I grew up listening to country tunes about the Nashville scene and what a lonely place it was to be a musician there; maybe that was true in the 70s, but, as I walked by a line of drunk dudes waiting to get into Kid Rock’s Big Ass Honky Tonk Rock N’ Roll Steakhouse, I realized it was now a piece of Americana that had been bought and sold years ago and, Lord almighty, I missed out on it.
Within a couple of blocks, Broadway—the main strip that Nashville is primarily known for—is a music Mecca of bright lights, short skirts and mediocre cover bands playing their hungry hearts out in each and every tourist trap that lines the street. And there I was in the middle of it all, in my black pearl-snap shirt and blacker leather boots, $35 poorer, having just paid for parking a few blocks away.