There’s a saying about Memphis transplants: You know you’re a Memphian when you’ll defend the city to others. It’s a particular sort of barometer. I expect it won’t make sense to everyone. To live in Memphis is to experience the condescension of anyone who doesn’t live here. Every now and then they express pity, maybe even empathy, but usually, it just boils down to condescension.
This city has problems the way a certain reflecting pool has algae. Race relations carry a tension that could warp a guitar neck. Even after the arrival of an outside policing force, this place can be lawless like I’ve seen nowhere else in the U.S. There are areas of the city that my friends simply don’t visit at night, and some they don’t visit at all.
And yet.
Memphis has always had a thriving music and art scene. More great music has come out of Memphis than most people know. Sure, there’s the blues. There’s also Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis and the rest of Sun Records. But there’s also Isaac Hayes, Stax, and that Memfied version of soul. In the late 1980s, Memphis produced several notable heavy metal bands, but the moment they were signed, they left town and utterly disavowed this city (among them, Drivin’ and Cryin’ and Tora Tora). There was also the early grunge band, Neighborhood Texture Jam.
The city has produced some terrific writers, including the consummate documenter of Southern gentility, Peter Taylor. John Grisham set some of his best-known novels here. And one of the best-respected Civil War historians, Shelby Foote, lived in Midtown, in a house I passed on the very ride depicted in this post.
Which brings me to these photos. Memphis has murals like few cities I know. Just once, before I go, I’d like to do a ride where I pass as many murals as possible. It could easily stretch out like the quick Saturday morning jaunt that turns into a metric century. The murals are beautiful as often as they are curious or beguiling. And they stand, message-laden, for all who pass.
I left Memphis more than 30 years ago, but if this isn’t proof that I’m still a Memphian, let me tell you about our BBQ. Yes, BBQ, not barbecue—that’s a thing in your back yard. Trust me, I know. I’m from Memphis.
