Iwas baptized in the wide and mighty River of Blues nearly 50 years ago in the basement of the Congress Hotel on Franklin Street.

It was a cold night in February 1978. There, in a dank side room of the Marble Bar, I interviewed Muddy Waters during his late career resurgence engineered by Johnny Winter, guitarist and disciple.

My most recent confirmation in the faith—on a peaceful Sunday morning in the midst of what was once “The Cotton Capital of the World”—happened last month in Greenwood, Mississippi. In the tree shaded cemetery of Little Zion Church, something serene rode the wind. It passed over the presumed grave of Robert Johnson and whispered across my shoulders, more lullaby than blues.

Over the last half-centurty I’ve returned many times to the Great Magnolia State to cover the

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