tom and Lara; would you like a beer?”

Things got even better as pizza was produced and Aaron, a fellow Memphis couchsurfing host, schoolteacher and fount of local knowledge, offered to give us a lift to the city’s finest thrift stores.

As we rode out there the next day he gave us the lowdown on the city. He seemed keen to tell us about the crime rate - the second worst in the US apparently. Lots of murders, crack, shootings, the lot.

I’d heard it all before. Austin, New Orleans, Jackson, and now here. The words wafted over me as I ruminated on this apparent obsession of Americans with crime.

It seems to be almost a source of local pride, each city hotly contesting for the sacred title of ‘most dangerous city in America’.

This baffles me given the number of cops there are over here. With all these fine fellows patrolling the street it's a wonder there's any crime at all.

You almost can't move in this country for bulky men in immaculately pressed uniforms and gleaming cruisers, officers of the law from the sheriff's department, the city police, state troopers and other assorted agencies.

It's almost as confusing as the number of radio stations here, all four letter acronyms beginning - now we're east of the Mississippi - with a W.

Still, looking out the window, it was easy to believe Memphis’s claim, the sprawling blocks of low-rise buildings growing progressively shabbier the further we headed out of downtown.

A sign hung outside a launderette, reading: ‘Jesus is Lord. Starch Pants’ (if that won’t make you wash your smalls, nothing will); another, outside a fried chicken outlet, offered ‘legs and thighs. Spicy’, suitably sited next door to a strip club.

We were approaching our destination, the suburb of Nutbush, and two large thrift stores, purveyors of used clothing to the poor, the unemployed and cash-strapped backpackers.

Inside the Disabled Americans Thrift Store, browsers perused pungent old clothing and cast-offs whilst a jumpy-looking cop with closely cropped hair scanned them with beedy eyes, his hand twitching on his belt.

Our accents were soon - once again - attracting considerable attention. Was I from Ireland? a heavily bearded customer with steamed-up glasses asked me, another - a heavily tattooed lady with a tough Tennessee twang - complimented my English tones - ‘your accent is beautiful.’

Gosh, I liked this town already.

And it got better when I reached the racks, the store proving, along with its neighbour next door, a veritable treasure trove of high-quality clothing for the aspiring yet budget-conscious cowboy.

It is always our aim to try and appreciate a country from a local's point of view; as part of this, I indulge, when the chance presents itself to indulge in another Tintinesque tendency and take the 'Thompson and Thomson' approach.

The hapless Scotland Yard detectives, faithful companions to the boy reporter, always like to adopt the traditional costume.

Here in Memphis that meant only one thing and soon I was striding out into our new wintery world with a brand new uniform. This consisted of the following:

One pair of cowboy boots - $10
One pair of jeans - $5
One thick corduroy jacket $5
One heavy check shirt - $3

Combined with my Mexican cowboy hat I thought I cut a fine figure, ready to blend in perfectly with the locals around me.

Striding down the street on my two inch heels I thought I looked like Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy; Lara reckoned more like Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. Better steer clear of the rainbow flags for a while.

By now the snow was falling thick and fast, it was starting to get dark and there was little sign of a bus.

A shopkeeper had kindly looked up bus times for us, one of her customers had even offered us a lift and now we met yet another friendly local who offered us a ride.

‘Mah name’s Werr-sleh. People call me White Lightnin’. Wow - a bona fide musician, and a guitarist to boot. He reminded me of the purpose of our visit to Memphis - to seek out the blues - and we thanked him for his club recommendation, Wild Bills, a place we’d already heard of

White Lightin’ had another piece of useful advice: ‘You’re in Nutbush, maaaan - this is the hood’.

Time to go. A bus finally hove into view and we hopped aboard this skeleton service, the air inside so cold we could see our own breath, the seat cushions soaking wet from the leaking roof.

Once more I wondered what one would do without a car in a town like Memphis, marooned like a stranded sailor in an ocean of concrete.

We made to downtown and the one saving grace of the city’s public transport system - the Main Street Trolley.

This lovingly-kept line runs old trams which come complete with varnished wooden benches, odd knobs and levers. Ours also came with a friendly driver called ‘Mow-reece’ who complimented me on my new garb.

As the tram rumbled gently over the heavy rails I relaxed into its warm, comforting embrace reflected on the fine people of this city and the south in general. Once again the South had impressed us: the warmth of its welcome, the friendliness of its people; the kindness of strangers.

Half an hour later, as we kicked the snow off our boots back at our lodgings and brewed a restorative cuppa the news came through that we were in the middle of the heaviest snowfall for forty years, some parts of West Tennessee receiving up to a foot of snow.

We were back to survivalist shows back more. Snow-bound and stranded in the deep south: would Tom and Lara survive?

Stayed tuned and find out next week only on WISM.







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