Day Three: Lived In Bars

Note: More belated accounts of my adventures amid the sights and sounds of Nash-Vega$. The trip was only four days long, so you'll only have to endure one more of these, o.k.?  I mean, PLEASE endure one more of these, o.k.? Also, this post contains relentless a little playful mocking of the locals, but rest assured that no actual snark is intended.

9:20 AM: Breakfast of Champions

After waking late and inadvertently using up all the hot water in the room shower, much to Anne's chagrin, we descended to the swanky pavilion on the banks of the fake river that ran through our palatial digs to meet up for a group breakfast before heading to downtown Nashville. What greeted us was astonishing, to say the least. There was literally a buffet of breakfast foods that ran for nearly half a city block, with several signs boasting the native countries from which the delicacies being served originated. These ran the gamut from the obvious (Belgian Waffles, anyone?) to the slightly-less-obvious, Eggs Benedict being a slight modification of the French œufs bénédictine, an origin our hosts correctly presented. This proved something of a Pyhrric victory, however, when we all realized that the buttermilk biscuits slathered with white gravy were being advertised as a product of the United Kingdom. The English folks seemed a bit non-plussed at the gastronomical faux pas, in particular as we were in Tennessee, and given the South is somewhat limited when it comes to contributions to the palette of the discriminating gourmand, one would think they would've tried to win this one for the home team, as it were. I mean, you can't even get biscuits in the UK, in fact, "biscuits" aren't even called "biscuits" in England - biscuits being the word for little, mildly blandish cookies you eat when your tummy's upset. Our nationally orphaned biscuits, in all their post-colonial glory, were really good, though.  After consuming four or so pounds of the carb-filled delciousness from around the globe, we were ready to take on Nashville.

10:31 AM: The Mother Church

After boarding what was called, for reasons I still don't know (and was afraid to ask) the "Complex Shuttle" to downtown Nashville, our first stop was the legendary Ryman Auditorium, the 116 year old theater and former home to the Grand Ole Opry, called by many "The Mother Church of Country Music."  One needn't be the religious sort to understand the name, as the acoustics in the place can literally make anything sound heavenly. As we tooled around, glancing at a pictorial history of the place, and gazing into small display cases with memorabilia from the likes of Tex Ritter and Wanda Jackson, what looked like a High School marching band (albeit seated) began to warm up and play on the stage. The sound was incredible, and even the angst-ridden teenager in our group sat down in one of the pew-like benches (another possible origin for the nickname, I'd guess) on the ground level and listened intently. A church choir (they were really driving the symbolism home that morning), all resplendent in matching navy blue robes, replaced the band as we left, passing by a short film being shown in the foyer to a tour group on the history of the Ryman. We watched for a while, and, exiting past the statue of famed riverboat captain and man-about-town, Thomas G. Ryman, walked out into the overcast, but bustling, city streets.

11:54 AM: The (Other) Mother Church

Opry legend has it that, prior to the move away from the Ryman in 1974, cast members seeking a spirit other than the more metaphysical kind offered up by the Opry, would sneak out the backstage area of auditorium, travel through a small narrow alley, and appear at the back door a old honky-tonk called Mom's.  After Mom's was bought by Nashville matriarch Tootsie Bess in early 1960, a train-wreck of a redecoration effort effectively reinvented the place as the World Famous Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, and the place continues to live up to its colorful moniker and decor. After the sanctity of the Ryman, and with the noon hour upon us, it was nice to sit back, have a beer, and enjoy the sounds of Jimmy Snyder and the house band. Jimmy, a Nashville songwriting fixture, co-wrote one of the most characteristic country music ballads of all time with the so-depressing-it-actually-physically-hurts "All I Want For Christmas Is My Daddy," which became a minor hit in 1966 for Buck Owens. The band eventually took a break and was briefly reprieved by a man who I believe was only ever referred to as "Elmo" or "Elmer" or something. Elmo treated the crowd to a wonderful solo acoustic rendering of the Kitty Wells classic "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels." I wondered aloud to the group as to who this great balladeer might be. The angst-filled teenager, who, up to this time had been busily text-messaging his friends back home "OMG DRIVE 2 NASHVILLE AND GET ME TEH HELL OUT OF HERE" mentioned that he thought he "used to be Mayor."  Elmo proceeded to play another song, in fact, one that, although lyrically different, was played in exactly the same vocal style and chords as the previous one (not that this was a bad thing entirely).  Again, the crowd was very receptive, but by the time the familiar sound accompanied a third, we knew it was time to continue on to our next stop.

1:44 PM: No Ribs 'Till Brooklyn

We decided to grab something to eat at another great Nashville institution, Jack's Bar-B-Que although the line of carnivores waiting for a taste seemed a little daunting at first. Still sated by the obstreperously large hotel breakfast, we braved the line for nearly a half hour when, amid all our meat-related planning, we were informed that there would be "no more ribs until 5:00 PM."  People exchanged nervous glances, others checked their watches, but, as we were on a schedule, we stood our ground, each choosing some substitute to Jack's signature dish. If you happen to like bar-b-que, and happen to be in the Nashville area, you can't go wrong with Jack's. Everything on the menu really is delicious. As the word spread throughout the place that a moratorium had been issued, the crowd thinned out a little. As I got up to refill my glass of iced tea, I noticed that some time in the midst of our dining experience, the bovine embargo must have been lifted, as happy little rib-eaters frolicked merrily to their booths with plates piled high with

ribs. Before I could give complaint, though, we were headed off to what was sure to be the highlight of our day's activities, the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum.

3:37 PM: WWHWD?

We realized, upon getting to the steps of the Hall of Fame, that there was some kind of commotion going on outside and crossed the street to get a closer look. Several long-haired, bearded men were standing around, dressed exactly the same in black t-shirts bearing the legend "The Opry Has Sinned".  Upon closer inspection, the shirts also said "Reinstate Hank" and bore the likeness of Hank Williams.  Apparently, that day, the Hall of Fame was opening a large exhibit on Hank Williams and his progeny and was going to feature Hank Williams, Jr. as a keynote speaker to launch the exhibit. The Opry has had its share of controversy over the years, mostly relating to its stalwart adherence to the tee-totaling crypto-fascist holier-than-thouness that once drove Johnny Cash, in 1965, threatened with a lifetime ban after being arrested earlier that year, to begin kicking out the footlights on the Ryman stage during a performance. Cash and the Opry eventually made their peace, and he went on to use the Ryman stage for his critically acclaimed television show, perform with his wife, June Carter Cash, at the last performance at the Ryman, and appear in a documentary film about the Opry in 1994. Nothing, though, stings more than the eventual sacking of Williams from the Opry line-up in 1952. Although the official party line by the Opry was that Hank just wasn't showing up to performances, by that time Williams was an inveterate drunk, with a rapidly disintegrating marriage and expecting a child out-of-wedlock. How (or why) the Opry thought firing the guy would help, I have no idea, and, again, it smacks of the kind of thoughtless image self-preservation that generations of fans have harbored resentment about for years. In the cruelest cut of all, Hank would never get his reprieve from the institution that kick-started his career, succumbing to a heart attack on New Years Day, 1953. Being a fan, and someone acquainted with social protest, I was glad (at first) to see folks shining a critical light on the proceedings, although I hoped it wasn't just a "protest" geared up as some kind of marketing gimmick for Hank's grandson, known as Hank III, who, despite being a look-alike and sound-alike of his old grandpa, ends up being a kind of clown for the more "hell-raising" elements of country music, regaling in all its excesses while seeming to altogether miss the point of the music itself. The youngest Hank also fronts a truly awful punk-metal band, which, for some reason, he equates with bringing the "outlaw" element back into his father and grandfather's musical family tradition. I'll bet he never kicked a footlight out in his whole privileged life.

Nevertheless, my friend and I made an attempt to involve ourselves in the protest. We figured, since we had paid admission to the Hall of Fame, we'd put on the t-shirts, make our way into the exhibit, and hopefully raise some consciousness. As we were walking away, after a nice lady handed us shirts to wear, one of the bearded throng approached us and asked us where we were going with the shirts:

MY FRIEND: Well, we're going to put these on and go inside
DUDE: You can't have the shirts if you're not going to help us.
ME (noticing that the throng were just kind of milling about): Were you going to picket now?
DUDE: Not right now, later
MY FRIEND: We've got tickets to the museum.
ME: Yeah, we were going to go inside with these on.
DUDE looks blankly at us
MY FRIEND (a little frustrated): Never mind. (hands back t-shirt)
DUDE: Come on, man.
ME (handing back t-shirt): Sorry.

It appears the nuances of civil disobedience were lost on the folks, but it looks like 40 or so stayed on message on the opposite side of the street from the Hall of Fame. I think the rest split for Tootsies.

4:43 PM:  These Boots Are Made For Runnin'

After thoroughly enjoying the Hall of Fame and the Williams exhibit, we figured we had plenty of time to catch a drink or two at the wonderful Robert's Western World lounge. We ended up staying to see two sets of the great Scott Icenogle & A-11 playing some really fabulous honky-tonk music. Elmo, from Tootsie's, even stopped by our table to say hello!  As we nursed our beers behind Robert's beautifully back-lit collection of used cowboy boots, we debated whether or not to return to the hotel for dinner or stay downtown, since the Complex Shuttle ran until 2:00 AM, we really weren't in a hurry. We decided to head back down to the Ryman and figure it out and, after waiting for some time (along with some unfortunate fellow tourists who thought the Opry was still there) we realized that the Complex Shuttle had an abbreviated schedule on the weekends, and would be departing from another location for the final journey back to the hotel in only a matter of minutes. Sprinting down to the idling bus, we clambered on and headed back to the Epcot of Nashville to plan our next move.

To be concluded.