You dear reader, have probably worked out by now that this expedition has a music theme. The tour we are on is actually called “Southern Sounds and Elvis”. The third and final stop on this troubador’s traipse across the American South is Nashville and there have been some interesting comparisons not related to the obvious musical evolution, broadly from jazz to blues to country. I’ve already reported on the improved salubriosity (not sure if I just invented that word) of the music districts from New Orleans to Memphis. The same applies when we move to Broadway and the music district of Nashville. At first glance, Broadway looks like a normal city street in any modern city. Then you notice the bars and the noise. It’s only “noise” because of countless competing venues all playing at volume 11. The hotels have improved as well, apart from our anniversary hotel in New Orleans which was as distinct from our tour hotels as the boots they wear in Nashville are from my thongs.
So whilst it seems cleanliness and respectability have improved as we’ve headed north – no “gentlemen’s” clubs on Beale Street or Broadway, unless they’re just not as obvious as “Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club” on Bourbon – that doesn’t mean the good burghers and burghesses of Nashville don’t let their hair down and their skirts up occasionally. I used to believe that if you closed your eyes and stepped into the street in Hong Kong you’d either get hit by a Rolls Royce or a taxi. In the fun district of Nashville it would be a pedal tavern or a booze bus. Actually, you wouldn’t be hit by one of these unless you are deaf. The yelling and yahooing which occasionally sounds like singing plus the music blaring from the vehicle plus the numerous bands all competing for audible band width, makes this square mile just about the noisiest on the planet.
The major industries in Nashville are health care, publishing, tourism and music. There are also 800 churches in the city which probably explains why they print more bibles than Gideon. While on the subject of religion, the child bride and I went to an NFL game yesterday to watch the local Tennessee Titans get boxed by the Green Bay Packers. After running onto the field about half of each team ran to one end and got down on one knee to pray. Most of the Packer fans were at that end but judging by their performance in the hotel bar after the game, I doubt they were the deities, the onfield prayers would indicate.
The Titans are building a new stadium which will have a roof so they can bid for the Superbowl or Superb Owl as vampires call it (look it up if that went over your head like so many bats…or owls). The roof should significantly reduce the prevalence of various sun-related skin problems as at least half the game clientele were sans hats. It was the hottest weather I have ever experienced at a football game and it’s a winter sport. The CB and I had wide-brimmed hats and were lathered in sunscreen and still came away with a decided rosy tinge. There must have been some very sore heads on Monday morning, especially if you add to the sun a dozen sherbets, the first of which is downed at a tail-gate party pre-game. And the game starts at noon so there is plenty of time to kick-on after kick-off.
Nashville is the home of the Country Music Hall of fame, which like the Elvis display at the Graceland Mall or whatever the visitors centre, with its eight gift shops, is called, has countless gaudy, spangly outfits on display, boots and all. But there are more boots on display away from the actual displays, as worn by most of the young ladies in this town. And very fetching a mid-length boot is on a shapely calf beneath a very short skirt or very short shorts. I couldn’t help but be reminded of a Tom Robbins novel I read decades ago (I think it was “Skinny Legs And All”) in which a foot fetishist called similarly sexy footwear (to him) “follow me home and fuck me” boots. Not sure a comment like that would pass muster (see what I did there) in these more unenlightened or descriptively puritanical times but I’m not offended. I don’t know if you are but I don’t care.
Being a bit of a guitar fan, I couldn’t help but notice another trend, mostly time rather than geographically based. Early players of most genres used Gibson guitars (maybe BB King’s various Lucille’s had something to do with that). Then Martin (the best) acoustic guitars started to creep in followed by Fenders. The closest I have got to a Martin guitar was when my daughter bought her first house and the previous owner left a busted up Martin in one of the rooms after taking out all of the furniture. I had my eye on it but he came back and got it. Damn!
Actually, from a musical perspective, the highlight of this trip was a night at Nashville’s Grand Ole Opry where we were lucky enough to see one of our favourite bands – the rockabilly outfit, Old Crow Medicine Show. And they did one of our (I keep saying “our” but am pretty sure I speak as one with the CB, at least on this topic) favourite songs – “Wagon Wheel” which we lustily sang along to as did the whole audience. I have to say though, their version isn’t as good as the legendary Not Garfunkel’s version. I may have previously mentioned that I am a founder member of that band.
It’s now time to bid goodbye to the South and head to New York City. But first we had to negotiate Nashville airport. At various times during what seemed like an endless trek through the security process, I thought we were waiting for Godot but unlike Beckett’s lost anti-hero, we eventually found our way through the slowest security process I have ever encountered in dozens of airports all over the world.
They (whoever “they”are) say first impressions are everything and when we arrived Nashville did a Joey of Friends fame and asked us “How are YOU doing?” The answer was “pretty good darlin'”. Unfortunately last impressions are lasting. But don’t fret Nashville. If I had to choose a place to live in the US, it would be you. New Orleans – great place to party. Nashville – great place to party. Hang on, that didn’t come out right. Oh well.
Incidentally, speakin’ of darlin’, I have been called “baby” “honey” and “darlin'” more times in the last week than in decades of marriage. It’s something a bloke could get used to. On the other side of the same coin we’ve been wished a “blessed day” by random people a few times also. This is mildly disconcerting if you have watched The Handmaid’s Tale in which that is a standard greeting in the loony dystopian world this country becomes.