Words

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Walter Benjamin

I am unpacking my library. Yes, I am. The books are not yet on the shelves, not yet touched by the mild boredom of order. I cannot march up and down their ranks to pass them in review before a friendly audience. You need not fear any of that. Instead, I must ask you to join me in the disorder of crates that have been wrenched open, the air saturated with the dust of wood, the floor covered with torn paper, to join me among piles of volumes that are seeing daylight again after two years of darkness, so that you may be ready to share with me a bit of the mood - it is certainly not an elegiac mood but, rather, one of anticipation - which these books arouse in a genuine collector. For such a man is speaking to you, and on closer scrutiny he proves to be speaking only about himself.

                                                                    - Walter Benjamin, Illuminations  

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Note: I had been wanting to pepper my usual postings with something new and interesting when my friend Todd suggested a semi-regular guest spot. I enthusiastically agreed, especially since I'm in the middle of my move down South and expect my posts to be light over the next few weeks, but was afraid to let the blog stagnate again, etc. etc. Secondly, when this man talks about pop culture, I take copious notes. So I hope you enjoy the first installment of what I hope to be a regular gig - brace yourselves for 'American Todd'

Trevor Horn

Episode One: Trevor Horn, Trevor Rabin and that Obnoxious Video: The Sound-Effects Porn of Yes' "Owner of a Lonely Heart"

Trevor Horn is everywhere. He produces your favorite English acts, he designs your synthesizer, he keeps your career intact despite shifting musical trends, and he kills your radio stars. His name was so ubiquitous in the liner notes of English music that it would be no surprise to learn that Limeys likely checked their cereal boxes to make sure he wasn't an ingredient.  Before making it big with The Buggles, he helped to design and perfect the Fairlight synthesizer, which revolutionized the technique of sampling. Somewhere, a young Sean Combs was taking notes. He created the sound for ABC and countless "New Pop" acts, and hoisted the notorious joke upon an unaware America by creating Frankie Goes To Hollywood, and their hit "Relax". And don't forget t.A.T.u

Video Killed the Radio Star

As 1979 came to a close, Horn and co-"Radio Star"-killer Geoff Downes were rehearsing in the same studio as prog-rockers Yes. Late '70s Britain was not hospitable to their sound anymore, with punk grabbing the imagination of the old Isle. By coincidence, Rick Wakeman and Jon Anderson had just left the band, taking their stacks of Moog synths and lyrics about hearts and sunrises with them. After crossing paths between rehearsals, Horn was recruited to serve as the substitute lead singer for Yes, and Downes was brought in to play keyboards. This "trade" completely changed the personality of the band, especially with the more dance-and-punk-oriented Horn at the front. In 1980, this new lineup recorded the perfectly-named Drama. Horn was not a good singer, but his skills with recording allowed his shortcomings to be overcome with gadgetry, and Downes was no slouch, either. Any true Yes fan must have been quite taken aback when they first heard the twisted punk-reggae-disco of "Tempus Fugit". Lyrics such as "die like a dead beaten speed-freak" only twisted the knife. While it was far from The Jam or The Fall, Drama was a serious ass-kicking statement of relevance for a genre that was becoming a caricature of itself. If one was ever so geeky that they chose to compare Yes to Canadian counterparts Rush, it would be quite appropriate to call Drama the Grace Under Pressure of their catalogue. Both records feature a sardonic edge that was quite new to both bands, and  unfortunately, quickly abandoned with their subsequent releases.

While the music was quite good, rock stardom was not for Horn, and he absconded to the drink-in-one-hand, knob-in-the-other life of a producer. Downes and guitarist Steve Howe were recruited by John Wetton to join Steve Carell's favorite supergroup, Asia. Only time will tell if their decision was well thought out, or merely made in the heat of the moment. (Sorry.) Did that mean the end of Yes? No. 

After several rehearsals with some dude named Jimmy Page, last-men-standing Chris Squire on bass and drummer Alan White decided that following Bonzo and JPJ may not be the best career move. (Quick – name the drummer for Wings). Back when a young Vincent Gallo was obsessing over his every move, Squire recorded a solo track called "Brown Bunny", which sold only one copy. Actually it was called "Run with the Fox", but as Tony Wilson once said, when there is doubt between the truth and the legend, print the legend. By the end of 1981, Squire was introduced to South African guitarist Trevor Rabin, who topped the charts in his native country with the band Rabbitt (I promise this is not another Gallo joke). Rabin hopped out of his apartheid-laden warren for jolly-ol' England, joining Squire and White to form Cinema. Soon, Jon Anderson was alerted at this trio's new sound, and like David Putty receiving a call from Elaine, The "bump into" always leads to the backslide. Jon and old pal Tony Kaye were back – all they needed was a producer. Re-enter Trevor Horn.

Horn's return to the fold as producer gave him a big stage to display all his new recording wizardry. Trevor Rabin brought him the perfect song for the time - "Owner of a Lonely Heart". How would Horn treat this opportunity? If you guessed "He'd make the song sound like a pinball machine", unfortunately you would be right. 

There is a recent trend in journalism to refer to anything excessive as "___-porn". Producer/schlockmeister Jerry Bruckheimer is guilty of making "Debris-porn". You could cite Saving Private Ryan or Platoon as examples of "War-porn". I'd even go as far and say that most episodes of Oprah could be categorized as "Empathy-porn". (Vivid Video? Totally "Pornography-porn".) Trevor Horn decided to add his own entry to the list – "Sound-Effects-porn".

Owner Of a Lonely Heart - Yes (HQ Audio)

"Owner of a Lonely Heart" begins with a flanged drum sample, and Chris Squire's signature bass slide. Then the guitar kicks in, giving one the idea that, hey, this sounds like a prototypical early-80s rock song – somewhat forward-looking, but prototypical. And then, 20 seconds in, it all goes to pot. First the crazy high-pitched stabs that sounds like a tire-less El Camino screeching to a stop. Then the "where the hell did that come from?" guitar flourish, shorter than the sound-bite allowed to a liberal on Fox News. Then that screech again, like a wasp that won't leave the car. After about 2 minutes of the main riff being repeated often enough you mistake the song for an automated train schedule, it just gets plain weird. A breakdown-style bridge, featuring multiple stabs, is imitated by Jon. No, this isn't another "cha cha cha" like "Sound Chaser" – he's more into imitating a saxophone here. Then Rabin gives us THAT solo – each note harmonized in 4ths. "Don't deceive your freewill at all?" WTF? Exactly. 

Jon Anderson

"What about the video?", you ask. Don’t forget about drummer Alan White, with his patented "bite-lip, stick lips out, bob head" maneuver, like Mick Jagger doing "The Rooster" while seated on a circular chair. And when did the art directors for "Square Pegs" gain control over a band's attire (or maybe they were sending in an early audition tape for Punky Brewster")? If I ever dressed like that, I'd have to beat my own ass.  In 1983, MTV had a program called "Friday Night Video Fights", which pit 2 song clips against one another. All MTV's viewers  - yes, they were mostly 8-year-olds whose entire social life revolved around "Knight Rider", "Airwolf" and neighborhood games of Hide-N-Seek - were asked to make a 69-cent call to MTV (kids, get your parents permission!) to choose their winner. When Journey released "Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)" – oh, the days of parenthetical song titles – viewers gave that fire-pantomiming, warehouse-abandoning anthem enough love to keep it in the victor's chair for six straight weeks. Then came Yes, teaching us that fist-pumping indoors beats fist-pumping outdoors, every damn time.

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Tom Waits, Midair

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Tom Waits

With my relocation from the Midwest to the Southland rapidly approaching, events for celebrating the academic interval in the summer months have continued to manifest in stride. Plans to visit the lovely Low Country and the majestic city of St. Augustine, Florida are in the offing, as well as some highly anticipated  visits from the recently graduated in my new (old) hometown digs. All of this activity notwithstanding, nothing could prepare me for the announcement that Mr. Tom Waits would be touring this summer, and that the valedictory stop on this leg of the so-called "Glitter and Doom Tour" would be in nearby Atlanta, Georgia.

Although I had heard of Waits primarily through other artists, like Rod Stewart, Bruce Springsteen, and The Eagles, I hadn't listened to an entire album until, in 1992, I picked up a copy of the Grammy award winning Bone Machine because the cover image reminded me so much of Edvard Munch's The Scream (which, by the way, did more to enlighten me as what I was about to hear than the famous covers of Waits' earnest, singer-songwriterly work could ever manage). After one, maybe two full listens to the record, I found myself a Waits junkie, scouring record stores for whatever I could find of his earlier work, as well as uncatalogued live concerts, demos, and compilation appearances, often traded by fans on cassette tapes of dubious origin and sound quality. Starting from the beginning, as it were, gave me an appreciation for Waits as a tunesmith, and I still hold a candle for Waits circa 1976's Small Change, showcasing Waits at the pinnacle of his Chandler-esque storytelling abilities, along with a solid jazz-inflected noir style blues backdrop. As a percussionist, Waits' later work, from 1983's Swordfishtrombones to the present, did a lot to broaden my own approach, introducing me to the "kitchen sink" school of percussion (literally, I actually played one on stage once) and the musical innovations of Harry Partch and Evelyn Glennie. I was also lucky enough, over the next few years, to meet people who shared my love of all things Waits. Our mutual association with, and admiration for, Mr. Waits' music has long been something of a bond between myself and my friends, and, without exception, we were bound together by a common goal: to one day see the great man perform live. 

Tom Waits Press Conference

Luckily for us, Waits, who had performed live only sporadicly since Swordfishtrombones, underwent another major resurgence with the release of Mule Variations and its accompanying world tour in 1999. I got to see him at the wonderful Chicago Theatre on that tour, which was highlighted by a car-drive up from the Southland, my writing down the setlist on both arms with permanent marker as the show progressed, and one of my companions trying to clear a 30 inch bow saw through the Security Gate at O'Hare on our trip back (we were never to see that saw again). Waits toured again in the run-up to the release of 2004's Real Gone and, due to logistical difficulties, I was unable to catch him on that tour. All the more reason to get excited about this one, which, if you watch Tom's press conference, seems to be inspired by the stars above and promises to be a night to remember. On-sale dates for the Atlanta show have yet to appear, but I'm crossing my fingers, knocking on wood, and double-checking my wireless router to (hopefully) guarantee my attendance. Wish me luck!

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For my dear friend, Jeff, who just heard that he's passed the Bar Exam. Back in the good ol' days, we used to fancy ourselves the star and co-star, respectively, of this film noir gem. I was the prettier one, although he had the better hair.

True Believer(1989)

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Note: The conclusion of the Nashville trip. Admittedly, taking two weeks to detail (in detail!) a four day trip, immersed almost entirely on the sociocultural monolith that is traditional country music is probably kind of teeth-rattling for the brave few who read my blog, but it did succeed in re-upping my interest on the whole blog thing (that's good, right?)

8:15 PM: La Nuit Avant

After decamping from the Complex Shuttle, we decided to take the boat tour around (but inside) the palatial artifice of the hotel. After a short wait on a small jetty that appeared to be made of real wood, our group were ushered into a small round boat, like the sort one might find on one of those water rides at an amusement park, along with another group of four or five teenage girls, out to celebrate Tiffany's birthday.  The boat launched, along with our tour guide, through the strange and wonderful area (it actually was very pretty at night) along the banks of the fake river. The guide was very chatty, if maybe a little too reliant of some of the scripted tour-guide patter, which resulted in some genuinely unfortunate (if funny) little ironies. The guide cheerfully chirped that the river and grounds consumed ginormous amounts of water and electricity, completely oblivious of the cringe-inducing effect it was having on her audience. As we passed the 80-foot waterfall, the guide noted that two Japanese koi had escaped the small ponds on the terrace level, braved the waterfall, and were now in the river. The hotel staff, the guide remarked, named the koi "Romeo" and "Juliet." This seemed to perplex the angst-filled teenager, who started craning his neck and looking around the boat:

A-FT: I don't see any dead fish.
ME: I'm not sure she's all that familiar with the original Shakespeare.
A-FT (louder, trying to get the guide's attention): But the play ends when they...
ME: Shhh, I know, I think the names are about how the fish wanted to be together, oh never mind.

The guide then went on to point out the $3,000-per-night Presidential Suite, supposedly a preferred stopping place for Dolly Parton and then went on to suggest, in what must've been a mangling of the usual scripted patter, that, for the asking price, we could then tell our friends and loved ones that we slept in Dolly's hotel room, without mentioning, the guide suggested, that Dolly wasn't there.  Lest any of the children who were with us choose to explore what the veracity of such a claim might imply, the adults quickly shielded our looks of abject horror with distracting, exaggerated motions at the big-ass waterfall. As we rounded the corner back to the jetty, the guide led whole group in singing "Happy Birthday" to Tiffany, who seemed kind of embarrassed by the whole thing.

So Long and Thanks for all the Fish

8:45 PM: Any Fish You Wish

Dinner that night was at the highly unusual Caney Fork Fish Camp, which was decorated with lots of taxidermy specimens. The "shrimp and grits," while not quite up to the Lowcountry standard, were quite tasty and we all enjoyed posing for photographs with the animals, both live and otherwise. After a lovely dinner, we took a leisurely walk past the Opry and back to the hotel for an after-dinner cocktail.

11:45 PM: The Long Way 'Round

In the center of our lucrative digs was a cocktail bar that rotated around the spacious atrium area that stood in for the "outdoors."  A somewhat competitive bunch at heart, we were bound and determined to make a complete revolution before calling it a night. About three-quarters of the way through our "trip," the bar stopped moving! Being good tourists in addition to our penchant for gamesmanship, we demanded of our hostess that the bar be "turned back on" so we could "cross the finish line."  Thankfully, our hostess was, like the Eagles said, "programmed to receive," and, after a brief discussion with those responsible for the mechanical operation of the place, we were finally rewarded with a complete revolution, just seconds before last call, and we retired to our rooms for the night. 

The Loveless Cafe

8:05 AM: Le Jour Suivant

Another early morning to tearfully say goodbye to half of our group. The angst-filled teenager, perhaps feeling conciliatory in the midst of all the hugging and such, admitted that he didn't think all country music (pre-1975, we were quick to qualify) was horrible, and, as we all drove out of the massive parking area, text messaged us to say "so long and thanks for all the fish" - the young lad's outlook no doubt being indelibly changed by Caney Fork and the Nashville adventure.

The rest of us took a trip a few miles outside of Nashville to visit the wonderful Loveless Motel and Cafe for breakfast. And what a breakfast it was!  While no longer an active motel, the cafe has been serving up world-famous Southern cuisine since 1951, when Lon and Annie Loveless bought the former Harpeth Valley Tea Room along US Highway 100 in hopes of serving both hunting parties and visitors to the nearby Natchez Trace. Word-of-mouth about Annie's delicious buttermilk biscuits soon reached a fever pitch, and the cafe has been a destination for connesseurs of Southern delicacies of all kinds ever since. The place has had several owners, each of whom carried on the traditions of the place, as well as the closely-guarded biscuit recipe. Most recently, the mantle has passed to Ms. Carol Fay, who has entertained such culinary luminaries as Martha Stewart and Jefferson Morgan, a contributing editor for Bon Appétit magazine. While both raved about the food, neither was successful, I'm happy to say, in wresting the recipe from Fay. If you live within 1,000 miles of this place, eating there is well worth the trip!

3:05 PM: Au Revoir

Sated by our Loveless breakfast, we traveled to the small town of Franklin, Tennessee, to walk around and see our English guests to their bed and breakfast before heading back to Atlanta so I could catch my return flight to the Midwest. Franklin is home to The Carter House, and site of one of bloodiest battles of the American Civil War.  It's a somber place, and stands as monument to one of the more cruel ironies of war.  The Carter family lost three sons to the War, with Tod, the youngest, after escaping from prison and rejoining his regiment, found himself literally on the steps of his boyhood home in the thick of the battle. Shouting to his fellow soldiers, "I'm almost home!", Tod was shot and mortally wounded, dying two days later in the House to which he tried so incessantly to return. While the story of the battle is likely of great historic import to some, for me it was just a reminder of how deeply horrible things have scarred the South, and the places that remain are important, if often painful, reminders.

We went back to the quaint bed and breakfast and said our goodbyes to our English friends, who were really so wonderful to agree to share their time here in Nashville with us (it was, after all, their honeymoon!) It was so great to see them, and I doubt seriously if I would have made this trip or seen anything of Nashville without them.  As we made the drive back to Atlanta, I was really happy to have made the trip, and gladder still to have shared the experience with such wonderful friends.

1:05 AM: Forever Delayed

By Tuesday morning I had been delayed twice in efforts to get to Chicago, and lay perched on my carry-on bag, trying to lean my head against a pretzel stand in LaGuardia airport.  Again plagued by cancellations, with the weather in Minneapolis making further travel at this point ever more precarious, it seemed a good a place as any to end my telling of the Nashville adventure. Even after a 16-hour airport stay, bounced from Atlanta to New York, I still, just as the intercom sizzled with news that our flight had been given final approval to land in a April-snow showered Midwestern tundra, managed a smile, and, as I boarded, heard the nasal twang of our Atlanta-bred stewardess mock drawl to the travel-wearied passengers, "y'all come back now, you hear!" and thought that Southern hospitality still exists - and it's a good thing.  

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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.

The Ryman Sound

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

Hank Williams - Cold Cold Heart/I Can't Help It...

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.

These Boots Are Made For Gawkin'

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.

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Note: Due to the incredibly hectic schedule during the trips to Nashville and Atlanta, the live day-by-day blogging routine was quickly and unceremoniously ditched. What follows, over the next few days, are some reflections on the major highlights of the trip.

[T]he essential movement of the spectacle...consists of taking up all that existed in human activity in a fluid state so as to possess it in a congealed state...

                                                       -Guy DeBord, La société du spectacle (1967)

Elwood: What kind of music do you usually have here?

Claire: Oh, we got both kinds. We got country and western.

                                                        -from The Blues Brothers (1980)

The Drive Up the Mountain

Under majestic, climate-controlled glass atriums, you'll be surrounded by nine acres of lush indoor gardens, winding rivers and pathways, and sparkling waterfalls where you can unwind, explore, shop, dine, and be entertained to your heart's content.

We unpacked, caught up on each other's lives, laughed and joked and had an absolutely wonderful afternoon, spotting gigantic catfish wading through the mechanical river and a bird who had somehow found its way through the glass barrier that separated us from the real outside world. We promised ourselves (and each other) that tomorrow we would venture out of our glass menagerie and explore the authenticity we were sure to find (we assured ourselves) downtown, amid the drunks, deadbeats, and honky tonks that littered the streets like so many leaves, caught up and scattered in a whirlwind of light and sound. At least, we said, that's how it is in the songs. We'd find the pure authenticity in those lost souls—those little prickly, spindly things tied together with kite-string-thin steel guitar lines and bumpy, rattling bass rhythms sending plaintive high, lonesome harmonies into space, toward heaven.

But first, we would, after dinner, head directly into the heart of the concrete beast around us;  what, I surmised, this whole opulent prison was meant to protect—the Grand Ole Opry. Relocated from the historic Ryman Auditorium, the Opry, a fixture of both live performance and live radio broadcast since 1925, had lent its stage to a staggering array of performers, from the aforementioned Williams, Jones, and Cash, to Patsy Cline, Kitty Wells, Wanda Jackson, and a

O Death

As we rode back towards the shining lights of the resort, I was reminded of Bill Malone's excellent book, Don't Get above Your Raisin': Country Music and the Southern Working Class, which put much of the Opryland spectacle into perspective. In the aftermath of Reconstruction and the transition away from agriculture as a viable means of economic sustainability and cultural way of life in the South, dispossessed families of differing races and religions took hold of what they could of their culture and tried as hard as they could to forge some new economic paradigm, some product or service that could save them, would be lasting and profitable, and yet, remain wholly their own. Perhaps the excesses of that lasting profitability shine a little too glaringly today, but it is still possible to find, even in the midst of all that, the very same energy that fueled and continues to sustain the powerful musical heritage that birthed the blues and gospel traditions, and laid the foundations for rock and roll and modern folk music. Before we walked up past the big tumbling waterfall to our room, I squinted my eyes one last time, heard the music in my head, and found a little bit of it for myself.

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11:51 AM: Via Chicago

On little sleep, and with great anticipation and eagerness (to see Anne and my friends, to get to warmer climes, and (actually) to begin recording this "blogoventure" in earnest) I set out to the airport with some time to spare, hoping to find a clean, well-lighted place to get some work done on a paper I'm writing before my flight. Today was going to mainly be a travel day, since I also had some time built in, via an hour layover in Chicago on my way to Atlanta. But, I figured, it was an excellent opportunity to catch up on writing, reading, and the unique social experience that airports avail, as I'd written about before. Unlike trips past, I was practically comfortable with the comparatively leisurely pace that the afternoon promised, given that it was a Thursday afternoon on a not-particularly-travel-heavy season (post-Spring Break for most of the collegiate crowd, off-day for most business travel, etc.). Although I was initially skeptical about taking the Thursday off, as I stood on the empty escalator to Ticketing, I was giving myself mental high fives for my foresight and practicality.

Welcome!

Wow, am I an idiot.

Of course, in my haste to pack and tie up the inevitable pre-travel loose ends yesterday, I hadn't bothered to check either fore- or newscasts and I too-quickly dismissed Anne's suggestion to keep checking my flight status online. Standing there at the Ticketing counter, I winced slightly as the stricken look on the ticket agent's face sent my high five-ing sense of self over the precipice and into the black abyss of uncertainty, already subsumed by a stranded, disaffected sea of humanity. Red-faced, rapacious, identically dressed businesspersons walked tight circles or ambling figure-8's, barking changes of plans into Bluetooth headsets with stares so vacant, so unfocused, it's like watching a thousand little oblivions. Children, some of whom had been waiting with their families for flights since dawn, had so thoroughly exhausted every toy, game, question, foodstuff, condiment, and adult in a 100-yard radius that they now gathered, almost solemnly, around an ATM machine to play with what looked to me to be a small pile of dirt on the floor. Unevenly tanned people in Panama hats looked at LED Departure screens like the faithful in the face of some utterly indifferent digital God.  And this was just Ticketing!  Without my asking, the ticket agent found me a seat on a direct flight to Atlanta, making me no longer subject to the delays and cancellations. I was actually considering high-fiving her until I heard the catch - the flight did not leave for another six-and-a-half hours - putting me in later than my original flight. Naturally, it was facing being overbooked with folks trying to divest themselves from now non-existent or chronically delayed Chicago-centric flights. Afraid that fortune would soon pass me by, I hurriedly thanked my guardian agent and gingerly stepped over the dirt and children to the Security Gate.

12:34 PM: "The Department of Homeland Security Welcomes You..."

When I showed my driver's license to the security agent, I was informed that I had been randomly selected for "secondary screening."  Given that I now had plenty of time, I cheerfully responded, saying something to the effect of "oh, boy" and acting as if I had won something.  This gave the agent some pause, but after taking me out of the line, he returned to his senses and shouted for someone to take over the screening. Amid the throng in the security line, there was no movement over to where I was for several minutes.  The guard shouted again.  Still nothing.  Finally, the exasperated guard led me to a small room off to the left of the Security Gate with a small table and two chairs. On the far wall was a large banner that read "THE DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY WELCOMES YOU". Other signs pasted to the walls with Scotch tape spoke vaguely of search procedures and the none-too-subtle fact that "Sexual Harassment Is A Crime."  Needless to say, the change of venue cooled my initial enthusiasm considerably. After a few minutes, an older guard came into the room, patted me down, searched my bag, and led me back out to the line.  He was very friendly while being efficient in carrying out the search, and, dare I say, welcoming.  They must take the signage seriously around here.

8:14 PM: Strange Weather

Elvis Costello - Everyday I Write the Book

After a few short delays due to last-minute gate changes and refueling, we took to the air.  The ride was probably (knock on wood) one of the most turbulent I have ever experienced.  As I expected, most of the folks on the flight were businesspersons, who took their luck in obtaining a direct connection to Atlanta as a sign to engage in taking epic advantage of the in-flight alcohol selection. Given that we still had to fly over or around the trouble spots that prevented our previous connections from being able to land, it was a bumpy ride, but I was heartened to see that a few sudden dips (keeping us plastered to our seats, frozen by the continued presence of the "fasten seatbealt" sign) didn't dent the convivial spirit.  After a safe landing, the deplaning music was Elvis Costello's 'Every Day I Write The Book' - and not the Musak version but the real thing!  Way to go, Big National Airline!

11:51 PM: Arrival

Home at last and, after a twelve hour plus ordeal, I'm ready for bed. Tomorrow brings the road trip to Nashville before a return to the Home of the Braves on Sunday.

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