This country never lets you forget you're an alien.
Every time I come here it seems like I pick up some new aspect of this whole strange bundle of quirks and assumptions and linguistic tics* that's called "being American", to the point where I just about think I'm getting a handle on it all†. And then you get something like tonight, at the Ryman Auditorium with Ricky Skaggs and his Kentucky Thunder**, which reminds you that no matter how well you think you speak the language, you're still a stranger in a very strange land.
It wasn't the show itself, which was predictably awesome - I'd seen Skaggs at the Cambridge Folk Festival, and blazin' picking and tight harmonies are assured. It's how he acts in front of a home crowd. He was personable enough at Cambridge; jaunty, telling the odd story, geeing up the crowd for the obligatory drunken audience participation bit. But tonight was something else altogether. Quotations from scripture to back up his idea that bluegrass needs to blend old and new; a near-to-tears appeal for prayers for Ralph Stanley's grandson (badly injured in a car crash, apparently); down-home tales of mother's fried chicken rubbing shoulders with assertions that no-one need fear these hard times, because the Lord will provide for everybody. Not a hint of irony from Skaggs, not a hint of scepticism from the crowd. He was right at his ease, chatty, friendly, knowing full well he and his crowd had the same rapport as decades-old friends. And there was me, sitting front and centre, never feeling so far from home.
But still. Fantastic show, which fully made up for my serial failure to see any damn bluegrass while I've been here††, and I came away with a baby American flag*** and ruing a near-miss at winning a couple of tickets to a bluegrass festival here in
A freight train precisely like the one I will not be hopping tomorrow morning
I've been in this city too long and not long enough - two days is plenty for tourism, but two months wouldn't be enough for the music scene. There's clearly a massive depth of talent here, beyond the hordes of bands in the Broadway tourist bars (although a few of them ain't bad). The Station Inn seems like the kind of place you could go every night for a year and not see a bad act, and the hostel alone has four or five guys who are here to play the open mic nights and work the A&R men, hoping for a headline gig or a record deal (a hell of a lot of the American music industry does its business out of Nashville). I've lacked the energy or the money to join the hostel party animals on their nightly jaunts hopping from bar to bar and band to band since dawn, alas. Next time. I am resolved there will be a next time.
Nashville in numbers:
Confederate flags spotted: 2! South may rise after all†††
Number of times I've bought the Tennessean: 2****
Number of times killed crossing the road due to instinctively looking the wrong way: still a big fat 0. I might make it out of here alive...
Hours 'til my Greyhound out of here: 11
Hours 'til the wedding: 36
Days left 'til I leave America: not damn enough
*I've been merrily "have a good fourth of July, y'all"-ing with the best of them today
†I've even, at the third time of asking, just about got to grips with the stupid shitty coinage
**none of whom are from Kentucky. False advertising! I demand my money back
††turned up 10 minutes after showtime at the highly-spoken-of Station Inn last night, was told it was full, stuck around for a bit then gave up and went to drink beer at the hostel. Another guy from here turned up 10 minutes after I did and waltzed right in for what was apparently a "fantastic gig", damn him
***some charity was handing them out to all and sundry for July 4. I asked if I was allowed to wave one and was told "Sure! if it wasn't for you there'd be no us!"
†††Admittedly, they were both ratty antiques framed in a second-hand bookshop run by a guy who seems to be fighting the good fight for the Confederacy single-handed - shelves full of Civil War books, dumb liberal-bashing jokes pinned up everywhere, general vibe of "right-wing racist asshole" overlaid on the standard "cranky old misanthrope" template for bookshop owners. Great place, though, and I came perilously close to spending $150 I don't have on a full set of the fabulous Foxfire books
****I know I said I'd never buy it again, but I gave it another go after learning it has a reputation as a liberal bastion. It, um, isn't. Although it was heartening to read an impassioned defence of gay marriage in the letters page