RL Boyce | RL Got Gramminated

"Which R.L. do you want?"

R.L. Boyce at the 2004 Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival

I know of three R.L.s - my late uncle R.L. Robertson, a South Carolina farmer; R.L. Burnside, the late Blues Hall of Famer from Marshall County, Mississippi; and R.L. Boyce, a hill country bluesman from Como, Mississippi. My grandma Georgia was a Boyce. So, I'm sure that if you dig down deep enough and remove enough people, you'll find that the third R.L. and I are related. At least, I'd like to think so. 

"Cousin" R.L. and I did a lot together during this blog's nine year hiatus. There are too many stories to recount in just one post. But, the following is a start. 

R.L. Boyce | North Mississippi Hill Country Picnic

R.L. began his music career as a drummer in Otha Turner's fife and drum band (mentioned in this post). He "learned guitar" to become a lead man on his own. In 2015, I helped R.L. on his South American tour with Carlos Elliot, Jr. and the Cornlickers. By that time, I had known him a couple of years but had yet to solve the mystery of the initials. When the time came to book his flight, I told R.L. that the name on his international ticket had to match his name exactly as it was on his birth certificate and I needed to know what it was. The trap was set. "You got your pencil ready," he said over the phone. "I'll go real slow. ... R period L period B-O-Y-C-E."

with the Cornlickers
Tony Ryder, RL, Dale Wise, Carlos Elliot, Bobby Gentilo

Peirera, Colombia | soundcheck

Medellin Blues Festival © 2015 Steve W. Likens

Medellin Blues Festival © 2015 Steve W. Likens

Hard Rock Cafe - Medellin | in the green room

Envigado, Colombia | Contenedoros

Prior to the show in Peirera, a local news crew asked RL why it was important to him to be part of the event. For what would not be the last time in my life, RL turned to me and said, "You tell 'em, buddy." Staring at the camera, I blurted out the only thing that came mind. "Because he likes to boogie and he wants you to boogie, too."

Skipping ahead to 2017, RL released an album of extended, improvisational blues jams recorded live in the front yard of his house in Como, Mississippi. Entitled Roll & Tumble, it features RL on guitar and vocals, Luther Dickinson (North Mississippi All-Stars) and Lightin' Malcolm on guitars, and the father-son duo of Calvin Jackson (Junior Kimbrough) and Cedric Burnside (the other RL's grandson) on drums. In November that year, the label called me with news. Within minutes, RL called me, too. "Hey, buddy. Luther called and said I won tickets to the Grammys." "No, buddy," I replied. "You got nominated for a Grammy." As a result, more people started asking RL the same question I did and RL kept giving the same answer he gave me.  

promoting Roll & Tumble at Radio Memphis

at home in Como, Mississippi

The Recording Academy held the 2018 Grammy Awards at Madison Square Garden in New York City, rather than Kodak Theater in Hollywood where the show took place in previous years. January in Los Angeles beats January in New York hands down. Nevertheless, I would not have missed this trip to NYC in January for anything.

The ceremony has two parts. Awards in most of the 84 categories, including Best Traditional Blues Album, are handed out during the afternoon. The awards in the remaining ten or so categories are announced that evening during the live TV broadcast. Before we headed off for the Big Apple, Luther offered some advice from personal experience. "It's a long day," he said. "Bring snacks." So, on the way to the ceremony, we stopped at a corner convenience store to stuff the pockets of my new tux with goodies. "What do you want?" I asked. "Nothing. I'm fine," RL assured. Sure enough, though, less than 30 minutes into the broadcast portion, he whispered, "Hey, buddy. You got any more of them Snicker bars?" 

Mrs. L. and the nominee in NYC

promo stop at City Winery NYC during Grammy week - photo by Mrs. L.

Did RL win? In the words of fellow nominee Elvin Bishop, "Aww, hell no. We was up against the Rollin Stones."

Thanks for stopping by.

- Steve

Historic Elmwood Cemetery | 2019 Volunteer Photographer-in-Residence

This post showcases some of my work as the 2019 McCrosky Volunteer Photographer-in-Residence at Historic Elmwood Cemetery in Memphis, Tennessee. Special thanks to Executive Director Kim Bearden for the invitation and allowing me to be a part of Elmwood's story in this way.

Since 1852, the history of Memphis has been buried in Elmwood Cemetery. The famous and the infamous, mayors, governors, judges, politicians of all stripes, civic planners, military generals and commanders, veterans of every American war, madams, musicians, religious who coaxed our souls toward heaven, and entrepreneurs who clothed our soles on earth are laid to rest here.

Elmwood is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It is also an official Bird Sanctuary and a Level II Arboretum.

Elmwood offers guided tours of the grounds. You can also explore on your own - walking or driving - using the map and self-guided recording available at the main office.

All photos © 2019 Steve W. Likens

Thanks for stopping by.

- Steve

Leo Bud Welch | I Don't Know What You Come To Do

Leo "Bud" Welch | 2013 Otha Turner Family Picnic
© 2013 Steve W. Likens

Otha Turner and his Rising Star Fife and Drum Band performed all over the world. But back home, he was famous for the picnics hosted on his farm in Gravel Springs, Mississippi. Musician friends would drop by for a bar-b-que goat sandwich, and an adult beverage or two, and then stay to play all night long. The Gravel Springs community in Tate County borders on neighboring Panola County. Tate was dry. Panola was wet. The story goes, at least the one told to me, that on the morning of a picnic local politicians would declare Otha's place to be in Panola County for the day. Since his passing in 2003, Otha's granddaughter Sharde Thomas has kept his fife and drum and picnic legacies intact. 

Sharde Thomas and The Rising Star Fife & Drum Band
Photos © 2013 Steve W. Likens 

It was at one such gathering on Otha's old homestead in the summer of 2013 that I met Leo "Bud" Welch. His manager, Vencie (who I did not know at the time), saw the camera hanging on my neck and walked over. "That's Leo Bud Welch," he said, nodding back at the gentleman sitting behind us. "He's 81 years old and plays guitar. Would you take some pictures?" Leo stood up. Vencie introduced us. We chatted a bit. Leo proudly told me he was from Bruce, Mississippi. He also confided that today was not only one of his first public performances outside the church, but one of his first public "blues" performances. I snapped a few shots. Then, it was Leo's and his red guitar's turn to take the stage - a flatbed trailer parked behind Otha's old house. Accompanied by a solitary drummer, Leo played a brand of blues both raw and gritty, yet deeply infused with the gospel music he grew up performing in church. 

The photos from that impromptu shoot would soon help introduce Leo to a world-wide audience. Elmore magazine published the photo at the top of this post, which Leo also used in one of his early videos.

Garden & Gun published the following photo, which also appeared in The StarTribune, The Morton Report, and the fundraising trailer for the full-length documentary, "Late Blossom Blues," by Austrian filmmaker and promoter Wolfgang Almer.

Photo © 2013 Steve W. Likens

              

Over the next four years, I was blessed to spend time with Leo on several more occasions and photograph him again.

Photos above | May 2017 Kimbrough Cotton Patch Blues Festival

Leo and Vencie | 2015 Bentonia Blues Festival
photo © 2015 Steve W. Likens

I took this one at the Foxfire Ranch Blues Barn near Waterford, Mississippi:

Photo © 2014 Steve W. Likens

When Leo passed in December 2017, the family included it as one of three photos etched into his headstone. I am humbled and honored to remain with him in this way.

photo courtesy of Mt. Zion Memorial Fund

Not long after that picnic performance, Leo recorded his first record, "Sabougla Voices." It was released in 2014 on Big Legal Mess Records a division of Fat Possum. In condensed form, the lyrics of the opening track are a fitting conclusion for this post:

I don't know what you come to do.

I come to praise his name.

I don't know what you come to do.

I come to sing my song.

I don't know what you come to do.

I come to kneel in prayer.

You can listen to it on Leo's still-active YouTube channel.

Thanks for stopping by.

- Steve

Juke Joint Festival | Hey, Hey, The Jab Is Okay!

"I'm goin down south. I'm goin down south. I'm goin down south.

I'm goin down south. Where the chilly wind don't blow."

(R.L. Burnside)

 "Hey, hey, the blues is alright. It's alright. Alright. Every day and night."

(Little Milton)

Mrs. L. and I each got the second COVID jab, as folks across the pond call it, in early April. By mid-month we were fully cooked and anxious, despite Mr. Baggins's words of caution, to seek adventure beyond the safety and comfort of our own front porch. First up, you ask? The Juke Joint Festival in Clarksdale, Mississippi, of course!

Each April (except during the lost year of 2020) we drive south into the heart of the Delta for three days of blues and joyful reunions with friends from afar - both domestic and imported. In the daylight, the action takes place outside. The sidewalk of every downtown block hosts live music by the renown as well as the local and the obscure. Arts and craft vendors fill the streets hawking everything from cigar box guitars to R.P.'s custom made bird houses. (We have collected four over the years. You can see one of them below.) There's even a race track for monkeys riding dogs. After dark, the scenes shift inside. Every juke joint in town moans and howls until the wee hours and beyond. It's in these sordid places filled with the Devil's music that Mrs. L. and I are reminded that 6 a.m. hasn't always immediately followed 9 p.m. We know the answer to "why did we do that?," but it's "how were we even awake at that hour?" that continues to baffle us. I think it might be because we've had a whole year to rest up. A famous son of the Mississippi gulf coast once declared there's a thin line between Saturday night and Sunday morning. On Juke Joint weekend, I'm not convinced there's a line at all. Needless to say, this is our happy place.

Continued travel restrictions in Europe and South America limited our reunions to the domestic variety. We longed for the company of our friends from abroad, but their absence makes our hearts grow fonder. Still, it was healing, so to speak, to reconnect in-person with so many of the cast of out-of-town characters who fill and enrich our life. These are but two:

When seeing friends for the first time during the festival, it's important to follow the time-honored festival greeting ritual. This year, our ritual played out with an added twist:

Mr. and Mrs. L. spot friends down the street or across a parking lot and begin waving frantically. Said friends, in turn, notice Mr. and Mrs. L. waving and begin frantically waving back. Or, vice-a-versa. Everyone then runs towards each other screaming wildly, arms opened wide. Suddenly, about six feet apart, we all screech to an awkward halt and shout in unison, as if on cue, "Wait! Have you been vaccinated? We have." Once mutually confirmed, the long overdue hugs begin.

Mix. Stir. Repeat.

In another twist this year, some of the nighttime venues moved the bands outside. So, rather than jostle the crowd in a space too small to hold the number of angels dancing on the head of a pin, we grooved to tunes from the comfort of camp chairs with plenty of fresh air and elbow room. Both my body and my patience, which are now on the 60 side of 50 (or as Mrs. L. graciously says, "not in their twenties any more"), rejoiced at this arrangement. Photo above: Bill Abel and Deak Harp laying down some truly cosmic and mind bending blues.

For my money, the prize for festival highlight goes to the birthday celebration and performance by 94 year old Cadillac John Nolden (pictured above). Several international streaming services broadcasted it "live from Clarksdale." By the way, Cadillac's show started at one in the afternoon, so he could be home and in bed before nine. If you have the time and are so inclined, you can peruse the full set of photos from the 2021 Juke Joint Festival HERE .

Thanks for stopping by.

- Steve

Starting Fresh and Remembering Pop

I (STILL) HAVE A BLOG!

So .... after almost 9 years, happenstance reminded me that I have a blog; one that is indeed alive, although perhaps not well. This cosmic prompt resulted from a search for a site to host a new photography blog. When I clicked the Google link for Blogger this page popped up, let out a great sigh of relief and calmly scolded, "I've been wondering when you were going to pay me some attention." Apparently, I never signed out. After a brief active life, new posts stalled (okay, ceased entirely) in September 2012. Originally intended as a place to chronicle life on our ranch in the north Mississippi hill country and other random musings, I've decided to re-purpose it for photography and keep the title for now. If you are interested in the title's origin, see the first blog post. 

We have been back in the city for over 6 years now. Rereading these posts brought back many fond memories of our time there. Some made me smile. Some made me cry. Some did both. And, at least one made me ask myself, "What was that all about?" (I'll let you figure out which one that last one is!) 

I discovered the last post I wrote in September 2012 languishing in the "draft" folder, patiently waiting for me to click the Publish button. It follows. In keeping with the theme of posts that rekindled fond memories and made me smile as well as cry, this seems like a good way to restart this blog. Photography will follow later.

E.O.P. (1934 - 2004) Mrs. L's dad, my father-in-law, passed from this earth eight years ago this week. Reprinted below is the eulogy I gave at his wake.  Hopefully this will rekindle fond memories in those who knew him.  For those of you who did not, I hope you will read on and catch a glimpse of what you missed.

.......................

In reflecting upon life, Henry David Thoreau wrote:  “Time is but the stream I go a fishing in.  I drink from it, but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is.  Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.”

Over the past few days, we have reflected a lot on Pete, his life, and our own lives.  Dad’s health in the last few years really limited what he could get out and do.  Most of all, Mom told us, he missed his fishing.  So, like Thoreau, Pete came; he fished awhile; he drank fully from the stream of life ; and then the current of this life slid away and he moved on to the next part of his journey.  Life as we know it takes place in the shallow end of the pool, and in due time it ends.  But for Pete, there is something more than we can see in the shallow end.  Life as he now experiences it takes place at a deeper level and lasts for eternity.

Pete was the most generous man I knew; something else we have talked a great deal about these past few days.  God blessed him with a spirit of giving.  Whether it was his children, his grandchildren, his sister, or his in-laws, to those in need he gave -- without hesitation, and in abundance.  Beyond that, he gave even when no need existed.  He gave to others just to give, because it was simply his nature to give.

In going through Dad’s office yesterday, I found a copy of his personnel file with the police department that he obtained when he retired.  It was full of commendations and letters; from the great: praising him for saving the life of a wounded officer, to the small: from parents thanking him for stopping by the hospital to say a few words to a sick boy.  The following letter, however, summed it up:

November 19, 1969 

Mr. F.   H.
Director of Fire and Police
Memphis, Tennessee 

Dear Mr. H., 

     This letter is to inform you of the outstanding job one Officer Pitre of your force is doing.  He is also a true Southern gentleman as well as a good Samaritan.
     Last Thursday, November 13, 1969, while I was driving north on Main Street about 1:15 p.m. my car stalled in front of where the Warner Theatre previously stood.  Traffic was tied up and I was getting frantic.
     Officer Pitre drove up on his white motorcycle and offered assistance.  Due to my negligence my car was out of gas as my gas gauge does not register properly.  Officer Pitre did not act disgusted nor did he give a lecture.  He was most considerate and willing to assist in any way he could.
     He pushed my car over to the curb so I could call road service and so the traffic could move freely again.
     He had to push the car uphill with myself and my mother in the car.  This is quite a feat of strength.  And he did this as if it was a matter-of-fact part of his job.  Even though the whole incident was my fault.
     ….
     [P]lease make an effort to see that Officer Pitre gets recognition for the kindness he performed in my behalf.  Please let his immediate supervisor see this letter to let him realize what a fine policeman he has working for him and as Officer Pitre was very courteous and helpful, not at all over-bearing as people picture policeman today.
     I hope Officer Pitre has a successful career as a policeman because he has reached that goal as a plain human being. 

Sincerely,
Mrs. M. A. O.

That is the man I knew.

While Dad’s passing is certainly a loss, know too how much we are aware that his presence in our lives for these many years was a blessing and a gift.  The time he spent in this life was God’s gift to us.  In the coming years, something he said or did, or didn’t do, will cause us to smile or laugh, pause with gratitude, or simply look at one another and say “I love you.”  And that will be Dad’s gift to us.  So even in death, his spirit of giving will forever live.  Our gift back to him and back to God will be our own generosity to others; in their times of need and in their times of plenty.

In his prayer of confession, St. Augustine expressed the longing of all humankind as he prayed, “Lord, you have made us for yourself and our hearts are restless until they rest in thee.”  We are comforted in the knowledge that Pete’s heart is now at rest, while we seek the provider of that rest in our own hearts, for we know that we do not live by the breath that flows in and flows out, but by Him who causes the breath to flow.
As we face the coming days and look at the direction of our own lives for the years to come, I offer you these words of Fr. Thomas Merton, that you may pray them and make them your own:

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think that I am following
your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you,
and I hope that I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore, will I trust you always
though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Requiescat in Pace

Looking at the World Through a Windshield

Now I'm looking at the world through a windshield,

Watchin' it a flyin' by me on the right,

I got a sweet little thing I'm wanting to see in Nashville,

And I'm down around Dallas and rollin' on fast tonight.

("Looking at the World Through a Windshield," by Jerry Chestnut & Mike Hoyer)

The southern "skyline" along Highway 4 as seen in our right side-view mirror.

A Margarita a Day Keeps the Hippo Away

A mother goes down to the river, kids in tow, to do the weekly washing.  While she scrubs the family’s bedsheet on the rocks, the youngsters play cheerfully on the bank making small rafts out of twigs or carving stick figures in the dirt.  Suddenly and without warning, a rogue hippopotamus lifts its enormous rump out of the water, backs up, drops its hind-quarters on the terror-stricken children, and quickly swims off.

This tragic scene is unfolding throughout west Africa in the nations bordering the Zambezi River at an increasingly alarming rate.  Few families have escaped the heartbreak of losing a child to this epidemic.  Dry land hippo attacks were almost unheard of before 2010.  However, in just two years, hippo squashings have become the second leading cause of injury in the region for children aged two to six.

Strangely, though, there have been no reports of child squashings near the Nile or the continent’s southern waterways.  Scientists and wildlife preservationists assigned to the Zambezi Nature Preserve are at a complete loss to explain the attacks or why the children of the Zambezi have been the only victims.  Some suggest that the rump raisings were part of mating rituals and the children were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Others believe that radioactive chemicals may have seeped into the river downstream and are affecting the psychomotor functionality of the hippos’ brains.  Still others report that the hippos appear to actually aim their hindquarters at their unsuspecting victims and liken the random attacks to gang initiation rites.  All admit, however, that any proffered explanation is pure speculation at this point.

A coalition of governmental officials from the affected west African countries have petitioned the United Nations and the World Bank for $600 million in low interest loans to erect a chain link fence along both banks for the entire length of the river.  A U.N. spokesman declined to state whether such a request was likely to be granted, but cautioned that any fence would have to be built at least eight feet from the bank into the river to permit access for bathing and washing.  When asked how the hippos would be kept out of the eight foot area between the fence and the bank, the spokesman said, “Of course, the Security Council would adopt a resolution declaring the narrow strip of water a hippo-free zone.”  Asked if this would require sending an armed peace-keeping force to monitor the newly declared hippo-free zone, the spokesman refused comment.

Neither the Obama nor Romney campaign would comment on whether the United States should fund the U.N. fence effort or send troops to patrol an east African hippo-free zone.  However, other notable Americans from both parties had plenty to say. Responding to international press inquiries, former President George W. Bush explained, “While we don't have hippos in America, ‘cept in zoos of course, we do have a similar problem with gators down there where Jeb is.  But everyone knows it’s a matter of personal responsibility.  We just don’t take the kids where the gators are.  Just like them gators, hippos ain’t no matter for gov'ment involvement, taxpayer dollars, or the military.”  Former Vice-President Al Gore, however, blames Bush directly for the deaths of the African children and called the President’s comments “heartless, callous, and cruel.”  “Once again, George W. Bush has blamed the innocent and attempted to shift responsibility for the tragic consequences of his administration’s failed policies onto working families who cannot afford child care,” Gore added.  “Besides, everyone knows that Global Warming is to blame for this and that George W. Bush is to blame for Global Warming.  As the earth’s temperature rises, the water in the Zambezi River heats up causing the hippos' butts to boil.  Has your ass ever been on fire, Mr. Bush?” Gore asked.  “I’ll bet you’d stick that Texas-sized tucas of yours high in the air too!”  Mr. Gore angrily rebuffed reporters who suggested that Global Warming was not a plausible explanation because the hippos in the Nile and the rest of the African continent were not sticking their rumps out of the water or squashing children.  “You people are so stupid,” shouted Gore.  “When are you ever going to learn that I am smarter than you are.  Like, duh, the hole in the ozone layer is like right over the Zambezi.  It hasn’t spread to the Nile yet.”

In the meantime, villagers may want to try what Mrs. Tashwananeebhkotu of Gillansharp  Township does.  “When we get to the river, I  sprinkle salt on each child’s head and then throw a lime over my shoulder into the water.  Not one my young’uns has been squashed or so much as skinn’t their knee.”