O Brothers, Where Art Thou?

Walking down a dirt road, kicking rocks, its hot. So hot that its hazy, 100 degrees hot. The heat rising from the blacktop, the shoulder dust blowing whenever the wind picks up. Where am  I going? The question is where have I been? I’m at the city limits of Muscle Shoals, Alabama.

I want to play my guitar. I’m good, I think? The tent i brought with me i picked up at a local army depot, said it was leftover from the forgotten war. I was too young to join. The building isn’t what i expected it to be. I’ve heard stories of this place, i just assumed it was bigger. They say Florence,AL is the birthplace of the blues. I’ve been known for strumming together a few good licks.

The town is kind of a run down little thing. I seen a hotel but i think I’m going to sleep outside under the stars. I don’t want to miss who’s coming and going. The people in the bible belt don’t take kindly to me though.Hippie was the nicest thing I’ve been called since hanging outside this studio.Hall has told me to leave a few times. I keep hearing music playing inside. This guitar needs new strings, I’ve been playing constantly for the entire week I’ve been here. Pickett has offered me strings, i couldn’t just take them. Instead we bartered a bit. I told him i would teach him “Hey Jude.” I didn’t see it as a fair trade, but he seemed kin on the idea.

August 21 1968: Duane Allman Read more »