Fugue State: The City Where Medgar Evers Died

I only know Jackson from the two hours I spent awake there. I arrived at night and shot through the specter of downtown. It was boarded up, looked like another place in the area hit by a storm and never recovered. On the phone, my mother explains that the storm was the 1960s.

Looking for dinner and a bed, weary from seven hours of road, I followed the signs for downtown and the capital, find little. There are blocks of devolving buildings in a latticework of new ones. A sign denotes Jackson's nickname: Crossroads of the South. The area gets worse. I become less confident that I can turn in a right direction. I circle around, seeing few cars on the road or parked on the streets. I go back towards the highway.

Right before the entrance to I-20, I see a small row of life on Commerce Street. I pull in, put on a better shirt in the parking lot. I walk into a restaurant/bar/brewery/shrine to Elvis built out of a renovated railroad station from the 1920s.

I sit at the bar, have a pecan beer. I am offered a list of deep fried items by the bartender: pickles, mushrooms, stuffed jalapenos, catfish nuggets. I ask what's special. Red beans and rice. Get some peppers or onions in it, brings out the andouille. I sit with my pecan beer until the food comes. A doctor at the bar eyes my steaming dinner and makes small talk about the dish and about the upcoming Jubilee! JAM (Jackson's music festival) and about the year's headliner Joan Jett (best known for the storm that was the 1980s).

After fifteen minutes, the doctor leaves the bar to start the second set as a drummer in a band. I forget the name. They perform on the other side of a partition that separates bar from dining hall. The patrons look all the same on either side. The red beans and rice come with French bread, a pail of hot sauces. It's worth the fuss. I've ordered the half order and I'm full after half of that.

The food and the music have begun to put me to sleep. Live karaoke sounds from a back patio. I move in, watch groups of strangers hack away at songs. Journey, Black Crowes, Garth Brooks. The crowd is good spirited, hoots politely. The emcee and I talk about his DJ equipment. Instead of a karaoke machine, MC Luke runs his entire operation off of his computer (apple). He is not exactly tall, not exactly portly, but close to each. He is also serious about karaoke.

It's easy to imagine MC Luke trying his stature of purveyor of wordless music as a means to get him and others laid. It's also easy to admire this. Before he goes up to perform, he surprises me by producing a spray bottle which he uses like binaca. It's vocal spray. You'll get higher and louder with this.

While he perilously performs Whitesnake's seminal track, various people in the bar engage me. I have trouble deciding if they are naturally friendly or believe I work with MC Luke. I figure it's probably both. MC Luke finishes to great applause, walks back to his station in a triumphant gait. He hands me the magical bottle of throat spray.

If you sing tonight, use this.