Naked Neon

Studios, halls, and artefacts paint pictures,
and naked neon fingers point to the vitality
of those waiting to be discovered or uncovered.
Cool country slogan bars, bustling off-street clubs
and late-night lock-ins invite us to play our part,
to immerse in emotive songs and stagecraft.

Guitars and figurines call out the years,
driving the commotion and direction of motion,
with layer-on-layer, guitars, stage clothes, cars, rings,
scribbled notes and clever quotes from famous songs.
Stand in the RCA studio B's sweet spot and wonder,
here the music city played hymns of thunder.

Reaching out and touching down as a cloak draped
across Broadway, a backbeat to the Nashville sound.
Sidewalks signposted by neon crochets and quavers,
bands in every bar and a bar after every shop,
and shops of bespoke boots of pungent leather.
Hats with attitude, and clothes detailed in silk.

People break from the pulsing boardwalk multitude
to join the driving frisson of barroom energy.
Here upbeat bar staff grab open mike moments,
honing their craft, and to catch the discerning eye;
strands of music entwine kissing country, pop,
sophisticated vocals, laced with seductive rock.

People break from the pulsing boardwalk multitude
to join the driving frisson of barroom energy.
Here upbeat bar staff grab open mike moments,
honing their craft, and to catch the discerning eye;
strands of music entwine kissing country, pop,
sophisticated vocals, laced with seductive rock.

Freight rattling repeat on the railroad crossing,
we see tram tracks run out into the distance.
Laid out before us downtown Memphis, Beale Street.
Flat roofed buildings follow a gentle downward slope,
with bars, burger joints, and a riot of neon
applied like a coloured music-mix-mascara.

From the Flying Fish, B.B Kings Blues Club, Rum Boogie,
to Tater Reds and Love Peace and Chicken Grease.
Lansky's fabled clothier to the king, sells the shirt
and the shoes you the have-to-have. Checked, red crepe,
paisley inlaid with gold, black and white brogues,
and a sequinned dinner jacket shouts wear me.

Bars open to the street with rippling banners,
and brass chain chandeliers sway in the stiff breeze.
Fearful for lost tips waitresses look for punters.
Migrate between Memphis Music, Lucky Mojos,
Miss Polly's Soul City and Kings Palace Cafe,
restaurant Pig, proclaims pork with attitude.

At Arcade Diner with its blue recessed ceiling,
eating, staring, looking for shadows of Elvis.
The tired street, with faded fabrication shops
rising to the cutaway guitar of Sun Studios
proclaimed rock 'n' roll's crucible of creativity,
a onetime teen temple of energy and angst.

We pass Lorraine, still wearing that pastel green,
whispering the Dream to those who care to listen.
The Mississippi Moon falls across Memphis,
a stillness running across town from A Schwab
with its single shoe, to the Gibson Showcase.
A rainstorm runs the streets, chasing dirt in the gutters.

There is not the station we expect, a cabin
at the top of a stark platform. People trickle in.
The only train south at four in the morning punches
out of the fierce dark to spotlight our isolation.
We climb the steep steps to deep seats, leaving silently;
heads loll in the greys, blues and yellows of night.

Timeless, Steamboat Natchez fights its way up
the Mississippi, wickedly wide and deep,
a force of flat rippling malevolent mirk.
Forward of the square box bridge the gentle curve
of decks trace white railings, a parade of flags.
Smoke blows against the direction of travel.

As the Natchez pulls against the river churn
stories gurgle across the broad heaving expanse.
Haunting horn carries across the ethereal quiet,
as the silver train crosses the bayou's sodden scrub,
to the frenetic French Quarter, where balcony lights
illuminate the vitality of Bourbon Street.

In a back street, beaded bones salute Christ's
spectral shadow, arms reaching up the whitewashed
church wall, to fall on shops of exotic skins and lace.
Signalled by jubilant trombones and trumpets,
a bride summons up the second line. Musicians
slip into Antoine's for rum punch cocktails.

On the side streets, made for art and the artists
with facades and flares of intricate iron.
Mardi Gras beads hang from street signs and aged oaks,
and the pressing crush navigate neon lit bars
each promoting cocktails and bespoke potent potions,
all converging to offer the same oblivion.