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Recently, on a long drive south, we paused halfway to spend 24 hours in Nashville. There are some places that hold so much gravity, lore, and mystique that there’s no way to understand them without being there in person. Especially music cities. Nashville is every bit one of those places, like New Orleans.  To be quite honest, I had no expectations. But I came away…kind of in love with it all. This surprised me, because despite my deep love for roots, folk, country, and Americana music in general, I’ve never really been into the whole Nashville thing. I always associated it with tacky ‘90s country schlock that you’d hear on the radio; later, the association became more about the unbearable “sameness” of the sound and, on occasion, its political pandering. Also the forced nostalgia of a simpler, rosier lifestyle that never was. Also the listing of things that seem like a starter pack for a Certain Type of Person, like, This is the kind of beer I drink, this is the kind of woman I like, this is the kind of vehicle I drive, etc. Ooh, and also the fake otherness and persecution that often accompanies the lists. Those people drink X kind of beverage, but I drink Y kind of beverage–see, that makes me a Certain Type of Person, unlike those Other Types of People who look down on the Certain Type of Person I am, and you and I are the same Certain Type of Person *together*, which means THEY look down on US, all because we drink X beverage. (Significant exception: Tom T. Hall’s list in “I Love,” which is as wholesome as it is ridiculous.) Ooh, there’s also the pithy wordplay and awful double meanings. So many of those lyrics are so corny that it’s actually painful to listen to. Especially in the context of the above. (Significant exception: George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” which is basically the perfect country song.) I know, I know, you’re already yelling at me. But I’m not talking about all country music–not even all or most Nashville music. I’m talking about anything bearing those peculiar, particular Nashvillian flavors that give people headaches. You know…That Sound. Because don’t get me wrong, there’s a ton of country that I love, especially the music made by rough, lovable weirdos. It’s just that the stuff that’s always put me off has felt, shall we say, overrepresented in terms of exposure. One of the curiosities of Nashville that I’ll never understand is that there's a lot of great songs that are shrouded in bad taste. Bad hair, terrible denim, cheesy production choices, inauthentic cowboy hattery, etc… But when you strip all that away, there's this beautiful or haunting or painful song hiding in there. You need the calm of a quiet morning on the farm, an acoustic guitar, and a full voice, and daaaaamn there it is. (Significant exception: Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart".) Extremely important side note: My beloved partner feels the opposite. She loves '90s country *in particular*. And as a child, she was a member of the Billy Ray Cyrus fan club during the "Achy Breaky Heart" era. To demonstrate my great love for her, I do not judge her for these things. Anyway, that burying of a good song happens because of the dreaded Machine. You know what I’m talking about–that particular Nashville sound and vibe that comes from inhaling creativity and talent, grinding it up, and spitting it out the other side as packaged, mass-appeal musical ground beef. Sigh. Fortunately, there's a new crop of tremendous music coming out of Nashville (or thereabouts) these days that I really dig–artists who are more Americana than "Nashville" (IMHO) and sound amazing and bring gravity to their songwriting and performances. Brandi, Jason Isbell, Brittney Spencer, Allison Russell, and the like. It's a deep pool. And, I should admit, I’ve always felt a little bad about my broad dislike of Nashvillish things. Like maybe part of my saltiness is that I don't "get" something about it; it's like there's this big, silly, gaudy party, and if you decide to attend and buy in, it's super fun, and if you don't, you call the cops and make a noise complaint. And I'm the incredibly unfun neighbor. I suppose some of the silliness is the point. So much country music is intentionally tacky. It’s kind of an unspoken game: You’re supposed to get as outlandish as possible without blinking. If you blink, you lose. You have to own it with a straight face. Never break character. Remain unashamed. Remain unbowed. So anyway, here I am ranting. Back to the story: There we were, headed into Nashville, with me trying to keep an open mind, the missus overjoyed, and the kids…being kids, caring only about the closest McDonald’s and how soon can we go to it. A stroll down Broadway We had been driving most of the day, so we arrived late afternoon, parked downtown, and did the thing everyone does and took a stroll down Broadway. It’s not a long street, but it’s packed. It’s mostly bars, each of which has live music spilling out into the sidewalks, and it's so loud that you can always hear at least two bands simultaneously. Sprinkled into the mix is a candy store here, a boot store there, a hat store just over there, and of course miscellaneous eateries. We saw many bachelorette parties. They’re always mobile in downtown Nashville–a gaggle of youngish women in various stages of inebriation, crammed onto small open-air buses, slowly cruising around downtown, to see and be seen. Woo!, most of them exclaim towards any passersby who happen to make eye contact. (Unspoken rule: If you Woo! back, they will Woooooo! longer and somewhat louder in response. You can escalate this cycle as long as you wish.) (Another unspoken rule: The one with the tiara and sash is the drunkest.) The many signs protruding from the sides of the buildings, tussling for your attention, are delightfully garish. There’s a lot of neon. There’s too many tourists (including us), and you can watch as many of them are compelled by the fever to make regrettably large purchases on new boots or cowboy hats, which most of them will be too embarrassed to wear in their real lives back home. (Although, truth be told, you’d be lured into the hat shop yourself were it not for the crowds and sticker shock. Or maybe that’s just me.) There’s a lesson on Broadway, though. When you cut through the noise and garish silliness, you suddenly realize that, hey, that bar band was really tight. Also, that bar band next door was really tight. Oh–they’re all tight. And everyone sounds amazing. Like if that gal owning a cover of “Hole in the Bottle” lived in your town, she’d be the best singer for a many-miles radius, and people would be encouraging her to move to Nashville to–ah. Right. …and these are just the musicians doing cover tunes along the tourist trap. I found myself lingering. Because we were outside on the sidewalk, the bands’ backs were to us, and the drummers were closest to us. They were all so precise. It’s a fascinating thing about country music: The skill level of the musicians is often just extraordinary. Pristine playing. At the same time, it’s often rather rote in the sense that they cover a lot of tunes and other artists, and when they do, they seem to not change much. It’s not particularly creative or daring or experimental or even improvisatory. But I think that’s part of it. It’s…deferential in many ways. A sign of respect. And a nod to how in Nashville, you have to serve the Machine somewhat. At least that’s the impression I get. Dumb Kid Things Because we had the kids with us (of course), we had to make sure we did Dumb Kid Things. This evening's Dumb Kid Things included:
The kids were all but unable to make their selections. Fortunately, I guess, we had to stand in line for a very long time, so they had ample opportunity to become overwhelmed by the menu, make a choice, abandon the choice, and become overwhelmed again several times. Eventually they settled on desserts, and so did I. (Definitely went with the entire-slice-of-cheesecake-as-a-garnish option). They were jealous. Tough luck, kids.  After consuming an irresponsible amount of ice cream, we resumed walking around. There were so many places I wanted to enter, but we didn’t have time. The National Museum of African American Music, the Johnny Cash Museum, the Ryman Auditorium (hallowed ground indeed), Hattie B’s Hot Chicken.  I felt about these places a little like I felt about Nashville’s primary export—in it but not of it. Like an anthropologist who is interested, but only “gets” it as an outsider. They can never live it, only observe and report. As I’m doing now. We were all starving, and we settled on Puckett’s Grocery & Restaurant. It’s one of those touristy but classic locations. We thought it would be fun. It was, although even at 7pm or 8pm or whatever time it was, there was like an hour-long wait. Too late to change horses, so we stuck it out. Es, the 12-year-old, and I decided to go walk around town a bit more and see what we could see while Leen and Camille (the 8-year-old) took a load off and waited for the table. We ended up back by the Ryman, but she could not have cared less about the church of country music. She was, though, enamored of the multi-story food court that’s across the street. In particular…the outdoor escalator it offers. We rode it up and down several times. Right in full view of the Ryman. It felt almost disrespectful, but…well. Sorry, Ryman. What can I say, the kid’s an apostate. Back at Puckett’s, we finally got seated, and we thought we were done with weird things for the day, but no. Guess what very unexpected thing occurred while we were attempting to order? No go on, guess. I’m confident that your guess was incorrect, because the answer is: a lecture about the second amendment from the waiter, directed exclusively to Camille for some reason. I cannot fathom what was going through his head. He was clearly trying to be funny and cordial, but even we told him to stop, and even when we directly contradicted what he was saying, he kept right on rolling, throwing in a casual confession about his recent charge of illegal possession of a firearm. It’s like he just couldn’t stop himself. I bet he’s fun at parties. I would have yelled at him and stormed out, but 1) we were so hungry and tired and 2) any other food option would take so much longer, so 3) we were going to get our calories at this damned place, and 4) this young man will therefore be the last person to touch our food before we got it, and we didn’t want to anger him such that he’d sprinkle…I don’t know, gunpowder or the contents of a redpill or something in it. We ate, we left, we slept. No one awoke the next morning saying, “Ya know, that Jordan Peterson has some good ideas,” so I guess we survived the encounter with our ideology intact. Morning barsThe next morning, we started the day with a killer brunch at Pinewood Social, a bowling alley converted to a hipster bar and restaurant. There’s still a retro bowling alley rolling (hah, more puns) in there, so you can aim for ten pins while mildly sloshed on more than one Bloody Mary. The chicken-and-waffles was good, but the gravy was missing. Sigh. Afterwards, we popped back to Broadway for a bit. We found the flowering truck to get family pics and individual selfies.  Guess what the flowering truck is near? The escalator. The other kid discovered it and lost her mind. So, once again, we rode the escalator several times and did not acknowledge the Ryman looking upset and a little disrespected right across the street. Leen was adamant that I experience a couple of these bars on Broadway—again, we couldn’t really go hang out in them because of the kids and lack of time—so the plan became for the three of them to go do something while I made a couple of quick visits. Es insisted on the Apple Store. It was the highlight of her visit. Sigh. Thoughts on the bars:
Driving into the sunsetAs we left Nashville, continuing south, I found myself craving some rich, old country music. Some twang. Before we got too far down the road, the late afternoon light turned golden. As we whizzed past pine forest after pine forest, I asked Leen to DJ up some tunes.
It was utterly delightful. Whatever magic exists in the air and water of Nashville was still with me. We listened for hours. Usually three to five tunes per artist, then meandering on to another. Hank, Patsy, Elvis, Waylon, the Carters, Merle, Les Paul (I know, a little orthogonal to the vibe, but wonderful), Johnny, Willie. They all sounded different to me than before. It’s like once I visited their “home,” I felt like I knew them better. Instead of hearing them like a musical anthropologist, as I too often have, I felt them. Hank’s perfect arrangements. Patsy’s heartbreak. Elvis’ flow. Willie’s otherworldliness. Etc. The greats sang us into nightfall. Within hours, we were cruising into Gulf Shores, Alabama, minutes away from the ocean and an entirely different adventure with a different flavor.
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