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.