Coming out of the closet in Nashville - part two

Next stop, Memphis, Tennessee. Twice a day, at the storied 1920s Peabody Hotel, five ducks march to and from the lobby fountain to the music of John Philip Sousa (composer of ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’). I can easily see ducks in Toronto’s harbour and wasn’t prepared to stand half an hour, so I could be sure of seeing more.

Instead, I walked down the street. Boy! Do they show the flag in Memphis.

The ‘birthplace of the Blues’ – Beale Street – is in Memphis. There was live music in a nearby park and great neon. As well as trains, I love neon.

I had been here before – to cover a major medical story in the 1980s. But I’d never been to Graceland. Remember – Elvis began as a country singer and was elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame ten years ago.

The house (in which you can take pictures, but with no flash, so bad photos) is surprisingly modest by today’s megastar standards. But, for someone with only a condo balcony, the backyard’s reasonably impressive.


So is Elvis’s private plane – a Convair 880, a smaller version of the old Boeing 707. It has gold-plated seat buckles and a double bed, and was named for his daughter.



And he didn’t do badly for ground transport either. Graceland has thirty-three of Elvis’s cars and motorcycles. I rather liked this retro Caddy.

But, all good things must come to an end. I could have taken away an Elvis replica jumpsuit for $3,300 (USD), but decided not to.

Ed and Pauline, a delightful French Canadian couple from a town of three thousand in Northern Ontario, were in the bus seats next to mine. Ed had been a train engineer, miner and jail guard. Given that I know little about small northern towns and have done my lifelong best to avoid manual labour, we could not be more different. Still, we got along like a house on fire and, at the end of the trip, when Ed said he wanted me to visit and we’d go fishing, I knew he really meant it.

Here Ed, complete with Elvis button, occupies a Tennessee bench. There’s also a second picture showing Pauline. It’s not a great composition, but I include it because she has such an interesting face.

At last! We’re approaching Opryland!

But before we get to the Grand Ole Opry, I should emphasize that Nashville doesn’t see itself as a southern hick town. It claims the moniker the ‘Athens of the South’, in part because of a goodly number of universities, including prestigious Vanderbilt. So, why not have a Parthenon – a full-sized replica complete with statue of the goddess Athena? Given that the ‘Athens of the South’ is also the ‘buckle of the bible belt’, I doubt whether animal sacrifices are encouraged.

Evangelicals or not, the locals have some sense of humour. Here’s the Nashville AT&T building, dubbed the ‘Batman building’.

But the main goal or, at least, my main goal of the trip was the Grand Ole Opry. The Opry began as a radio show in the Twenties and, for many years, performances were broadcast from the Ryman Auditorium. Once the Union Gospel Tabernacle and still standing, it’s the so-called ‘Mother Church of Country Music’.

Gospel is one of country’s major elements. Just think of some of the early titles – ‘River of Jordan’, ‘The Old Rugged Cross’, ‘That Glory Bound Train’. In Nashville, the ‘Protestant Vatican’ and where bible publishing is a major industry, all the strands come together – like the strings on Buck Trent’s banjo!

Here’s the Opry in the 1930s.

In 1974, the Grand Ole Opry moved to a new home. The Opry now seats more than four thousand and doesn’t have the traditional atmosphere of the Ryman. However, the radio broadcast – supplemented by television – continues and I greatly enjoyed the more folksy first half of the program. The second half was contemporary. One of the performers – Jean Shepard – is a sprightly 74. The songs ranged from ‘The Tennessee Waltz’ to ‘Second Fiddle to an Old Guitar’ and ‘Happy Trails to You’. Here’s the Opry and Tennessee flag.


I had half expected to see a lot of cowboy hats, bouffant hairdos and perhaps the odd jug of moonshine, but, in the words of the old Carl Perkins song, that’s largely ‘Gone! Gone! Gone!’ Like most places that become legends, it wasn’t quite what I’d hoped for (and, in my more rational moments, had known it wouldn’t be), but that didn’t detract from the experience.

At the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, I could look at Kitty Wells’ guitar and think of the days when I sniggered at country. Perhaps it was the names – Dolly, Merle, Ernest Tubb - but, there was honesty in the music and the lyrics often movingly spoke of the hard times endured by people far less fortunate than I.


On the way back to Toronto, I found myself thinking. This was the first time in my life that I have ever travelled a few thousand miles for music.

When I was at boarding school, on my visits home I would find Father – an English gentleman and certainly no hillbilly – enjoying a program called ‘Don Messer’s Jubilee’. This was a ‘Down East’ (as in the Canadian Maritimes) TV barn dance show with plenty of fiddles, banjos and harmonicas. Nasty little brat that I was, I laughed at dear old Dad. I said it was corny. Nowadays, I have a Don Messer CD. To steal an old country lyric, the circle is unbroken.

From now on, don’t be surprised if you find in my living room – and in shockingly open view – CDs of Curley Williams & His Georgia Peach Pickers and Boots Woodall & His Radio Wranglers. I will no longer hide them under the sofa. And so, to conclude, I’m coming out of the closet with one of my favourite singers.

Coming out of the closet in Nashville - part one

I have finally come out of the closet. I discovered that I was not alone. I found there were others with whom I could openly share my once secret love, without shame, without fear. It was in Nashville and a huge relief. I can now be honest and true to myself. At the Grande Ole Opry, my long, painful ordeal came to an end.

Those who know me generally assume jazz and big band are my preferences. But, there was another me, unsuspected by even my closest friends. Occasionally, with the door locked and chained, I would take out a CD, hidden as one would hide a naughty magazine, and enjoy … Patsy Cline. Sometimes even Hank Williams or Slim Whitman.

Eventually, having read of a tour that catered to fellow Tammy Wynette addicts, I succumbed to temptation (a standard country theme, be it a honky-tonk woman or 'likker'). In early October, I loaded my iPod with the ‘Louisiana Hayride’ (a Shreveport radio show from the 1940s and 50s), packed a book on the origins of country music and headed south.

We crossed into the United States at a down-on-its-luck Detroit. Below is a liquor store on a grim street heading out of town.

The weather cleared and we rolled down the I-75 and into the sun.

You may have noticed one or two grey hairs among my fellow travellers. Bar the driver and tour guide, I was the youngest. I confess to being mildly anxious as I booked. I needn’t have been. It was a hoot!

First night in Sydney, Ohio. I made my way to a classic art moderne diner built in 1941. Not only is ‘The Spot’ locally celebrated for its burgers and home-made pies, but President Bush made a campaign stop here in 2004. He bought a hamburger with lettuce, tomato and onion ‘to go’. I had a ‘small’ vanilla malt for $1.99, which turned out, as so often in the States, to be huge. While binging on my malt, some locals chatted to me about their town; for someone from Toronto, this natural friendliness to strangers came as a bit of shock.

Next morning, I saw my first election sign. Ohio is one of the so-called ‘battleground states’. And Missouri, the next state along, is crucial. In every presidential election since 1904 – bar one – Missouri has voted for the winning candidate.

Here we are on the Interstate with morning mist still on the fields. I have had little experience of American ‘highway culture’, but my iPod provided a musical backdrop. Ferlin Husky was singin’ ‘Truck Driver’s Blues’.

Sitting in a comfortable seat, watching the scenery, listening to Ferlin and Faron and Waylon and occasionally dipping into my book was very relaxing. More and more, I avoid driving, although the sight of RVs strikes a certain gypsy chord. Along the Interstates, dealerships with dozens of shiny RVs and trailers are a frequent sight. “Easy credit!” signs shout as the economy tanks.

At St. Louis, we crossed the Mississippi and into Missouri. This is the Gateway Arch, commemorating the route west for the 19th century settlers.

Here I am by Route 66 (as in ‘Get your kicks on …’) in Rolla, Missouri. From Chicago to Santa Monica, it is the most fabled of America’s highways, although a shadow of its former self. But, at dusk and twilight, you can get a hint of what it was like in its heyday, lined by quirky motels, restaurants and stylized tepees selling ‘genuine’ Indian crafts. And all those post-war travellers heading west in their flashy boom years cars.

Our first musical destination was a place I’d never heard of before this trip. But, apparently, millions better informed than I have. Branson, Missouri, is a town of a few thousand, which attracts more visitors than flypaper in an Ozarks outhouse (and that’s my line). Branson has been called “the live country music capital of the universe.” And, according to the AAA guide, “The loyal Branson fan still comes for traditional country and gospel music, homespun comedy and heartfelt displays of patriotic pride …” Your average Branson visitor is conservative, religious and white. In my three days there, I saw fewer than ten blacks. Some were hotel staff.

Branson offers an extraordinary variety of “good, clean” entertainment. The music hall below, attached to our hotel, gives an idea.

I heard a lot of live music on this trip. The most intimate performance – and perhaps closest to my sense of a traditional country music show – was banjo picker Buck Trent. He was a stalwart on the 1960s Porter Wagoner broadcast and a regular on ‘Hee Haw’ in the 70s. Which you watched, didn’t you?

After the show, ol’ Buck signed his photo for me and later turned up at the diner where I was lunching. I couldn’t see what he was having, but at that place it sure wasn’t salad.

Branson is Las Vegas without the casinos, bars and sex. Or, if there is gambling, drinking and fornicating, it’s well hidden. Like Las Vegas, it’s a place to savour the kitsch. A gigantic Titanic and the iceberg loom over Country Music Boulevard. Motels are built like riverboats. This is the billiards room attached to the men’s washroom in one of the theatres.

And patriotism? Frenzied applause for the vets at every performance and no end of attractions to remind one of the American sense of 'exceptionalism'.

Accommodation ranges from the luxurious to, well, low-key.

What’s a trip to the American South without going on a real paddle-wheeler? Below is the Branson Belle. The maple wood wheel – dating from 1928 – is more than ten feet in diameter.

Next to getting Buck’s autograph (now, where is that photo?), my Branson highlight was a train ride through the Ozarks and into Arkansas. I love trains. Now, that’s something I’ve never hidden! 0900 on a Sunday morning; most people are in church and only about fifteen passengers board. That is, we board once we’re checked for firearms …

Trains have always featured in country music. Jimmie Rogers sang ‘Waiting for a Train’ and the ‘Train Whistle Blues’. In 1929, one of the Carter Family’s big hits was ‘Wabash Cannonball’.

The train from Branson featured that lovely, streamlined equipment from the 1950s. Here’s the stairway to one of the domes.

Part two comin' up.