And at this writing the presence of De Soto has not been established beyond doubt anywhere. As if he never existed. And maybe he didn't exactly. It's not him, but De Soto, the myth, that Memphis has struggled to make its own, much as folks in the Missouri bootheel long to be kin to Jesse James. Recording studios rise, fall, and are demolished.
Musicians move elsewhere to make ends meet.
Theme museums and sports franchises fail to materialize almost annually. A sometimes tragic, often disappointed city needs a tragic and disappointed hero. Memphis has had its share of De Sotos since that first one stood broken on a bluff somewhere between here and Natchez. All of them, like the original, are tinged with tragedy and disappointment. Or Dr. King, gunned down at the Lorraine Motel by a redneck with a conspiracy on his lips.