March 30, 2019

Yesteryear
One year ago today: March 30, 2018, remember cubeSats?
Five years ago today: March 30, 2014, way over my budget.
Nine years ago today: March 30, 2010, his name is 'John'.
Random years ago today: March 30, 2005, urinal flushers . . .

           Another chilly day and a trip to the park up near the donut shop on Lebanon reveals the larger dog will never be disciplined enough to walk through any area with other dogs, skateboarders, and small electric scooters. Hey, not my dog, I know the right way to make them behave. It may be cruel, but they dog never disobeys after that. So it was short leash time and a walk by the river instead. I can’t make that interesting, but how about some candid view of downtown Nashville. I was there this evening, which I’ll tell you about later. Let’s look at the crowds.

           Country music is alive and well. But it comes at a price, and that price is an average $6 for a bottle of domestic. The better clubs have cover charges and line-ups later, but most are okay if you get there before sunset. This is the strip you want to see if you are touristing. Akin to the French Quarter or Beale Street, in Nashville it is Broadway. It is girl-watching paradise, accented by the recommended fashion of skin-tight blue jeans. And guys, it is mostly the kind of girls you want to look at. Let the melting pot stay way and the hell over wherever it is.

           The busy stretch is one street, running southwest from the riverfront for three blocks. There are eateries, museums, and clubs on some of the side streets. The intense partying goes on in the roughly twenty bars that line Broadway, all an easy walk. This is the music capital so every place has a country band and all are top-notch. If there are any jazz or blues bars, I didn’t see them. The average age of the crowd today was under 25. I was by far the oldest person present until much later, and even then, it was only three or four people. What’s great is the jeans culture means although slim women are now a minority, this venue draws them out. Yes, they still make them like they used to. Living in Florida, it’s easy to forget that.
           Unexplainably, I prefer the “south” side of the street. The entertainment is almost exclusively a house band consisting of one stereotypically talented guitar player and a group of hired guns. So the music is top-notch, being that everybody is here to be discovered. Alas for them, there are no talent scouts searching that part of town. The guitarist is, generally, over 40, and what is it with black-haired men and solo guitar. There just are not that many blonde men in the business. The music is still classic country, but the sounds of new country, which isn’t really country, are more in evidence than ever.

           All the guitarists go for two looks, either Jason Aldean or the generic ball cap and sleeveless jean shirt and names like Granger, Kip, and Huntley. And Blake, don’t forget Blake. There are Karoke bars here and there, though they tend to be up flights of stairs or at the ends of the strip. I ran into something new, for me, and rate it both a good idea and a millennial-grade rip-off in the way it is implemented. It’s called the “tip to skip”. The first time I saw it, I asked how long the line was and the jockey said around 40 minutes. I glanced at the monitor and saw around 8 names, so I put in. After some 10 people have got up, I ask the jockey what gives.

           He says it is “tip to skip”. If you put $20 in the tip jar, it moves you up to next singer. $10 and you are singer number three. Neat, except the jockey never mentioned that when I asked how long. Pretty soon an hour goes by and this particularly ugly gal who should be banned from wearing jeans is up there every fourth or fifth song. She doesn’t dress like she’s got $20 to pull this off and by now, I’ve figured out how to watch the tip jar.
          

           She hasn’t put any money in it all night, here's what she looked like. Like she'd been skipped throughout life and tonight was payback time. Finally, the guy tells me I’m next and I’m definitely watching. The ugly one takes my place. The good news is at least there was somebody there I wasn't twice her age. I told the guy I know when I’m being played and left. The idea is great—but only if they warn you first. I was doing the Karaoke tour until that joint conned me into waiting an hour and twenty minutes. By then it was too late, the other lines were too long.

           This broad bumped me either three or four times when I was next or next to next on the list. (I didn't catch on right away.) It must be coincidence, since nobody there knew I intended to sing. Even so, that's a coincidence I can do without. She'd had some professional vocal training, but her act was as bad as her outfit and hairdo.
           So I headed over to a place who’s name I already forget, a huge converted warehouse with the best bands you never heard of an adequate restroom facilities. Tonight an extremely talented lady singer doing harmonies with this guy who was trying to show off, but he could barely keep up with her. Nobody in the place, including the staff, knew the name of the band. Hey, in Nashville, they come, they go. There are a lot of prohibition era clubs on the side streets if that is your bag. That’s where to find any jazz, blues, dueling pianos, and women who are also bags. Here’s a revew site called Thrillist that’s mostly accurate. Here's a picture of the band in the big club.

           Notice how the band is situated on a tier up and behind the vocalist. Nice, but not always. The sound was big band, but whenever I see a keyboard on stage, I'm suspicious of what I'm really hearing. This lady reminds me of Michelle, the lady singer in my old 5-piece. However the lady here is 'somewhat' older than the impression you're getting. That pant-suit like outfit will also remind us of Michelle. She [this lady here] had one of those 'big' voices and sang a couple duets in harmony with the drummer.
           If you've never played in a band, don't wonder why so may of the lady singers date the drummer. It's because lady singers are too good for a guitarist, rarely good enough for the bassist, and anybody else in the band, well, nobody dates them. Ever. And drummers, ladies know, are a dime a dozen, controllable, and take whatever they can get. Now, I have a good twenty years on this lady, but folks, I still wear tight blue jeans on stage. My outfits are no-camouflage and I still get results, read my lips.

Picture of the day.
"New" 3" vinyl format.
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           Did you hear about my $130 beer? Last evening, it’s raining and cold, nothing doing with walking the dogs. I leg them under the balcony, that was their outing. That still means they were outdoors three hours today, a little more than average. So, once they get settled down, I get this brilliant idea to head downtown for a beer. I don’t really know the downtown for driving, other than to get to the library. So parking is another matter. Staying off the freeway, I got into the area well after dark. I headed straight for the cheapest parking lot, which is $13.50 per hour, minimum two hours. On weekends, there are no free parking spots within walking distance of Broadway.

           I’m just about to shell out for the $40 parking when I can’t believe my eyes. A parking spot open less than two blocks from the action. I get in there, lock up, and stroll down Broadway, lamenting I didn’t make it here 50 years ago. I was, by 30 years, the oldest person in the entire crowd of I’d estimate 1,200 people. The sidewalks and clubs were jam-packed. There are a few record shops and souvenir stores, but Saturday night isn’t their prime time.

           By 10:30PM, I head back to my car to discover two flat tires on the curb side. Up and down the street, nobody, but I am the only car with out-of-state plates. So I take a quick walk around the block to find I’d parked not that far from a homeless hangout. Damn! I hauled out my fix-a-flat and spare, only to have the fix-a-flat nozzle plug itself while the tire is still resting on the rim. I flag down a taxi to discover he is the only driver in the city who does not carry a standard emergency inflator. It’s getting late and starting to rain, so I ask him where I can buy a cheap compressor this time of night. Again, the only cabbie in town who has no idea.

           After a wasted quick drive around, I told him to find the nearest Wal*Mart super center. It was not past 11:30PM and starting to rain. As I worked the tire wrench, the homeless started gathering around offering to help. Yeah, you can help by pointing to which bastard let the air out my tires. While I’m holding my tire iron. Anyway, I get the compressor and made it back home by 3:04AM. That was the excitement for the day. If I add up the compressor, two cans of fix-a-flat and the $85 cab fare, those three beers downtown cost me $130.
           I rationalize it by saying if I’d paid the $40 for two hours parking, and I still have the compressor, I’m really only out $50, but still. I found out later there was a WaWa within walking distance.

ADDENDUM
           Before you head for Nashville, a few warnings. First, the downtown area, except for the well-lit strip, isn’t that safe after dark. The area is based on money, not music. The Karaoke bars are dominated by semi-pro acts trying to get discovered. That “Suzie” on the queue ahead of you might be a quartet who brought their own CD. And the crowd that thinks hogging the stage betters their careers may wind up singing all 37 verses of “Edmund Fitzgerald”. All servers expect a dollar tip per round, so budget $7 for beer and upwards. (I don’t drink hard liquor and don’t really care for those who do.)

Last Laugh