Walkin’ The Blues

Mackenzie Curl has been playing piano and assorted keyboards for 56 years and you can hear Memphis in every note, especially his left hand. We stopped by The Corner Bar for a drink last night, and I complimented him on his playing, and then asked for a song, “All The Way,” the old Sinatra chestnut. He nodded pensively and responded with “All Blues,” copping that distinctive bass line with ease. We sat and talked about music, and then he asked me to play something. I considered my rather limited repertoire and politely declined. Listen and learn.

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The Living Legend

Carl Knight is 83 years old, and suffice it to say, has seen, and heard, it all in country music. As the winner of a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Nashville Songwriters Festival, Carl has had 63 of his songs cut by artists including Loretta Lynn, Jerry Lee Lewis, Charlie Pride and Norma Jean, among many others. He’s also the nicest man in the world, and more than happy to sit and tell stories about the old days. And does he have some stories. To listen to him, the artists of an earlier era not only made great music, but they also managed to have some serious, and also some not so serious, fun along the way. As I was leaving his beautiful home in Hendersonville, after a beyond-compare dinner, he bade Mitzi and me farewell by saying, “You and me, young man, we’ll have to write together sometime.” Yes sir, I believe we’ll do just that.

Reckless At Fanny’s

Fanny’s House of Music is perhaps the only woman-owned music store in Nashville. It features vintage guitars and other instruments, and curiously enough, vintage clothes as well. A perfect place for my old friend Bob Saporiti, also known to his many fans as Reckless Johnny Wales. The man is vintage is every way, and I use that descriptor with the greatest respect. Long may you rock, Mr. Wales.

Kickin’ It At B.B.’s

Country music rules in Nashville. But it ain’t the only – uh – stuff in town. Far from it. Tonight we dropped by B.B. King’s joint for a bit of blues, soul, old-school R&B and just plain rockin’ good fun. The house band is a great band, from the rhythm section on up. When lead singer Larry Springfield kicked off the set’s final song, “Let’s Get It On,” Mitzi and I could not resist, and we jumped up to join the bumpin’ crowd on the dance floor. It takes a lot to get a musician to dance, particularly one of a certain age. But these cats did it, with room to spare.

“…3, 4, Rock!”

Thanks to my good friend Bob Saporiti (blowing harp at right), not to mention my new friend Annie McCue, I found myself onstage last night at Neighbors, a cozy little club in West Nashville. Didn’t know any of the tunes, but we managed somehow. Four chords are four chords, after all. And three is even better. Of course, these pickers can make one chord sound like a symphony orchestra. When the beers are flowing, the crowd’s roaring and the music’s rockin,’ life here in Nashville is good; very good, indeed.

There’s A Purple Haze In Nashville

The Nashville scene comprises a lot more than country music, and that fact was never so evident as this morning, when I encountered Barfly on Lower Broadway. His repertoire includes gems from the golden era of rock and roll and the likes of Chuck Berry and Little Richard, progressing to the Beatles, the Stones, and finally to Jimi Hendrix and even a bit of Prince. Heck, if asked the guy could probably play a John Denver tune or two. Taking a break, and in a nod to my hometown, Barfly mentioned that he had once appeared with the Grateful Dead. Apparently, Pigpen heard him jamming on harmonica outside an arena in Cincinnati, back in “Oh, maybe 73 or 4,” and called him up on stage to play “Little Red Rooster.” According to Barfly, it was rockin.’ I believe the man.

“Whaddya Doin’ Here?”

“Like to check in, please. Last names are Ngim and Donald.”

“Here it is, Tom Donald and – Mitzi, ah, what is it – well, anyway, from San Francisco, it says.”

“That’s right.”

“So whaddya doin’ here?”

The answer, on its face, is simple. Visiting family. Here is Strongsville, Ohio, a  sturdy suburb of Cleveland consisting of some 50,000 souls, among them my first cousin, her husband and three sons, as well as my eternally-glorious 95-year-old Aunt Jean.

Do we feel out of place, amidst the seemingly endless string of fast food outlets, enormous malls, thunderous Chevy pickups and all the rest? Maybe at first, maybe a little. But it’s enlightening, and even a bit humbling to realize that full and enriching lives are being lived well outside the confines of our favorite 49 square miles, thank you very much. Ah, the curse of the hipster ethic. No one could possibly be doing anything more important than sipping the right brand of coffee at the right cafe on Valencia Street, could they? No one could possibly be doing anything more important than making art (or talking about making art), could they? Even if the art is unwatchable, unreadable or indeed, unendurable. And even if the talk is utter blather.

What are we doing here? Visiting family, and that, in the end, trumps all.

Hearth And Home

When the cab rounded the corner on 4^th Street and revealed the lights that illuminate the entrance to our building, it was an elevating moment. And I was ready for it, after a six-hour flight from JFK, much of it with our doggie in my arms because she simply could not endure the beneath-the-seat backpack any longer. We dragged our bags into the creaky old elevator, turned the key in the lock, flicked on the lights and looked around. Everything in its place. Mitzi’s collection of teddy bears staring back at us in mute welcome. An overripe apple in the fruit bowl. Our plants adroop, begging for an overdue watering. Penny, freed from her leash, began to race around the apartment joyously, in search of long-lost treats. A glass of wine each, we settled onto the couch and gave each other a hug. There are myriad books filled with catchphrases extolling the many virtues of travel. One so often forgotten is the simple pleasure of returning to that place we call home.

Manny’s

Founded by Manny Goldrich in the early 30s, it was the most renowned music store in the world. Manny’s reached its peak some 30 years later, when the likes of the Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan, et al, would drop by regularly. All of which is not to mention the perennial parade of wannabes like me, who would haunt the aisles, sneaking a quick pick-and-a-strum or a trill on a keyboard. Nowadays, a large nationwide chain called Sam Ash Music (also an eponymously-named operation) occupies the space and boasts an admirable collection of guitars, basses and keyboards, with drums and orchestral instruments in another shop across 48th Street. The salespeople are amiable and well-trained, and I spent a pleasant hour or so perusing the inventory. But somehow the experience was not quite the same, especially for a guy who bought his first pair of drumsticks from Mr. Goldrich himself, admonishing me on the way out, “Practice, young man, practice. That’s how you get good.” Truer words, sir, truer words.

The Glimmer And The Glory

Part of the rationale for traveling to New York this week was to do a deal for a feature film; actually, a package of three feature films. It now appears the deal will not happen. The reasons are myriad, but suffice it to say that when I read the fine print I could not approve the details. Disappointing? Of course. Every director, especially those working in the short-form milieu, dreams of the opportunity to tell a story that spans 90 pages or more. But I’ve learned the hard way that balance is everything in life; the pros must offset the cons. And in this case, they didn’t. As much as supposed creative types like me tend to think of themselves as impulsive and willing to jump-off-the-cliff-for-the-thrill-of-it, in the end life’s big decisions usually come down to due consideration and the application of common sense. A revelation? Not really. My mother used to warn me, “That crazy mind of yours will get you into trouble one day.” And she was right. Trouble, indeed, has been a regular visitor at my doorstep over the years. But on this day, common sense somehow managed to come out on top. And so for now, while my dream seems to have dissipated, my life is intact. Glory be.