The fog hung low on the delta in the stifling hot summer night as a young man lagged down a desolate, dusty road just out side the town of Clarksdale Mississippi. In one hand he clasped an old guitar, in the other a weathered brown suitcase. As the witching hour descended, the man came to a crossroads. Weary from his journey the man sat for a while at the dark fork in the road and consumed himself with whiskey and the only tune he knew. As he strummed his guitar a shadowy figure emerged from the haze.