I was too late for them all. RL Burnside, Junior Kimbrough and Howlin’ Wolf were all dead. The club where Burnside used to play was burnt down. All I could do was some Blues archeology.

At least they had recognised the importance of one of their great alumni. There was a statue and museum to the great Howlin’ Wolf.

West Point was a typical Southern town

The plaque to Chester Burnett’s wife.

The statue to Howlin’ Wolf

The Howlin’ Wolf Museum. It was shut.

I bought a pile of Blues CDs at a shop along the road.

Murals on the wall showing scenes of yesteryear.

Howlin’ Wolf peering across the street at us.  

If only I’d been here twenty years before or fifty years before. I could smell blues in the air. But I couldn’t see or hear it.