To drag me away from the Brainwash festival it would take something pretty bloody spectacular. A trip to Nashville, courtesy of Jack Daniels, falls into that category. Hey, they might not be able to buy me, but I never said anything about them renting me for a while. I am a whore.
But amidst the corporate hurly burly, which I must confess was very good (JD do good hospitality; so good parts of my body still ache after a month), and the good-natured channelling and itinerising, a small group of independent minded media types… and me managed to tunnel our way out of the prescribed entertainment enclosure (strawberries do not, repeat, not make a relish; it’s wrong in so many ways) and head for the wilds of Nashville, beyond the bluegrass and cowboy boots; the real Nashville; the dive bar.
A ridiculous statement, I realise – even by turning up in what might be described as ‘the genuine article,’ we’re making it touristy, unreal – like Heisenberg’s theory, where the very act of observing effects the outcome. That said, Springwater (the oldest Dive bar in Nashville) was certainly as real as you could get without being born and bred in Nashville from a long line of Nashvillites.
It’s not my idea though, I can’t claim that. Tom, a guy immersed in the spirit of things from the tips of his cowboy boots to the top of his ten-gallon hat had had the place recommended to him by… someone at the Nashville Hilton, I think. Showing my intimate knowledge of things in general, I ask what the hell a dive bar is anyway. “It’s a bar where all the money goes into the beer and none goes into the décor.” Finally, a place where my shabby style might fit the surroundings. Only I’m dressed in a suit and trying my darnedest to look like Nick Cave. For the first time in my life, I might be overdressed.
On the trip over (crossing to the other side of the tracks, I kid you not), we see an 18-foot high cut out of Joe Elliot advertising a forthcoming bill featuring the legendary Def Leppard, which leads to a heated discussion about favourite Def Leppard lyrics and America’s continuing love affair with 80’s AOR. In fact, America is a country that was so comfortable with the eighties that, for the most part, it has decided to stay there. Only the technology has advanced… it’s like being in a Glenn Larson series. I’m expecting the sleek taxi to do a 90-degree turn at any moment, leaving us pressed against the windows in an hilarious mockery of inertia.
Pulling up outside the bar, I start to get a bit scared. The complimentary booze in my system is starting to wear off, and chicken wire seems to play an eminent role in the décor of this place, as do surly-looking men standing on a ramshackle ground floor balcony affair designed for smoking comfort. I giggle a touch hysterically and mutter “we’re going to die” under my breath. It is unclear how to get into the place – no brightly-lit porch, no ‘entrance’ sign – when we do find the door, it is almost indistinguishable from the wall, decorated with the weathered legend ‘Springwater.’ With Tom leading the way, we step into…
… one of the nicest bars I have ever been in in my life. It looks like shit; Tom wasn’t lying about the no décor budget policy. But it’s a good kind of shit. The walls are covered in gig posters, layer upon layer that you could probably date the bar by, the bar has four taps, no liquor, and stools occupied by slumping clientele who have been taking advantage rather heavily of the cheap local beers on offer (not just Bud; proper American dark and pale lagers like Dos Peros). The centre of the bar room is dominated by a pool table, ruled by amiable shark Bob, who’s relaxed attitude to pool rules doesn’t conceal the fact that he could and does wipe the floor with all of us (“we don’t have too many rules,” he drawls, “that’s how fights start”). Over in the corner a juke box whose eclectic selection includes the KLF is momentarily silent as the bands rock up room 2.
This is a dimly lit, open sided affair with a mix of booths with slashed chairs and wobbly circular tables, surrounded by equally wobbly chairs, where grungy kids roll cigarettes or pop pills, medicinal or otherwise. A blues-country combo plough their way through the standards, the frontman your traditional pub chanson bonhomie, the bassist a relic feeling his way around the familiar and unfamiliar. Figures skulk and nod appreciatively before returning to their pitchers and self medicating to obscenity; at one point I am approached by a muted but amorous drunk who can only manage the words “I’m your sister… I ain’t seen you for a while,” before being escorted to a taxi by her friend. This is grubby hedonism at it’s best.
A third room abuts the second, which is open on all sides for, again, the comfort of smokers (though the no smoking inside rule is pretty relaxed throughout Nashville in general) with windows made of chicken wire. Pretty chilly, but I’m sure I can see a bridge in the distance across a car park, but details are sketchy as the beer is kicking in.
Traditional blues country gives way to post-country, closer to Earth’s latest work than Hank Williams, and we all wander throughout engaging in our own little adventures: Suzannah gets chatted up by an arborealist enforcer and a prison designer; Tom gets called ‘a wanker’ and has to explain to the good humoured gentleman about British swearing; Bob hands us our asses at pool and I indulge in a cigar that looks like a whistle and tastes like a peach. It’s weird but not threatening (not the cigar); authentic but not forced. Post-country gives way to grunge-country, performed by the woman who was popping medication like M&M’s and is now droning on the edge of hearing with occasional bursts of enlightening tunefulness.
It’s funny that such a monumental genre as country is so maligned and misunderstood. Like rock or metal it has it’s sub genres, fusion points, costumes and customs. Only in the UK we stand and mock it while committing ourselves to the same crimes we accuse country of. In that grotty, magnificent venue I got an inkling of the vastness of country. Plus the beer was really cheap and the natives friendly.
To complete the night, we say a fond farewell to Springwater and return to Broadway to have a second bite of the tourist cherry. Dozens of bars play various genres and sub genres of music – Nashville isn’t just about the myriad variations of country, but if you’ve got a steel guitar it helps. Tootsies (the famous) buzzes with booze and bravado, so we dive in, mingle with the crowd and make our way to the stage, obtaining tequilas and beers on the way and tossing spare change into the frequently touted tip buckets – wages are below minimum for workers in these establishments, so any coming, glad of it. An acceptable covers band is blasting out pop country and MOR for the pleasure of the assembled and when Def Leppard comes on, I am a man possessed: to beguile the times, look like the times. It’s less laid back here though, a miasma of fights waiting to happen and southern fried lust fills the air – I narrowly avoid being the dish de jour for a pumped up pilgrim with fists a-primed on the dance floor. Thanks Tom.
This is the Nashville you expect, complete with Stetsons and Sheryl Crowe, but it’s more of a stereotype for fellow Americans than visiting, ahem, dignitaries. Us ‘sophisticated’ European types find ourselves seduced more by the simple heritage of the dive bar, closer to venues like the Brudenell Social Club or the Freebutt and closer to the heart of any thriving local scene. I only wish I could find out more, stay longer, chat, drink, assimilate, but for now I shall be satisfied.
I manage to stumble back to the hotel in one piece to rest my weary spinning head; spinning not just from the booze. Nashville, I love you; America, I love you; beer… we shall probably fall out in the morning…
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