America at Last – Part 9

They moved the Grand Ole Opry – home of the iconic radio show – out of town in the 1940s and Nashville’s Broadway looks like it has been frozen in time as the rest of the city grew up around it. Corporate towers loomed over the redbrick of another age.

We ambled back from the Cumberland River in the direction of 5th Avenue and fell into the first of many Honky Tonks. Sitting beside a wall of multi-coloured cowboy boots in the dimly-lit interior, we watched a lone guitarist running through his repertoire. He was playing to a scattered group of folks that might have just walked in from a tour coach back home. There was good-natured appreciation as long as the music didn’t get too loud.

As we sat and absorbed the room and the beer, we worked out a pecking order that seemed to go something like: record deal, tours and the big-time for the few with sufficient stardust to generate a market; evening Honky Tonk scene for pros who can put in a decent performance – might even get a share of the bar; early-doors Honky Tonk - must have sufficient repertoire to keep the lunchtime drinkers and diners happy and be able to live on a tip-box; doorways and street-corners for competent musicians busking the sidewalk, picking up loose change. You quickly realise how many good musicians there are - and that being able to play is no guarantee of success. That scuppers it for me then.

As the audience thinned out, the singer asked the remaining punters for requests. He wasn't playing anything from the land of the living. I plucked up courage and shouted “Don Williams!” – I couldn’t think of anyone else.

“Hank Williams?”

“No. Don Williams. You know, ‘I Recall a Gypsy Woman’.”

“Sorry friend, I don’t know that one.”

Old Don must be still with us then. We listened to the next song and wandered back out into the sunshine.

There was a full-on drinking culture along the strip. With a couple inside us, we wandered into a Western clothing shop, where there was a 3 for 1 deal on cowboy boots. Typically, our taste is on the expensive side. I tried on a pair of nu-buck brown ones that turned out to be $299. We wandered around the shelves trying boots and hats and then I went back to the nu-buck ones. Amazingly, I steered myself out of the shop for a cooling-off walk to think about it. Before we left, the assistant told us that cowboy boots shouldn’t fit too snug, but that the heel should lift a quarter of an inch inside as you walk in them. I thanked him for the tip and we went to chill by the river again, where I decided to leave boot buying till later in the trip.

As time stood still, we had that great feeling you get when you are a long way from home and still not half way through the journey. The free spirit in its native environment.

Later, as we walked past a busy bar, we heard an amazingly soulful Country voice coming out of the door. We’d carried on a dozen yards when we looked at each other and turned back. Soon we had a couple of beers and were perched at a table.

Shelly filled the room with her voice and personality. The gig was in full swing and the band was a superb engine behind her. I’d say she’d seen the best of her career and could have been the subject of any number of Country songs – but, boy, could she sing. She did a powerful, bitter-sweet number called “Reckless" and, when she wandered round the tables swinging a tip bucket, we just had to buy a CD. Shelly told us she'd toured the UK about ten years before and loved it. Close up, she was kind of detached from the whole thing and you wondered whether that talent might be some kind of a curse. As she went into another song, she stood chatting to us between lines off-mic, then wandered back over to the stage. There was some kind of tension between her and the band – but it didn’t do the music any harm. She left an impression in that few minutes. I liked her. She had a soul, which is where the music was coming from. With Shelly, you got the feeling you were looking at the “real deal”.

We browsed a number of souvenir shops and flicked through CDs in Ernest Tubb’s record store. Trouble was, we really didn’t know what we were looking at apart from the old classics and compilations you could pick up anywhere. As the afternoon wore on, the street began to come alive.

In another bar, we watched a band whose singer’s talents included summoning the souls of dear departed Country greats to inhabit his body and perform their songs. Great! On the way out, I went to drop a couple of dollars in the tip box and he came across the stage to punch my fist. Like a complete arse, I misread him and offered him the money – like he was the bus conductor. As the rhythm kicked back in, his right hand went back to work, at which point I realised my mistake and offered my own fist. He slowly shook his head and moved back centre-stage. You only get one chance. I smiled sheepishly at the punters and followed Natasha, who had already left.

There was a generally good audience rapport in the bars, with one acoustic act taking any request, even if it meant Google-ing the lyrics. The clientele was suddenly boosted by hockey fans in town for a game at the arena. Further along the street we were refused entry into the “world-famous Tootsies” because of our small day-rucksacks. Oh well – we hit the “Bluegrass Bar” instead and finished off the day listening to a kind of Bluegrass Pogues. They were raw and lively, as were the audience. The band received adulation when they gave a big shout out to a dangerous looking individual, newly released from serving twenty-five years in the joint. He was probably on our bus.

The booze-infused walk back to the hostel felt safe enough. We stopped off at a gas station convenience store to buy bottled water and snacks for the following day’s journey, then hit the sack about 10:30 ready for another early start.

That night we lay awake for long periods listening to the mournful moans of the mile-long freights as they crawled across the city, which were answered by those of a girl orgasming in the dorm. The performers were still locked in embrace as we left to rendezvous with the 08:00 Greyhound to Memphis.

As we pulled our cases along beside the highway leading to the terminal, we saw a lady loitering around a desolate concrete corner. It was like a David Lean scene – we'd spotted each other well before we trundled up to the pitch where she was selling “The Contributor”. She was all smiles, and when she heard us speak she couldn’t contain herself. “Oh my God, you’re English! Say something!”

“What?”

“I don’t care. Anything! Just speak. Oh, I love English people. You sound so nice.”

We didn’t even get around to buying the paper. She wandered off, laughing, down the street and we took our lives in our hands to cross the highway, leaning into the next leg of our journey with smiles to brighten even a Greyhound waiting room.