Son Thomas used to say to me "the blues ain't nothin' but a good man feelin' bad". Four hours in the saddle through the spine of the Mississippi Delta certainly will make a part of you feel bad... and sore. We rolled into the gravel lot outside of Red's, pushed open the wooden door and stepped back in time. This may well be the last of the Delta blues juke joints. There were no more than 10 people in the place, I’m not sure it could hold many more than that. When the slide met the strings, the guitar growled like a demon rising from the cotton fields outside. This was the reason electricity had come to the Delta. His voice began a call and response with the guitar that echoed the field chants of those days long ago. Ground zero, where it all began. The Mississippi Delta, mother church of all that followed. Jazz, rock and roll... everything. After a few cold ones to wash the heat and dust of the day away, we slipped back out into the Delta darkness trading Howling Wolf for a cicada symphony. More miles left to go searching for the ghost of Robert Johnson and looking to make a deal at the crossroads.