Way Down Yonder in New Orleans

‘Good Morning America..How Are Yer?’

It’s 06.50am, I’m standing on the platform of Memphis Central Station, tired, cold. It’s still dark, a queue is lining up in readiness for the train called the City of New Orleans to roll into town. I’ve been here for over half hour after being dropped off by taxi. Despite feeling knackered I was really quite excited about this trip and finally out of the darkness two lights emerged in the distance, slowly getting brighter as they neared the single platform. The train which left Chicago some 10 hours before on the 900 miles journey somehow looked tired as well. Creeping into Memphis Station as if it was on its last legs. A mass of people waited in line for the guards to sort out the tickets and seat allocation. The train waiting patiently but enjoying the break. The City of New Orleans I learned wasn't the actual name of the train but the service. Like we used to have the Thames Clyde Express in Britain all those years ago. Allocated my seat, I was upstairs, the spacious coaches a far cry from the cramped replicas we have here in Britain. I stretched out, plenty of room, a few people chattering away slightly annoying at this time of the day but I closed my ears to them. One thing I was disappointed about was that I had half heartedly expected to hear Willie Nelson and the Highwaymen singing the anthem..

‘Good Morning America, How are yer?

Say, dont you know me? I’m your native son..

I’m the train they call the City of New Orleans..

And I’ll be gone 500 miles when the day is done..’

Well, not really, but it would have been nice..I sang the song in my head instead.

Eventually, twenty minutes late, the huge double decker train pulled out of Memphis, slowly making its way through the suburbs, crawling along as if it wasn’t in the mood to face the remaining nine hour trek across Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana. 

Stuttering along it gave way to freight trains, which seemed a mile long, at every juncture. I settled into my seat, thinking that at this rate we wouldn’t get to New Orleans until the next day! Took an hour for the train to start really moving. All part of the adventure though and I was determined to enjoy it as much as I could.

We settled into a pattern, the train chugging along, passing endless barren landscapes, the occasional small town, wooden houses and shacks scattered around, a church. All looked archetypical of the Deep South.

To pass the time I had my iPad ready for the opportunity to take photographs through the window. The train was going slow enough most of the time. Then out of the blue came an announcement from the train driver. Straining my ears I was somewhat amazed to hear; “First stop on the journey will be Greenwood in about two and half hours for a smoke stop”. I kid you not. He continued; “We will stop here for about ten minutes if anyone wants to get off for a smoke but don’t stray away from the platform’. 

Well I could imagine that happening on British Rail! Not. There’d be uproar!

And the train did stop. Passengers scrambled for the doors, stood outside in the cold, puffing away. I couldn’t believe it. My mind wandered to the Rockingham Arms Pub Quiz Nights on Mondays back home. Quizmaster John Day giving the quizzers a five minute warning to go outside for a last drag before the start. Followed up by; “the quiz will begin in one minute”. And the punters, gasping, stubbing out their cigarettes and rushing back to their seats. Cracks me up every week. 

Nobody as far as I could see, got on at Greenwood. 

Next stop was to be Jackson, another couple of hours down the line.

Getting hungry I went to the Buffet and Dining Car, a coach with virtually large floor to ceiling windows, lounge seats, very comfortable. I bought a cheeseburger and a coffee, headed back to my seat and settled down to ‘people watch’.

A party of three were in front of me, all in there 60s, a guy and two ladies, one I ascertained was his wife. They had been ahead of me in the queue on the platform at Memphis. I had noticed them, they were very quiet, probably tired like I was. Now, a few hours later, they had come to life. The guy was particularly irritating, not only to me watching but to the two women as well! Up and down like a jack in the box, faffing around, fawning over his two ladies I could see he was getting on their nerves. “Why don’t you sit down and relax instead of changing seats, and give us some peace to read!” one finally said.

He did, for about five minutes. Then he was up again; “Anyone want anything to eat? drink?’ They were obviously peckish and a debate about what they should get ensued for about ten minutes. I’m sitting, watching, taking this all in. God almighty! I was chuckling to myself. What a pain!

Off he went. He returned around twenty minutes later with some bags of food and drinks. “Right, what do you want?” he said to the older lady and proceeded to describe every piece of scran he had bought, cheeseburger, beef burgher, crisps, Tuna sandwiches, biscuits, bar of chocolate..the three of them eventually sorted it out and got stuck in.. 

“Nice little picnic this..” He couldn’t even shut up when he was eating!

It passed the time of day watching this cretin.

The train kept a rollin’, as the Johnny Burnette song goes, miles of scrubland, Plains, the occasional river, a road leading to nowhere..through a town called Yazoo City. We stopped once again to let a freight train through, it went on forever! Never seen such monster trains like these. It must have took a good fifteen minutes to get past us, boxcars and wagons transporting everything from cars, fuel wagons, containers of all shapes and sizes..incredible. There seems to be a right of away for freight trains over passenger trains in America which again is remarkable when you consider the rail network and system in Britain.

The outskirts of Jackson appeared, June Carter and Johnny Cash’s song came into my head.

‘We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout,

We've been talkin' 'bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out.

I'm goin' to Jackson, I'm gonna mess around,

Yeah, I'm goin' to Jackson,

Look out Jackson town.’

I was shaken out of my day dreaming by another announcement.

“We will be arriving at Jackson in around fifteen minutes. if anyone wants to get off for a smoke, we will be here for about twenty minutes. Don’t leave the platform, the driver won’t wait for any stragglers.”

And hordes deserted the train and filled up the platform. The guards included. It was like looking at a Smokers Corner at school as cigarette smoke drifted over the train and station. 

Just like John Day at the Rock, the driver gave everybody a warning that the train would be on its way again in five minutes. I watched as people stopped chattering, took a last drag, stubbed out the cigarettes and clambered back on board. Satisfied that nobody was left behind, the driver set off for the final leg of the journey to New Orleans. By now, he and his co-driver, I assumed, would be into the 16th hour of their shift driving this train. Chicago to New Orleans apparently takes 19 hours.

As we slowly pulled out of Jackson it gave us the opportunity to take some more pictures, very satisfying. There was a feeling that this indeed was the heartland of America, of Mississippi, suddenly it seemed so far away from home..

We were shortly traversing the bayous of Louisiana. The railway track right next to the lakes, over rickety wooden bridges, through swamps. How did they build this line? Amazing. Miles and miles of nothing but swampland, the haunting Ry Cooder soundtrack to the film Southern Comfort came into my head. Looking out of the window, it was murky with drizzle, you wonder what wildlife exists out there. Alligators? Wouldn’t like to fall in to find out that was for sure.

All of a sudden the train comes into a clearing, there’s signs of life with a road bridge adjacent to the rail track appearing. We are on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain; ‘a brackish estuary located in south-eastern Louisiana, covering an area of 630 square miles with an average depth of 12 to 14 feet.’

That big, I thought it was the sea. 

Still no clear sign of New Orleans, turns out we are riding on what is called the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway; ‘composed of two parallel bridges in Southern Louisiana. The longer of the two bridges is 23.83 miles long. The southern terminus of the Causeway is in Metairie, Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans. The northern terminus is at Mandeville, Louisiana. The bridges are supported by 9,500 concrete pilings.’ 

The driver breaks the train of thought, pardon the pun; “We have to apologise that the train is running late but we should pull into New Orleans at around 16.40”.

Well, what is another hour when you’ve been on the train for eight hours already?

Finally we arrive in The Big Easy but there’s another twist to come yet. The guards warn everyone that first of all, “the train has to go forth, then reverse into the station. So, when the train stops, don’t open the doors and get off! Thank you for your patience.”

After nine hours we emerge out of the New Orleans Union Passenger Terminal, weary. I grabbed a taxi and asked for the St. James Hotel, located in the heart of the city. The yellow taxi was shabby, looked like it was falling apart, as did the driver, an ageing black man, but he was polite, chatty, very nice. “Want a taxi Sir? for when you go home?”

“I’ll give you a shout, thanks”. He gave me his card.

“Have a great time in New Orleans sir”.

I intended to.

Ice cold in Iceland

Reykjavik

I was passing time surfing the internet when an advert appeared on the screen, ’Fly to Reykjavik for only £x.’ Forget what it was exactly but it was cheap. Price included the hotel as well. It caught my imagination. Take in the Blue Lagoons, a trip to see the Aurora Borealis otherwise known as the Northern Lights, maybe even a whale watching boat excursion, I thought ‘let’s give it a go!” 

Thus on Tuesday November 4th 2014, I was rudely awakened by my alarm at 6.45am to begin my journey to Iceland, a country siting on the top of the map near Greenland. Peering out of my bedroom window I was alarmed to find we were shrouded in dense fog. Not ideal when you have to drive to an airport early in the morning. Or any other time of the day if it comes to that. 

I was knackered from the previous night’s Rockingham Arms Quiz and consuming a few pints of Sam Smith Old Brewery Ale. I wasn’t ready for the drive to Birmingham but a cup of coffee helped ease the fog in my head, if it didn’t the weather. 

The drive to Birmingham was slow, the fog failing to clear at all. Took me an hour and a half when normally the journey would be around 50 minutes. My head being hazy didn’t particularly help. I wasn't used to these early mornings having been retired for over a year. The Airport Car Park was pre-booked and paid and I dropped the car off thinking ‘this was all too easy’. I felt hesitant and asked a Security Guard for assurance, showed him my paper-work and he confirmed I was in the right place, but I was still not entirely convinced but by now I was in the building and there was nothing I could do. Funny how you get these feelings of doubt and that something isn’t quite right..

A cup of coffee was called for and it was then that sinking feeling that something wasn't right dawned on me.

‘My phone!’ I couldn’t find it. Searched my bag, my pockets -  nothing!

I then remembered putting my mobile on the seat in the car. Damn! I knew then what it was that had been bugging me. God I hate these early mornings!

I realised without my mobile the only other connection with the outside world while exploring Iceland would be my iPad. 

An ignominious start to my break it was fair to say.

The aircraft was a propellor job which was only the second time I had flown on one. Compared to the 747s the plane resembled a bus. Flying northwards towards Scotland and the Mull of Kintyre before crossing the North Atlantic only took a couple of hours.

Keflavik Airport is approximately 25 miles from Reykjavik. A bus to the city centre awaited. The journey giving an opportunity to view the rugged landscape of Iceland, an island of volcanoes. It looked more like the moon!

It was dusk by the time I arrived at the Central bus station and not having a clue where my hotel was I decided the easiest thing to do was jump in a taxi. The driver looked slightly surprised but nonetheless off we went, and less than five minutes later I was at the hotel! Just round the corner!

The hotel was up a backstreet, the entrance, at the top of wooden stairs, looking more like something leading to a warehouse. The reception was inside a cubby hole but if I was feeling less than impressed, the people seemed friendly enough, giving me a warm welcome. My apartment was spacious, clean, and colourful. Bright greens and yellow everywhere. Made me think that the lack of daylight in Iceland at this time of the year, bright colours was an attempt to cheer things up! I was aware the suicide rate in Iceland, which is part of Scandinavia was high and a few days of this and you can understand why.

 Over the next couple of days I discovered daylight didn’t happen until around 10am and dusk would begin to descend at around half three! Giving us around five hours! 

First task once settled in was to get something to eat and stock up the apartment’s fridge. A supermarket wasn't too far away. I bought milk, tea, crisps, rolls, a few nibbles, sausage rolls etc. and then went for a brief look around the immediate area. It was too cold to go far, but I found a pub where the Real Madrid v Liverpool European match was showing on the TV. The Reds lost 1-0. A couple of pints, some splendid fish and chips and I headed back to my hotel for an early night. 

Switching on a 42” TV screen on the wall at the bottom of my bed I was amazed to get the U.K ITV channel. Suddenly felt like home!

First surprise of the morning was waking up and finding it completely dark outside. It was 9.30am. I turned on the television, all the channels we get back home available! I flicked through them and ended up watching the Jeremy Kyle Show! Here in Iceland! I found that remarkable. Watched it for a bit but soon grew bored and I got up to make myself some breakfast. Not being an expert on the mechanics of the kitchen it took me half an hour to figure out how to turn the electric hob on! Ridiculous as it sounds. Course this was never my territory. 40 odd years of living with Sue and suddenly Im having to learn all the intricacies of living on your own. I had mastered how to turn the washing machine and dishwasher on thanks to some coaching from Sue in her latter days. Shameful really. As regarding ironing I didn’t have a clue, I was taking baskets of clothes up to my daughter Carly in Widnes for her to iron. I mentioned this when skyping her brother Gareth in Stockholm. “Ironing? That’s a woman’s department.” He scolded me; “that’s embarrassing dad! What a chauvinistic attitude!” Gareth is a modern day liberal thinking dad but I have to confess, he did make me think. Anyway, back to my breakfast. A boiled egg had been placed in a very large saucepan, that’s all there was in the cupboard, half an hour later I was still waiting for the thing to boil! And there wasn't any eggcups either! Not a great start to the day you could say.

I had booked the Blue Lagoon trip, the bus was leaving the station at 11am and it was freezing out there. The country was living up to its name, Iceland!

The Lagoon was in the middle of nowhere, looked more like the moon than ever. The weather was miserable, cold and drizzling. I was wondering what I was doing here feeling dejected, when suddenly I got my first glimpse of the steaming blue water. Now that did look inviting. Before going for a dip I discovered there were a few rituals to adhere to. Queueing up for a dressing gown took me by surprise. Onward to the changing rooms, all very clean and white. A series of communal rooms with coat hangers, lockers, showers, reminded me of schooldays and school changing rooms. First of all you have a shower before going into the lagoon. Swimming gear and dressing gown on, towel in hand I made my way outside. It was still drizzling. Dipping my toe into the blue water my reservations soon disappeared and I joined the throng of fellow worshippers in the pool. It was like a bath! Absolutely wonderful, the scent of sulphur adding to the experience. There was even a bar in the pool where you could have a pint. I wasn’t sure how you would pay for it or where you put your money but either way I didn’t have any on me. Some did though, amazing. The Lagoon was huge, I walked around, up to my waist, immersed myself to my neck in this amazing blue water, didn’t want to get out. It was just like having an hour soaking in a bath at home, and similarly after a while you start going all crinkly and reluctantly have to get out. I asked a couple to take some photos of me first, my iPad was on the side, and I went back for another shower and to get changed, Completely refreshed. Lovely! 

Back at the apartment I had the egg that I had boiled in the morning, put it in a sandwich. It was early evening, the wind was howling outside, it was still raining but I couldn't just stay in, I wanted to venture out and discover what the nightlife was like in Reykjavik. I didn’t go far, it was bitter. Opposite the street where my ‘hotel’ was, a crowd had gathered around a store window. All wrapped up in winter gear they seemed oblivious to the conditions and were transfixed with a singer/guitarist entertaining the milling crowd from the warmth inside the shop. Sat on a chair he looked like a bluesman as he strummed away and sang. He was really good. Made me wonder though, don't they have any music venues in Reykjavik? Still, it was different. I headed into the town centre, had a couple of pints, some more fish and chips and called it a day. 

The following night, weather permitting, I was booked in for the Northern Lights adventure.

I awoke next morning feeling knackered. Thanks to a combination of the howling wind rattling the window all night and a disco bar round the corner blaring out crap music to all hours! Sounded as if the place was mobbed with all the noise emanating from the place and drunken revellers hanging around the streets. Maybe this is why the hotel was cheap I mused!

With the limited time I had most of the morning was spent, once the gloom had lifted, of walking around taking photographs. Wrapped up to keep the chill at bay I took in the harbour area and walked along the front. There’s nothing much to see in Reykjavik apart from whaling boats but I suppose its not exactly the Med. You’re not going to see sun seekers or bikini clad ladies roaming around  in these temperatures. Instead what you have is a nation of bearded people, battling against the cold. That includes the women! Joking there obviously!

Some nice scenes to snap though, murals and trawlers, statues of a kind. Good way to pass the time while waiting to find out if the trip to see the Northern Lights was going to be confirmed. I called in at the ticket office in the bus station twice before they gave the go-ahead. It was leaving at 5.30pm which gave me time to get something to eat and freshen up.

There was about sixteen of us on the bus which left on time prompt. I sat at the front, the odd one out amongst the couples. A guide sat alongside the driver. I felt quite excited. After all the Northern Lights is a phenomenon rarely seen and by not many people either. 

We had been going for about thirty minutes when the driver pulled over to a spot which was obviously a sightseeing vantage point. Everyone alighted and gazed into the night sky, looking in vain for a hint of bright coloured lights. 

The driver did say sometimes you could see them from here, but not always. ‘We will carry on’ he informed us. Well thank you I thought, thats what I paid good money for!

We stopped a couple of more times, way out in the wilderness. Everyone got off each time, and stood, staring with crooked necks into the sky. The driver and guide were clearly getting as frustrated as the rest of us. Doing their best to assure us there was a good chance we would catch the lights he repeated ‘we will carry on’. Reassuring, yeah..

Time was getting on, we drove for miles, and miles. Didn’t see anyone or any place of habitation, this was getting boring. As if to placate everyone the bus driver announced he was going to make a detour to show us another Icelandic phenomenon, a geyser. He was doing his best to salvage something out of the trip. Murmurings resounded around the bus, I stared out of the window. 

We pulled up and the guide warned us not to get too near the geyser because the water ‘is boiling hot and could explode anytime’. Well that made it a little more interesting. Into the black of the night we traipsed across the barren land, the geyser was shining lightly as if to beckon the spectators forth. To say it was underwhelming would be an understatement. Steam rose from the stream meandering from the geyser, there wasn’t much else to see apart from that. The driver and guide were almost urging the geyser to spout, or the blessed Northern Lights to make an appearance. I reckoned everyone was thinking it was all a waste of time and money!

Where’s the geyser?

Back on the bus, the driver announced we would, yes, ‘carry on’. I couldn’t have been the only one bored off his tits by this time, I would have welcomed it if he had told us ‘we’re heading back, there’s no point carrying on’. But he didn’t. Maybe he had some sort of schedule or timetable and didn’t want to get back to base too early. Who knows? Might have docked him his pay. Nothing much you can do but sit patiently and believe that eventually we would achieve our goal. We stopped again, same old story. Bloody neck was a stiff as a board by now. On we went, and all of a sudden, there it was. No, not the Lights, but an oasis in the distance, a cafe, similar to a Little Chef. It was deserted. We had a half hour break, a cup of coffee and a sandwich and I guessed that with it getting quite late, we would indeed, give up the ghost and go home. How wrong can you be?

Fuck me, the driver was determined and onwards we went. Miles and miles. I began to think that at this rate we would end up in Greenland or somewhere. Course I do know there’s an expanse of sea between the two countries but you get my drift.

At long last the driver and his guide admitted defeat. Everyone had cricked necks gaping into the sky, enthusiasm long since gone. Half of them were falling asleep only to be disturbed for yet another pit-stop on the return journey. ‘Give up for Chrissakes’ i said to myself. Turned out we had travelled a 100 miles, a 200 mile round trip. Bored shitless, hungry, thirsty. An absolute and complete waste of time! Ok you are warned beforehand that it’s not guaranteed you will see the lights but all the same. Getting back to Reykjavik, to make matters worse, the driver dropped everyone off at their respective hotels and you’ve guessed it, I was the last one! It was 1.30am!

I retired to my hotel to be greeted by another belly-aching wall of sound coming from the damn disco outside my window. Just what I needed. I buried my head in the pillow and did manage to drift off to sleep. Exhausted, aching from head to toe! 

The third and final day of my vacation was spent wandering around trying to catch up with a few sights I had so far missed. A church towering over the city from the edge of town. The National Football Stadium and to cap things off a visit to the famous Penis Museum!

I walked along the seafront first, until I was nearly blown off my feet. It was like battling against a hurricane, and so cold. I did manage to get some photos looking out across the bay and also the football stadium. Pity it was locked up though, sometimes there is an entrance somewhere you can sneak in for a peep. Obviously not today though. There were no vehicles parked  outside, no sign of life at all. Perhaps it was too cold even for the hardened Icelanders to play football in November. 

Back in town I searched out the Penis Museum, asking a couple of guys if they knew where it was and receiving some funny looks! I told them I wasn't a weirdo but this museum with a display of knobs pricked the curiosity if you excuse the pun! They laughed, admitted that they too had been there.

A seedy looking old gentleman took the money, £6 for the privilege, somehow that seemed appropriate, not the £6, the seedy looking bloke.

Inside were glass cabinets, photographs, examples, donations! Full of pricks! Everything from a mouse to a bloody elephant! As well as a display of human meat. There was something strange though, no veg! What did they do with the nuts? 

There’s only so long you can look and study these type of artefacts and twenty minutes was long enough. For those interested. The elephant knob was the largest on show. Proudly hung in the centre of the wall. 

Weirdest exhibition I’ve ever seen, I have to say.

It was back home next day, back home to a slightly better temperature and another twist in the tail.

Departing Birmingham Airport Car Park, I placed my pre-paid ticket into the machine, only for it to be rejected. An alarm went off in my head, my fears confirmed when a message came up on the machine. I owed them £500!! What! Panic set in!

I pressed the button. A voice on the other end explained I was in debt. I explained I had pre-paid and was then informed me I had parked up in the wrong car park. I was told to back up from the exit and go into a blue office on the right to sort things out. I was raging, admitted I had made a balls up but to charge me £500?! “It’s £100 a day in this car park sir” the guy behind the desk said. To be fair he did phone his superior and had a conversation about the mistake I had made etc. Eventually he gave me the ‘good news’. “My boss has agreed to waiver the full payment due in this car park and to only charge me £129”. 

Well my instinct told me; ‘I suppose its better than 500 bloody quid!’ The end of a very odd adventure!

Getting the blues in Chicago

                                                                              Chicago

                                    Monday 18th June 2018

The Raffaello was well situated, just a couple of blocks from Lake Michigan and well placed to explore the city’s delights. By the time I was settled in, it was 8pm and I strolled down the avenue to get a feel of the area and find somewhere to eat. A bar about half a mile away looked comfortable and aching for a drink I entered, sat on a stool at the bar, ordered a beer and a Fajita Mexican meal which went down a treat. A chat with the barman enlightened me on the blues clubs also, which was one of the main reasons I wanted to come to Chicago.

Nice way to end the day, but not before I took the elevator in the hotel up to the rooftop ‘speakeasy style’ Drumbar, 17 storeys up. I found it busy with background music and a phalanx of guests providing a relaxed and very cool backdrop. 

The Drumbar pamphlet described; 

View from the rooftop

‘The moody yet energetic bar boasts an intimate indoor lounge area and a beautiful outdoor terrace with views of Lake Michigan and the Hancock building. Drumbar’s spirits menu is comprised of an unparalleled selection of earnestly sought after whiskeys, scotches, bourbons and cognacs. Many of these are limited released, one-of-a-kind, highly allocated products meant to offer some of the world’s most unique spirits to guests. Drumbar also has a unique partnership with The Scotch Malt Whiskey Society, an organisation that selects and bottles single-cask scotches from distilleries all over Scotland.’

All of which would have impressed my friends back home.. but I settled for a couple of bottles of cold beer. And called it a night.

                            Tuesday 19th June

Chicago is famous for many things but none more so I guess than the blues clubs, and its gangsters, including the infamous Al Capone. We all grew up watching the great Hollywood gangster movies depicting the 1920s and 30s prohibition era starring James Cagney, Edmond O’Brien, the Dead End Kids, ‘Top of the world Ma!’ and all that. One of my favourite movies was the 1967 ‘St. Valentine’s Day Massacre’ starring Jason Robards. The story of Capone’s henchmen gunning down members of Bugsy Moran’s rival gang in a garage situated at 2122 N. Clark St. in the Lincoln Park area.

Bristling with excitement I bought a ticket for one of the ‘gangster’ tours and joined a gang of around a dozen others on the so-called ‘Black Bus’. Good way to see the city apart from anything else I figured, but it was the mobster sites I was interested in. 

Turned out to be, I have to say, slightly disappointing.

The tour guide, a student looking type at the front of the bus, was very informative and amusing but after around 20 minutes it all just sounded like waffle to me. As if he was trying to think of something else to say. First stop on the tour was the Biograph Theatre in North Lincoln Avenue where in 1934 another famous gangster, John Dillinger, was gunned down by the police. Now to most film goers, Dillinger is decidedly second division compared to Capone, probably because there’s not as many films made about him! Dillinger was in fact an interesting character who achieved legendary status ‘of near Robin Hood proportions’, student informed us. America like their ‘gangs’. Think of the Barrow Gang of Bonnie and Clyde fame that rampaged through the States around the same time as Capone was flogging his liquor in Chicago. The Jesse James Gang were another bunch of reprobates who robbed trains in the Wild West days. John’s ‘Dillinger Gang” hit the road in 1933 and robbed dozens of banks AND embarrassingly, four police stations, Talk about extracting the urine. During his career John escaped from jail twice and embraced the notoriety with the media building him up as a ‘right character’ with a ‘colourful personality’, ‘full of bravado’. J.Edgar Hoover, Director of the F.B.I. thought otherwise however and decided he was a pain in the ass and set out to get him. 

Dillinger managed to escape from four states with the police hot on his tail for almost a year. Returning to Chicago in July 1934 he found refuge in a brothel owned by a Romanian prostitute, Ana Cumpănaș. Suspicions aroused, if nothing else was, Ana informed the police and federal agents of his whereabouts. It was on July 22 the police surrounded the Biograph Theatre where John was enjoying an afternoon out with his girlfriend Polly, eating popcorn and watching Clark Gable in ‘Manhattan Meldrama’, a gangster film, naturally. Ana had also tagged along, inviting herself without any thoughts of being a gooseberry by the sounds of it. Exiting the theatre, John, Polly and Ana were confronted by the ‘Feds’ led by Melvin Purvis and Samuel Cowley. John drew his gun and made a run for it, but was shot in an alley adjacent to the Biograph.

And here we were, in this very same alley, listening to this tale of Dillinger’s demise and trying to imagine the scene that occurred here some 70 odd years ago. Fascinating really. Made Capone sound boring!

Well that was interesting but I really did want to find out more about the St Valentine’s Day Massacre which occurred in 1929 and on we continued. Student gave us some info on Al Capone’s exploits, how he virtually ran the whole of Chicago in the 20s and 30s, the speakeasies, the liquor rackets, the lawyers - and his battles with Bugsy’s mobsters, the whole chabang. What he didn’t do, or he didn’t know much about, was the St Valentine’s Day Massacre. Sure, we went down Clark Street where the garage was situated, where Bugsy’s boys met their fate, but we drove right past it! Student obviously thought it wasn’t worth stopping for and Ok, a lot has changed in the intervening 80 years, the garage is long gone, but the wall where Bugsy’s men were lined up and machine gunned was still there. Truth be told, the wall was set back from the street, and nobody would know or be any wiser of its significance other than gangster fans and maybe if a dozen or so people had stepped off a bus in the middle of the afternoon to stare at a brick wall, it might have looked odd. Student wasn’t too impressed that’s for sure, and probably bored, but surely he could have stopped the bus for us all to have a look at it, take a picture, even if it did look innocuous and had been re-painted a million times! I did think though that showing friends back home a picture of a wall wouldn’t have been that impressive. Could be any wall I could hear them say… but not as famous as this one!

Anyway, we moved on, driving around a few streets which I could have sworn we had driven down three times already and eventually we stopped opposite a store where another battle had ensued, ‘you can still see the bullet holes’ Student informed us. We took a look, sure enough, they were there, we stared at them for a minute and then jumped back on the bus to finish the tour off with a visit to a bar where the walls were adorned with framed copies of the front pages of 1930s Chicago Tribune news reports on the gangsters. 

I don’t think I was the only one who felt a little underwhelmed, but there you are.

Looking for something more exciting I set off to find the House of Blues Club. A venue of particular personal interest in that my son Gareth had played there with his band Raging Speedhorn just a few years before. Impressive it was too. A large quite imposing building with a couple of floors, plenty of bars, a souvenir shop. It reminded me of the Bailey’s Night Clubs we had in the U.K. back in the 1970s. A fellow called Mike Wheeler on acoustic guitar was entertaining the crowd before he was followed by The Windy City Rebels. A great name, and a great band. After buying a couple of tee shirts from the souvenir shop I settled down for some beers, and a meal, hamburger and fries, which was crap! Didn’t really surprise me. Ive never been that impressed generally with American cuisine. But never mind, the music and beer was good. Most enjoyable way to spend an evening. I was already looking forward to the next day, excited about visiting the famous Chess Studios. 

The Windy City Rebels

                                    Wednesday June 20th

Waking up on my penultimate day of this trip / tour around New York, Detroit and Chicago I lay thinking about the highlights and sights I’d encountered so far. I’d had an agenda of sorts, to visit as many of the music establishments/venues I could as well as the obvious points of interest like Central Park, Times Square, Greenwich Village etc. 

Being a blues fan since the days of the ‘British Blues Boom’ of the mid 60s and the earlier British R & B scene of the Stones, Kinks, Animals, Downliners Sect,  a visit to the Chess Studios in Chicago had always been high on my list. I knew it lay on South Michigan Avenue, number 2120 to be exact. I remembered that from way back when I bought the Stones ‘Five By Five’ EP, which included an instrumental track titled with the address of the studio. Not that I realised it at the time. 

Getting around these cities is fairly straightforward when you get the hang of it. All grids and blocks. Michigan Avenue was running parallel to the street where my Raffaello Hotel was situated and I assumed by that, that finding the Chess Studio would be a piece of cake. 

Rambling along to view the shops, restaurants and bars with one eye on the clock, I decided it was time to get the metro to the Chess studio, which was about five miles away. This was an unexpected delight. The ‘metro’, referred to as the ‘L’ line, is an overhead transport system. The ‘L’ is short for elevated’. The ironwork constructions are exactly like you see in the old gangster movies of Chicago. Gives you a feel and great sense of history. 

Nearest station to the studio was Cermak-McCormick Place, opened just a couple of years earlier in 2015. Walking distance from there was about ten minutes. As the studio didn’t open until 12 noon, I roamed the surrounding area, the back streets where you always find items of interest. And I came across a graffiti daubed row of industrial units under the iron works of the ‘L’. Not the usual scribbled and indecipherable mess you normally see, the graffiti was decorative, artful and two coaches parked outside were equally impressive. Think of the days of Sgt Pepper and John Lennon’s psychedelic Rolls Royce and you get the idea. 

                                                

Standing patiently outside Chess for the door to open I was joined by another chap, a bespectacled intelligent looking guy with a camera slung over his shoulder and a notebook in hand. We acknowledged each other and then the receptionist, a black lady called Mel invited us in.

A brief history of the building and a parting of a dollar or two, Mel proved to be charming and enthusiastic as she took us on our tour. First off she asked us to introduce ourselves. ‘Clive” I said, “from England’. The other guy introduced himself as “Chris Reynolds, journalist for the L.A.Times”. What! Made me feel a dullard! I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told us he was a Vietnam vet! He looked the part.

Mel had an MP3 player and as we made our way around she played snippets of great blues records that were recorded here in this very studio whilst interjecting stories about Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Willie Dixon and other great blues artists. ‘Johnny B.Goode’ came blasting out, “recorded in this very room” Mel informed us. Then 'At Last’ by Etta James, Bo Diddley’s ‘Down Home Special’. I felt as if I’d been transported to heaven, I really felt quite emotional. Mel told us about when the Rolling Stones recorded at Chess in 1964 as ‘It’s All Over Now’, one of my all time favourites came out of the speakers. And it sounded fantastic! What an experience. I’ve been to Stax and Sun in Memphis, Hitsville in Detroit, Capitol in L.A. For me, Chess was topping the lot. I was in dreamland visualising Charlie set up behind his drums in the corner, Bill, Keith and Brian Jones perched on stools with their guitars, Mick Jagger behind the mic. Spine tingling. 

Mel showing us around.

Before leaving I bought a couple of CDs and managed to have a chat and swap emails with Chris Reynolds. Told him about my involvement with world famous session drummer Clem Cattini’s up-coming biography. Disappointingly he hadn’t heard of him. Typical of American insularity I supposed, not many this side of the pond had heard of Clem’s contemporaries in the pre Beatles British era, hit makers like Johnny Kidd, Billy Fury, Cliff Richard, The Tornados… But Chris Reynolds had by the time I was finished! 

The rest of the day was spent down by the river and Pier Park. Described:

'The epitome of fun. It’s where you'll find the amazing Centennial Wheel, the Pepsi Wave Swinger, a 1920's inspired musical carousel, and other nostalgic fairground rides. The Centennial Wheel soars to near 200 feet, with year round climate controlled gondolas for the most spectacular Ferris Wheel ride ever. It's an iconic part of the Chicago skyline and treasured piece of Chicago history, harkening to the City's 1893 World's Fair. You can even book a VIP Centennial Wheel experience in a glass bottomed plush seated gondola.'

Indeed. Wonderful. If you like fairgrounds. 

Next morning I was picked up by Uber for my lift to O’Hare Airport and my return to Britain. As it normally does, it felt as if I’d been away for weeks. Like to think I’ll return to these places sometime…who knows.