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Excerpt from Little Freddie Feeding His Soul My soul don't like hymns, though. It likes buckwheat cakes, and candy, and such things, insisted Freddie. But they.
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His story goes on for a while, with more defiance from the son and escalating threats from the father until the boy finally relents in the name of saving his own behind. That dog-gone bad-chicken song. King lets out a series of galline squawks, louder than it seems like his small body can produce, but indeed emanating from his throat.

His band amps up. Buckle-kneed Bobby cradles his harmonica with both skinny arms; bass player Skeets stands stiff-backed and serious; Wacko Wade holds down the percussion. It reeks of damp cotton and feels so emotionally charged that the frequency of light seems to change when he picks up his guitar; the air turns grimy and explosive all at once. Rhythmic structures break down: A bar phrase in a King song can fill 13 bars today, 11 tomorrow, and change flavor as his mood rises and falls. To watch him — small and deferential, a perfect gentleman — walk onto the stage and make his guitar sneer and growl is to watch a man achieve catharsis in a way that, more than anything, resembles religious ecstasy.


  1. Youth, a Narrative.
  2. Sneaky Rabbit.
  3. A tale of two cities.
  4. Louis Tomlinson's son Freddie turns two years old | HELLO!;

After a lifetime of struggle, he is at the peak of his career; more important, he is at the peak of his contentment. Young women flirt with him; Europeans bring vinyl LPs for him to autograph. Little Freddie King at home, Photo by Julie Dermansky. That King flourishes today is testament to his survival skills. He has weathered an outsized share of poverty, addiction, loss, and danger, several times outrunning death by inches in the trajectory of a bullet or a blade. Crouched on the west side — the white side — of the railroad tracks, Freddie Martin spotted an open boxcar.

Sleep Well, My Darling Freddie

Trains slowed down as they approached McComb from the north, so he was able to grab onto a ladder and hoist himself up. Finding a large piece of cardboard, he dragged it into a corner, and covered himself, lying as still as possible. At a box factory in Magnolia, Mississippi, the train stopped, then crossed the state line into Louisiana.

It stopped a few more times before entering the marshlands that skirt the western edge of Lake Pontchartrain.

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He started preparing for his jump. The Illinois Central had a repair shop there; until the late s, a whistle that was audible throughout town signaled the start and end of shifts. Jobs were unionized, which meant an African-American railroad worker could earn a respectable living compared to his neighbors.

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The two races, however, belonged to separate unions. The general air of grinding poverty was broken by the occasional brick house of somebody who worked for the railroad. With the schools and neighborhoods sharply segregated — not to mention public facilities like movie theaters — much of the interaction between the races took place in the white homes that employed African-American maids, nannies, and yardmen. Black labor was so cheap that even some working-class white families hired women and men from across the tracks.

White children often spent more time with household employees than with their own bridge-playing mothers.

ISBN 13: 9780548490518

But, as children, they learned there were limits to that intimacy, and stories from that era are often tinged with a conflicted bittersweetness. After Sunday lunches, when someone in the family would drive Anderson home to Burglundtown, she always sat in the back seat. Beyond the domestic sphere, the institutions of segregation were crushingly effective.

When Nathaniel Lewis, a black veteran and train porter from McComb, tried to register to vote in , he correctly answered all the questions that the county circuit clerk asked him about how government works. The clerk was determined to keep Lewis from registering, though, so he then asked the porter to describe the Democratic ballot, which Lewis had not seen. Aside from the fact that it would be segregated, national civil-rights leaders objected to the location the VA had chosen.

Josie Mae and Jessie James Martin tried to shield their son Freddie and his five sisters from the political and economic deprivation faced by blacks in McComb. Keeping mostly to themselves, they taught their children to walk away from trouble. Occasionally Josie Mae would recount her experiences with racism, but more often she encouraged her children to follow her lead and take refuge in their faith. The family attended a Baptist church in nearby Summit, sometimes every day during revival weeks. Theirs was a spirit-filled Christianity, complete with shouts and visions.

She wondered aloud how she could make her mother see the choir, too. King plays a gospel tune. The real gift for seeing spirits, though, belonged to Freddie. Along the country road he saw a bleach-white tomato worm, which he says began charging at him. When he tried to repel the animal with his slingshot, a force knocked the weapon out of his hand. Their father, Jessie James Martin, often woke up at a. Some mornings Doris would rouse herself from bed to join him. After she crawled onto his lap, he would pull out his Bible and turn to the Book of Ecclesiastes.

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As Freddie Martin approached adolescence, race relations in and around McComb showed no signs of improving. Neither official was prosecuted. By then, young Freddie was gone. If there was one consolation for African Americans in McComb, it was the local music scene. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, residents would descend on Summit Street, which paralleled the train tracks the length of Burglundtown. Local musicians would perform on Summit Street, too, including Jessie James Martin, who brought his son along when he played guitar and harmonica.

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Summit Street today. Photo by Barry Yeoman. Without an instrument of his own, Freddie had no way to practice those chords. Yet he was itching to become a musician. A few weeks later, his mother sent him to the grocery store for butter and sugar. He rescued the box, cut a hole in the middle, then pulled a pine board off a picket fence for the neck. He crafted his own frets from haywire, and tuning keys from hickory branches.

All he needed were strings. He had an idea.

When he plucked it, it approximated music rather well. He felt pleased with his ingenuity. He kicked me. I hear bells ringing. Birds squeaking. King was in the fields with his father from a young age. Picking cotton made his fingers bleed; his neck and shoulders ached from spending so many hours bent over.

The boy figured it would weigh even more if he poured his drinking water onto it. His father caught on quickly. You be honest. King knew he was not cut out for farm labor. A school field trip to New Orleans helped him imagine a world of modern conveniences, with easier jobs and everything within walking distance.