Always Take the Weather With You to Music City: 48 Hours in Nashville
They say you should never meet your idols, but that’s never stopped me from trying.
Even if I have to stand ankle deep in garbage juice.
It’s a well-known secret that the alley behind Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium is the spot to glimpse superstar musicians after they’ve wrapped up their show at the historic venue known as the “Mother Church” of country music. Chet Akins and Patsy Cline often stumbled their way into the back entrances of the city’s famous honky tonks to play an impromptu set, setting the stage for the likes of Sting and Billy Strings. Willie Nelson once famously observed the walk from the stage door was “seventeen steps to Tootsie’s and thirty-four back,” probably because all that Tennessee whiskey can put a person on their hands and knees pretty quick.
Last Friday had me haunting the doorway of Robert’s Western World after a long-awaited show by Crowded House, the New Zealand band best known for the GenX emo anthem “Don’t Dream Over” to those who haven’t followed their masterful, prolific arc of songwriting through the decades. The music of frontman Neil Finn has been in constant rotation on the soundtrack of my entire life, from popping my first Split Enz cassette into my yellow Sony Walkman as a bucktoothed 12 year-old to sneering Can I have another piece of chocolate cake? during the Anarchist Cookbook years, then taking comfort in the solo album Try Whistling This through postpartum depression and repeatedly spinning through the entire CH discography on Spotify over the years of daily dog walks.
The heartbreaking 2005 suicide of drummer Paul Hester deepened my devotion for the catchy songs that capture life’s fragile grace, and the band now boasts Neil’s sons Liam and Elroy on lead guitar and drums, which kinda makes it all feel like family. To sway in the front row of the worn, wooden pews of the Mother Church as the sanctuary filled with familiar riffs and phrases felt rapturous and holy, one of those live music experiences that sends one’s soul into the stars.
Neil has also spent the last few years filling in the melodies on tour with Fleetwood Mac, and since Stevie Nicks was in town playing with Billy Joel down the road this same night, I got it into my whiskey-sprinkled head that after their respective shows these legends would be compelled to meet up and jam in one of Music City’s storied after hours spots. Loitering behind Robert’s next to a horny couple in matching fringe jackets making out against a dumpster, I was certain Neil and the boys would come right out the Ryman’s stage door if I only waited long enough.
My husband is also a huge Crowded House fan but recognized the relative absurdity of this plan.
“Nashville is a big place,” he reminded gently, trying to coax me towards a cool hidden speakeasy he’d tracked down online.
While I’d procured our tickets and overpriced downtown hotel, he had done the homework of curating our experience of our short time in the city, which is indeed overwhelmingly big, bright, and holy hell so very LOUD. Bars open when most people are sipping their first cup of coffee, the sounds of Dolly Parton covers and scorching fiddles tumbling out of every open window. I thought River Street had rendered my nervous system immune to the whoops of woo girls, but I was not ready for the Official Bridesmaid Capital of the World, where the adrenal-shattering shrieks are accompanied by a dress code of blindingly white cowgirl boots and Daisy Dukes with shimmery halter tops, a look Mark deemed “tummies and tushies.”
Boots served both as fashion and necessity among the hordes on the front side of the alley on Broadway, a neon-dazzled nexus evoking the chaos of 1990s Times Square and the roaring intoxication of St. Patrick’s Day in Savannah with a generous splash of NASCAR after party. We were thoroughly warned but still had to witness for ourselves this spectacle redolent of cheap cologne, cheaper weed and aforementioned puddles of leaking garbage, some in the form of the patrons of Kid Rock’s Bad Ass Honky Tonk & Rock ‘N’ Roll Steakhouse, which deserves neither bolding nor linking.
Mark valiantly kept trying to steer us back towards Printer’s Alley, the former newspaper publishing hub where we might have time to catch a burlesque show at Skull’s Rainbow Room if I’d give up my grimy post.
“Any minute now,” I pleaded stubbornly as the fringed couple sloshed around the filth.
We’d glimpsed another rainbow flag earlier in the afternoon at The Frothy Monkey, the community-minded all-day breakfast cafe where the food was delicious but the mood seemed uncharacteristically somber compared to the rest of Nashville's cheerful pandemonium.
Then I remembered: Oh, shit, that’s right. We’re in Tennessee. Home to the most draconian abortion ban in the country. Where politicians bully trans youth and drag is a crime. Oh, and everybody gets a gun, no permits necessary. (Less terrifying but equally dumb are state laws forbidding more than eight women living in the same house and sharing one’s Netflix password.)
Nevertheless, The Big Drag Party Bus continues to make unapologetic rounds through the streets, though the adorable barista sadly informed us that there is now a security guard on board.
There were other signs of lively defiance: Perhaps owing to its newspaper past, Nashville still supports one of the country’s last proper alt-weeklies, Tom Tomorrow cartoon and all: The Nashville Scene serves stories of progressive politics and deep-dive arts scene reportage, which is certainly more than we can say of our own formerly alternative weekly newspaper.
Of course, it’s always people that give a place grandness. What a gift to brunch at the phenomenal Henrietta Red with former Savannahians and forever rock stars Angel Bond and Brian Lackey, who decamped several years ago to East Nashville, where they promise the scene is kinder and quieter on that side of the Cumberland River. After a huge health scare that threatened Angel’s signature vocal vigor, these CUSSES are more gorgeous than ever, applying their formidable creative skills to renting out their art-filled bungalow to film crews and the pristine restoration of 1980’s Pontiac Firebird. The productive power couple intimated they might be working on a new album; perhaps they’ll be back to play a show at the new Jinx 912?
We also got a chance to hug the necks of Savannah native Teddy Gongaware Martin and her husband, Charlie, on Saturday night after the Futurebirds show at the Ryman (these Georgia-grown jammers are on the schedule at Savannah's Victory North June 1 & 2.) As professional music lovers who honed their concert savvy in Athens, Teddy and Charlie have a stress-free post-downtown routine: Brave a few yards of circus antics to Broadway Brewhouse for boozy milkshakes, then head out to the alley to jump into an Uber home—to East Nashville, obviously.
Speaking of alleys, I was still refusing to accept that my Music City dream was over as the midnight hour passed. There had been brief excitement as the stage door cracked and the band’s low-key keyboardist Mitchell Froom (the name’s familiar, his resume absolutely astounding) slunk off into the night without so much as a glance towards my private universe.
My patient husband finally took my elbow and steered me back to the other possibilities for our short, loud trip Nashville, which would include the Johnny Cash Museum and finalizing the debate of whether Hattie B’s and Prince’s proffers the best hot chicken (when you’re starving, the winner is the one with the shortest line.)
While it was disappointing after 40 years of dedicated fandom to come up with nothing but a sticky pair of boots, in a way I felt liberation and release. Perhaps it is best for our idols to remain a distant sun, lest Neil turn out to be an arrogant jerk, or up close I find out—as my former newspaper colleague and fellow CH superfan Bill DeYoung, who attended the Durham show earlier in the week with his lovely wife, Amy Kagan, observed—“looks like Bilbo Baggins.”
I consoled myself with the set list folded in my pocket, handed to me by a sympathetic roadie before my alleyway vigil. Its inaccuracies made it all the more precious—perennial favorite ”Weather With You” is not listed, yet it shook the pews as part of the sonorous encore—and I imagined the band had decided mid-show to add it based on the remarkable dynamic it had with the audience.
As we sidestepped our way over the puddles and away from the crowds, I realized that while Nashville may or may not have its other rewards, it could give no better prize than the music itself.
Hey now, hey now ~ JLL
Obviously your dream is never over Jessica, you were there ,and they got as much out of you as you them!
Another hilarious tale… or was it?
Loved the read! Clean up the boots!