Whiskey Bent and Hellbound

We got to Nashville just as the sun was setting. What was it setting on you ask? It was setting on our campground for the night. What is the name of that campground? The wonderfully chosen name is “Jellystone Park” – as in Yogi Bear’s stomping ground. It made me happy.

Nashville itself is a hick’s wet dream. Country everywhere. The radio stations blasted twang and the sole museum of note was the Country Music Museum that housed Elvis’ gold Cadillac. We headed downtown and were immediately swept into a world of would-be, trying-to-be and never-will-be country music singers. Like in Memphis, we roamed the streets checking out the scene.

We listened as best we could to the blaring country sounds spilling out of each bar and tried to make our pick. Finally, we stumbled into a bar with rockabilly blasting. The main attraction was that it had no cover charge and $1 PBRs. What the band lacked in talent they made up for in enthusiasm. The singer, with his fur-lined jean jacket and cowboy boots pounded on his keyboard and jumped around like a Mexican bean (the jumping kind of course). He tried his best to get the crowd going with a montage of playing while standing on the bench, kicking his legs back in the air and taking a playing hiatus to climb along the rafters over the band. This all made for great entertainment, but somehow, unsurprisingly, the music suffered.

The playlist included such hits as I Walk the Line, Whisky Bent and Hellbound and what sounded like a few original numbers. We finished up our beers and decided to head to Tootsie’s – a country music bar that claimed world fame. According to some sources this is the bar where Willie Nelson got his start and where numerous up and coming country stars yearn to play. Well, the night we strolled in must’ve been an anomaly. The John-Mayer-esq douchebag standing behind the microphone was lackluster at best and condescending at worst. He was clearly some New England prep school sissy who had headed down to Vandy to make dad proud and score himself some airheaded Georgia Peach.

The music was obviously geared towards high schoolers and it was clear from his songwriting that he thought a country song’s inclusion of lyrics about whiskey, women and partying meant that the song had no need for complex emotion or folk-based storytelling – he was wrong. Shallow lyrics that include words like “beer” and “drunk” and “dog” don’t make a good country song. Needless to say we didn’t stay long. When his girlfriend came around with his tip jar she was astonished to see that I declined. I believe her exact words were “psshhaww.”

After that we headed back to our campsite and braved the cold weather once again. The next morning we headed to a farmer’s market which would’ve put many Cali markets to shame (but not Haymarket, of course). All the fruits and vegetables were locally grown and down here in the South that means melons, 15 types of apples and every vegetable you can name. The had tables with 40 different types of jelly including such concoctions as watermelon rind jelly, moonshine jelly, sweet-potato jelly and cantaloupe jelly – I’ll have to get my dad working at recreating these inspired spreads. Finally, after realizing that the three different lunch spots we looked into were closed – it was the lord’s day and little was open – we got on that great highway and headed north to Lincoln’s Home, Kentucky.