I probably drove the equivalent of John O’Groats to Lands End and had it not been for hitting the St Louis M25 at rush hour, I probably would have made it in 9 hours. St Louis, well that’s OK, it’s obviously named after the patron saint of jazz, but tell me where does a place like Caruthersville get its name? Sounds like it was probably named after an MI5 agent who stopped there to take a leak, or create one more like. I even passed a town called Nostalgiaville, but apparently that’s not what it used to be anymore. It was late in the evening when I finally arrived at my destination of choice, I was back in Tennessee, in a place called Germantown, where everything runs very efficiently and apart from the odd fracas with Polandville twice a century and the sectarian beatings every Wednesday afternoon (excluding holidays), the natives are friendly.

The trouble with long drives is when you get to the end, you are so wired (as they say here), that it takes a few decent sherberts to get relaxed enough to sleep. Eventually I slept. Which turned out to be a good thing, because the following night I was disturbed on a number of occasions by telephone calls late at night all with the same theme. "Hi, my name’s Angie and I’m from the agency". You know when you’re just not quite sure whether it’s the Memsab doing impersonations and trying to entrap you. By the time I had received the fourth call, I realized they were genuine and I thought about the chap at the other hotel (with a similar name) down the street. He must be going crazy because none of the escort agencies would return his calls. Poor bastard, in more ways than one.

So, back to the ….. what plot? Well, after failing to find shepherds in Germantown or Lowlands in Polandville, I thought I’d give up the new breed research and enjoy myself at the weekend. I’ve never been to Beagle Street (sorry Beale Street) and I am always being told, you must go there if you’re in Memphis. I wasn’t, but I was close. Well, a dam attractive mature ex military foreign chappie, shouldn’t venture out to such areas of entertainment all alone, it would give the Empire a bad name. So, after rejecting a bunch of them a few nights earlier, an escort was called for. Now, now dear, I’m only kidding. Fortunately, I mentioned my quest to a local colleague and ….. why do I keep doing it.

Well, it turns out that she has an errant sister who is researching for a book about the music scene in Memphis and would love to show me the town. 'Was this a good idea?', I asked myself. "She’s younger than me, very cute and loves Englishmen". OK then. So I agree to meet her in the bar, in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel, a famous landmark in Memphis and renowned for having ducks living in and around the fountain in the lobby, or reception area if you prefer. However, I didn’t know that and was happily hitting the sherberts in the bar, in the lobby, in the hotel next door, thinking I was in the right place. Some time later, we met and my journey into Memphis music started.

It was my understanding that Memphis was famous for the Blues. "Well, it is" she said, "but there’s a new rock revival happening in this town and I want you to experience it". Oh no, not again. And just when you think it can’t get any worse, she adds "The bands are quite loud but don’t worry, I’ve got some ear plugs for you, so you can hear them properly". It is me, isn’t it? It’s a long time since I’ve used the artistes entrance, but my instructions were clear. "If anybody asks, just say you’re my publisher". I was introduced to some strange looking people, you know the types who end up in rock bands, and they did. On stage, the first band (and they probably should be) were called "Kind". Not to the ears they weren’t, trust me, even with the ear plugs fitted. Can you believe that people were actually trying to eat in this place at the same time, pardon?

"What do you think?" asked my guide, "Different" I screamed politely. "The next band is really good, they have a great following", so did Hitler, I thought to myself. By this time, the sherberts were beginning to hit the spot and I could view the proceedings in a more relaxed light. My host scurried hither and thither, chatting with and photographing anybody who would listen or pose. Meanwhile, I noticed a line of about a dozen people close to the stage doing impersonations of those ‘nodding dogs’ you sometimes still see in the back windows of cars. These must be the groupies, I thought. But as I looked more closely, ‘the gropies’ might have been a more appropriate name for this motley bunch. Their ages ranged from ‘illegal in most states’ to ‘should be in a home’ and their dress sense was all over the place. The one common feature was the abundance of bad hair days, ‘body art’ and ‘metal attachments’. Maybe it’s me, but I’d be worried about getting to know some of these women better and then waking up in a scrap yard.

The band that I just ‘had to see’ were up next and yes, I saw them. I also heard them. I have it on good authority, from their biographer, that they are the next ‘Phlegm’ or ‘Spit’ or was it ‘Saliva’. What is it with names? What’s wrong with the old ‘Four Seasons’, ‘Four Tops’ or in this case ‘Four Very Loud Crazy Rocking Bastards’. The group consisted of a Bullmastiff Guitarist, a Rottweiller Drummer, a Bulldog Bass and the classic prima donna, Irish Setter Lead Vocalist. Me, I would have called them ‘The Dogs of Rock’, but they chose ‘Bad Apple’. Guess there’s one in every barrel.

For those who give a dam, I left after I ran out of ear drums to get perforated, got back to my hotel, shook my clothes to make sure nothing was jingling and then waited for the agency to call. They never did. So what’s this all got to do with dogs, you may ask. Nothing, except for the fact that my guide to the Memphis Rock Scene was absolutely barking.

Well Good night. Till next week, when hopefully my hearing returns to normal and I’ll be telling you all about how to wear a bible belt ………

Col Barker (Retd.)