Music City Insomnia

I’d like to think that I’m so full of creative energy and inspiration that I can’t sleep. That’s why I’m here, typing away on a laptop while everyone else snores away inside the relative safety of their earplugs.

It’s been more than two years since sleep has come easy, though, so the insomnia of this road week is not unexpected, or even unwelcome. I’ve had only one week of restful sleep in the past few months, and it was over entirely too soon.

Today, Stephanie and I wound our way through the Country Music Hall of Fame. Even if you are not a fan of country music, there is a deep and residing respect that grows as you learn about the birth and influence of such a deeply ingrained part of North American culture.

Plus, there are sequins. Lots and lots of sequins.

The rain had reduced itself to a drizzle, the threatening thunder of the afternoon passing us unscathed for the most part. As much as I like to eat delicious healthy food, there are some things that just have to be done while in America.

So we hit Fat Moe’s, the greasiest hole in the wall burger joint in Nashville. I had a half Moe, which was the double burger, with their seasoned fries and the largest cup of Pepsi I had ever seen.

Moe didn’t disappoint. I could feel my arteries clogging with every bite. Only in America.

That was on our way to the one and only Bluebird Café. If you haven’t heard of it, well, it’s a tiny club in a strip mall. Unlike many of the city’s more famous hangouts, the Bluebird is located out in suburbia, and is rather non-descript.

Ask any songwriter to name the most influential establishment they could wish to play in North America, and nine times out of ten this place would be it.

The Café has live music seven nights a week. Open mics are on Mondays, and it’s sheer luck if you get up on the stage. If you do get up there, you might be performing with and in front of some of the biggest names in this city. It is an absolutely electrifying venue.

The motto at the Bluebird is SHHH. Unlike many coffeehouses or bars, this place is completely about the music. There’s hell to pay if you even whisper while a performer is doing their thing. Heaven help you if you forget to turn off your cell phone and you get a call.

Tonight, the late show featured two of this town’s heavy hitters – Skip Ewing and Hugh Prestwood – along with Garrison Starr, a relatively unknown woman with a voice that killed.

Two wordsmiths at the top of their game and a woman who has been on the verge of success for years made for an interesting evening. Skip and Hugh obviously knew what they were doing, and loved doing it.

I was most impressed with Garrison. She sounded like Jann Arden, if Jann Arden were ever hung over and REALLY pissed off. With a southern drawl. Her upfront honesty and edginess were a welcome relief from the cookie cutter commercialism of the Nashville hit machine.

Now it’s one in the morning, and I’m typing this. Thinking that I heard too many love songs tonight, that it could be the reason I’m resting this way instead of drooling on my pillow.

I’m going to go pick up a pen and see what comes out.

Don’t be disappointed if it’s only ink.