Memphis- It's 3 a.m. in what many call the birthplace of rock 'n' roll, and I'm walking out of a former brothel with two women. I just met them inside. Well, met them six hours ago. It's been a long night.

My new pals, from Tampa, Fla., have traveled to this river city to commune with the spirit of Jeff Buckley, an indie-rock icon who drowned in the Mississippi River 10 years ago. The women took a picture of his old shotgun-shack house. In the photo, red eyes glow in a window. It's either Buckley's ghost or a golden retriever; they can't decide.

I've come to Memphis for Elvis Presley and Otis Redding, for whom major anniversaries also are being celebrated. The King died 30 years ago and the town is in full-on hunka-hunka mode. Redding was the heart of Stax Records, the Memphis label that turns 50 this year. Redding died 40 years ago. There's always a major music anniversary here. But 2007 has some doozies.

The women and I have just spent the better part of the night at Earnestine & Hazel's, a brothel-turned-juke joint built in the early 1900s. Some say the bar is haunted by ghosts of bluesmen; they might be right. It is, without a doubt, the perfect place to hold a rock 'n' roll seance.

While we're there, bartender Karen Brownlee dishes about how B.B. King used to hang out upstairs, and just like that, King starts wailing on the bar's jukebox, trusty guitar Lucille cutting through the cigarette smoke. Paranormal investigators visit all the time, says bar owner Russell George. "They're always looking for ghosts," he says, chuckling.

In Earnestine & Hazel's, Memphis makes beautiful, haunted sense.

This is a town where restaurants and bars pride themselves not on their disc jockeys or their stereo systems but on their jukeboxes. Slide a quarter in and press "play" for the past.

Music connects everything here - the food (barbecue, fried catfish, related artery nightmares), the architecture (brick, mortar, cinder block) and the people (cliche in their hospitable charm) - and almost everything is connected to Elvis, Otis and the Delta bluesmen. Memphis is hot, steamy and mosquito-ridden, but it also is soundtracked by greatness.

"We have everybody here," George says. "The Queen of Rock 'n' Roll: Tina Turner. The King of Rock 'n' Roll: Elvis Presley. The King of Soul: Otis Redding. And the Queen of Soul. You know who that is? Aretha Franklin. She's from here, too."

But now George is closing up the bar. Outside, my Tampa pals, Elizabeth Kelly and Meghan Kearney, start walking up historic Main Street, fueled by good stories, strong drink and the instant rock star vibe that comes from hanging around there.

In Memphis, you have to blame your bad behavior on something. And at 3 in the morning in this place, you can blame a lot on the power of a killer groove and a haunted jukebox.

William McGlothlin knows all about jamming with the spirits.

Every few weeks, the 62-year-old retired military man drives 40 miles from Marked Tree, Ark., and sets up shop in front of Sun Studio, the epicenter of rock 'n' roll.

"Sometimes I go to Graceland and sit in front of the Heartbreak Hotel," he says. But mostly, it's Sun Studio, where Elvis and Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis and Roy Orbison first recorded.

McGlothlin sits on a folding chair, plugs his ancient six-string into a dusty amplifier and starts quick-picking a country-blues shuffle. He taught himself to play when he was 21.

"It's a spiritual connection," he says of playing with Elvis and the boys. "I know some people don't believe in that sort of thing, but it's true."

The only people who "don't believe" are those who have never been inside Sun. The humble storefront at 706 Union Ave. is relatively unchanged since Elvis walked in on July 18, 1953.

The original soundproofing tiles still hold up the place, says tour guide Jayne Ellen White. "I get chills every time I come in here," she says.

She says Bob Dylan stopped by once. Didn't say a word to anyone. Simply walked to the black "X" carved into the floor, the very spot where Elvis sang "That's All Right (Mama)," and kissed it.

Not many people know this, but Sun is still an operating studio. It costs $85 an hour to rent it out, and that includes sound engineers. That's cheap to make a record, but McGlothlin says he's just fine communing with his ghostly heroes outside on the broken sidewalk.

"These folks here" - he juts his thumb behind him - "Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry. It shouldn't have happened for them, but it did. They were as poor as a church mouse. But it did happen. It did happen. This town, it's . . . it's . . . " He puts his head down, picks a little, then looks up: "Hey, I remember that word. This town, it's a paradox."

Something special

in the air

The Memphis Sound: raw, heartfelt, sweaty. Not polished pop like Motown, which came about at the same time. The Memphis Sound, the sound of the city, was instinctual, sexy. Real, as the locals might say.

Elvis was real. Jerry Lee Lewis was real. But nothing defined the Memphis Sound better than the soul music that strutted out of Stax Records, the label that launched Otis Redding, Isaac Hayes, Sam and Dave, Booker T. and the MGs. "Try a Little Tenderness," "Green Onions," "Hold On! I'm Comin'," "Theme From 'Shaft'"" - all Stax hits.

Fifty years ago, South Memphis was known as Soulsville U.S.A. The original Stax Studio was demolished, but the gorgeous new Stax Museum of American Soul Music was built in the same location. It's not the same thing, but for a downtrodden neighborhood that needs a boost, it's close enough.

The museum is stuffed with sweet soul goodness, from the Hammond B-3 organ that Booker T. Jones played on "Green Onions" to the two-track recorder that captured every sorrow-kissed note of Redding's "Mr. Pitiful." There is a dance floor in the middle of the museum; guests are urged to get down. And they do.

The Stax Records label was started by brother and sister Jim Stewart and Estelle Axton, two white music fans with a thirst for soul. (Combine the first two letters of their last names and you'll get the name of the label.) As a result, there was no black and white - only music.

Until April 4, 1968.

When the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel just blocks from Earnestine & Hazel's, Stax changed forever. The music became divided, bitter. The label would die a few years later, the building torn down soon after that.

On the outside

looking in

Not everything that haunts Memphis is good.

When Jason Carpenter was a boy, he used to ride his bike to Graceland, the Southern colonial home of Elvis Presley. Elvis was still alive then, so fans could only gaze through the wrought-iron gates and wonder what it was like to be the King.

"I'd sit in front of those gates and I'd just sit and stare," Carpenter says, talking in front of the long, brick wall that separates the white pillared mansion from Elvis Presley Boulevard. "I'd stare and I'd dream."

Carpenter lived in a trailer park, and the King and his castle represented a better life.

Carpenter is 41 now and lives not too far from where he grew up. Times are tough, but he gets by. He had friends in town, so he thought he'd commemorate the anniversary in a special way.

For the first time, Carpenter took the tour of Graceland. He saw the Jungle Room, with its shag-carpeted ceilings and waterfall. He saw the TV Room in the basement, with its '70s yellow-and-blue decor and that silly TCB lightning bolt.

As cars whiz down Elvis Presley Boulevard, which is littered with fast-food restaurants and run-down motels, Carpenter grimaces and says, "You know, it was a lot smaller than I thought. I thought it would have been bigger than that, truly.

"I was a little disappointed."

And with that, he leans on the brick wall and stares at Graceland, just like he did when he was a kid.

The article above was found on Google and was published originally on cleveland.com