952 to 1362 miles

Bainbridge, Georgia, 20 miles from the Alabama border, will soon be a town full of migrant Haitian farm hands. It is a strange little place where the poverty is so evident that people tell you “the cheapest way” when you ask for directions.
We stop the car at a run down repair shop where two 80 year old brothers sit staring with little enthusiasm at the road they have been witness to their entire lives. One looks as though he has only ever washed the crown of his head, which sits like a vivid white mountain top above a swarthy leather complexion. The others wiry frame culminates in a greasy pair of glasses with lenses a good half inch thick and held together with tape. Both are stone deaf and shout directions at me through sun dried, empty mouths. A storm is picking up overhead and midday becomes dusk in the blinking of an eye as dried leaves and debris begin circling around us. Feeling I am experiencing the eye of the storm being formed by these wizened wizards I turn to leave only to be confronted by a 6 foot 7, 400lb black man in overalls, seemingly dropped silently by the storm, who is bouncing a truck tire as if it were a basketball and laughing with a voice that is so deep its almost not there.

"For concerts Mrs Jackson may be contacted by
calling: (301) 752-5346"

Just north of Bainbridge is the birthplace of Katie Jackson whose divine “Didn’t It Rain” we find in a thrift store that also houses the local Grey Hound bus stop, with people waiting sat on sofas for sale. It is Katie’s voice that guides us securely through the storm and into Alabama, the only state on our journey named after a famous rock band.
In Andalusia we stay at a motel whose previous guests have included 1995’s Miss America and the inventor of a very famous catch phrase. We have BBQ for dinner and breakfast and find some amazing records at a Christian thrift store. Paying 50 cents a record at the counter the man behind us notices the three Mahavishnu John McLaughlin albums we have found and smiles. He knows now that somewhere out there in his town is another kindred spirit that he can find amongst all the good old boys and indulge in beautiful, sensitive music.
A thrift store whose owner has framed photos of herself and The Drifters in hotel lobbies on the walls reveals a group of wonderful 45RMP singles. All are from the duke box of a local bar as they have no covers and are as scratched as Sue’s mosquito riddled legs.





Latimore’s “Red Neck in a Soul Band” is a gift from the hidden treasure Gods. The smooth voice of this unknown crooner lifts us as a road across Alabama guides us through forests growing out of houses, entire towns waiting for nature to suffocate them fully. Kudzu, an imported vine that grows a foot a day, is submerging the land like a beautiful verdant veil. Entire valleys of trees lie under a sheet of this vine and appear like huge creatures frozen in agony. The smallest road into the deepest part of Alabama’s countryside starts turning into a pot holed track and the states red red soil begins taking over the road. Tiny wooden houses forgotten by progress hide under huge oaks with a few hot beasts shading in nativity. Women sit at the side of the road with a few belongings at their feet for sale.
The storm has thrown us backwards in time. The nature, the houses and people of Alabama are simple, beautiful props and players in the painfully slow tragedy of poverty. The road, held together by different shades of concrete like a patchwork quilt deteriorates further as we enter Mississippi.