You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
A Memphis blues joint called Rum Boogie Cafe.
It’s a Beale Street musical venue that’s rich in history and dripping with BBQ sauce.
The dive bar is on the corner of Beale and 3rd street, arguably a street more famous than Graceland Herself.
The Rum Boogie Cafe is known for hundreds of guitars hanging from the rafters. The bar is known for tangy pork ribs and that Memphis sound.
As you approach the corner bar, you can hear a deep thump from within. It is smooth like the Mississippi but also thick like a musical heart attack.
On this Thursday night, the house band is on stage, blowing the lid off the place.
The music is like an auditory magnet pulling citizens in.
When you step into the bar, it leaves a lot to the imagination. That’s mostly because it’s so dark, you can’t see anything; at first.
My first observation, the air is thick like stale beer.
It’s like a cave full of neon and cigarette smoke.
The wood floor is tacky, spongy, as if a million beverages have been spilled over a life time of hard living.
If the bar was a dog, it would be a mutt with three legs and no tail.
The decor is so sporadic, it looks like a maffia hit.
One wall is brick. One end has lattice. One side is wood decorated with clutter.
By the restrooms, there’s wrought iron railings.
Over the tables, there are lights suspended by long chords. The inside of each lamp is filled with handwritten messages from a 1000 blues patrons who have sat in this very seat.
The bar is a few feet above the spongy floor.
The house band is belting out a blues tune, playing that song like its burning a hole in their collective bellies.
Close your eyes and this band sounds like blues magic. The sound is thick and tangy like Memphis ribs. The sound has an unmistakable pulse like the mighty Mississippi rythmically churning 2 blocks away.
Open your eyes and looks are deceiving.
The band members look like a car wreck and everyone is out in the middle of the street exchanging insurance.
To the far left is the saxophone player. He is in his 50’s but playing with a passion that inspires from a generation ago. He is a white man, wearing a beret and a scruffy beard. He smokes a pack of cigarettes during the 2 sets I’m watching. How he pushes so much wind through lips inhaling Lucky Strikes is beyond me. He dresses in homeless chic like he buys his clothes at the local soup kitchen. I notice he wears a wedding ring and I imagine he probably has a life outside this swampy blues bar. He is probably a dad and a good husband. But on this night, the musician is a smoking fiend, blowing a saxophone so old, there is no shine on the instrument. I am amazed as I look at his sax. It is lusterless, dull like Donald Sterling’s future with the Clippers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this sax was forged from a civil war cannon ball. The Sax Man doesn’t move much, he doesn’t say anything, but when he blows his horn, the roof rattles, the air blows blue and the crowd gets hot.
To the sax-man’s left is the drummer. He is a wispy black man with glasses. He is unassuming and has practically no expression on stage. His beat is steady, with little fill and not much emotion. Upon closer inspection, his right hand is deformed. He holds a drum stick between his deformed thumb and forefinger. The drum stick dangles from his twisted digits like a compound fracture. The drummer is so lack luster, at one point my friend intimates that he is only in the band because the other members feel sorry for him.
That myth is quickly dispelled during the 2nd set when the other players walk off the stage, leaving the drummer to solo.
It starts awkwardly, it ends wonderfully.
The drummer works the skins banging away powerfully. If you close your eyes it is a perfect precision of soul and R & B. It sounds like a pride of lions running across dry grass. The beat is booming, the percussion electrifying, pushing us forward on our seats.
When you watch him play, you can see the power of this tiny man.
He is pumping the bass pedal like a steam locomotive. His arms are in constant motion, working not only the skins but the sides of the drums, banging on the steel edges. At one point, a bar server comes up on stage with 2 large pots from the kitchen.
The little drummer with glasses and no expression explodes across the metal pots like a hail storm being shot out of a juke box at B.B. Kings.
There is a decorative symbol hanging on the wall behind him. He turns, reaches high, and bangs it furiously.
The crowd cheers.
One by one, the band comes back on stage to finish the song.
The crowd stands and gives the tiny expressionless drummer a standing ovation.
He acknowledge the crowd with a slight sneer and a quick drum roll.
Then there’s the big man, the center piece of the band, James Govan. He is the lead singer of the Boogie Blues Band.
Govan is a large black man with a big belly and a bigger voice.
Govan is one part Luther Vandross, one part Elvis.
Born in McComb, Mississippi, the 65-year-old Beale Street legend has long bowled over audiences with his voice.
Some people question on line “how has he not made it?”
It’s a curious question.
The big man sings blowing a cool breeze from his soul. As he grips the microphone, you can almost see his spirit emerging from a primal place. His voice is a deep baritone, churning with expression, like a musical volcano.
His voice is warm gravel being poured from a syrup truck. His voice is smoky and full of sex appeal. He’s one part blues one part neon filled sex appeal.
He tells us to remember to fill the tip jar in front of the stage.
Next to him is the lead guitarist. He is a white man, unassuming, wearing a dark-colored t-shirt. He is not in shape, he is not good looking, he doesn’t have a good haircut. While his persona is white bread, his fingers are tornadic. I watch as he blisters the frets, working the strings, ripping the chords till the notes scream.
He channels the spirit of Stevie Ray Vaughn as he makes the music submit to his will.
Next to him the organ player. He is a white man with a well manicured beard. He wears a collared shirt and pants that ride up. He has thinning hair and glasses. He looks like a math teacher who hours earlier was teaching the square root of a hypotenuse triangle. He looks like a guy who sells shoes at the mall. But when they play Booker T and the MG’s, he is the maestro. His hands are a combustion engine, his fingers pumping the ivories and giving the song a pulse.
With eyes open, this is a strange motley crew, but close your eyes and this is Memphis. This band is blues. This band is the sweaty south at the edge of the mighty mississippi. This band is perfect for this night.
The bar and the band represent the River City with a vibe that is purely Memphis, distinctly Beale Street.
Life’s Crazy™