After the disaster of LSU week and the debauchery of the four previous, I decided that I needed to get out of town for a few days. On Wednesday morning, I threw some shit in a bag and headed west to the State Capitol to see Southern rockers Widespread Panic at the world famous Ryman Auditorium. I got online and booked a room downtown and in no time, I was posted up on Broadway, ready to rock and roll. I made a few calls to touch base with my Nashville crew, secured my ticket to the show, then walked down the street to Jack’s BBQ to meet up with some of my Panic buddies. I met Christy and a couple of her “tour buddies” and we got some ‘cue and a table. One of Christy’s friends, who went only by some lame nickname that I can’t remember, was sporting an Alabama hat. I glared at Christy across the table as he sat next to me and discussed the previous night’s show. He was a nice enough guy, but since I hate all bammers, I wasn’t very amicable. Probably not very nice of me, but fuck that guy. Some people are able to set aside petty football differences for the sake of concerts and an overall peaceful, hippy vibe. I am not one of these people. I want to kill anyone I see wearing a “Roll Todd” shirt. The only thing worse than a dumb hippie, is a dumb hippie in bammer gear. Fuck, I hate them!
After lunch, we strolled a bit further down Broadway to the Broadway Brew House. It is a large establishment, that unlike most in this part of downtown, is not a touristy “Honky-Tonk.” It is big room, divided down the middle by tables, with two bars and approximately 7,000 beers on tap. The owner used to work for Panic, and we have several mutual friends. Panic was playing through the speakers, and we soon bellied up to the bar. I ran into some friends who were also in town for the show, and we shot the shit over several whiskeys and ice cold High Lifes. The bar was soon packed with Panic folks, and the mood was good. So good in fact for one patron, that he excitedly pumped his fists into the air while doing a strange barstool dance(pun intended.) He looked like he was having a seizure, but the drunken grin across his face laid these fears to rest. He got really excited about songs from the album, “Til the Medicine Takes.” These songs are a bit older, and considered by most Panic fans to be very run of the mill. We openly mocked the dancing nerd at the bar until he was escorted out by a couple of the bartenders for being obviously drunk on beer.
For most of my friends, this was the third night of a 3-day run, and they were running on fumes. I was raring to go, but their tired attitudes were bringing me down. This was soon cured by some help from Dr. Bruce and his bubble hash. My Nashville crew soon arrived, and we made our way the few blocks to the Ryman.
The line into the Ryman was 7-10 people wide and stretched nearly a block down the street. We stood around for a bit before I realized what was causing the hold-up. Security was checking ID’s and giving out wristbands at the front door. This caused a ridiculous bottleneck that the crowd did not like. I got a very uneasy vibe from the restless, drunken mass, and then realized that if I didn’t get a wristband, I could avoid the miserable line, and what was sure to soon become a raging mob of furious drunks and scalawags. I figured with everyone I knew in the venue, that surely I could drink beer that my friends bought for me. With a beard and plenty of cash, this was not a problem.
My seats were fantastic, center balcony about 6 rows back, and I was sitting with three of my best friends, Mac, Tuna, and Eugene(pronounces Ooo-Dean.) Beers in hand, we found our seats and waited for the lights to fall. They soon did and the band ripped into their set, lights blazing and guitars soaring around the small, historic room. I looked at my friends and realized that their earlier plans of remaining drug-free had apparently been scrapped. The Tuna had his usual “Widespread eyes,” half open, slightly darkened, sagging over a huge, toothy grin. I asked him what he’d taken. He laughed hysterically and gave me a touchdown worthy high-five. Eugene leaned over to inform that they’s both had a few bites of mushrooms. I assumed that he wasn’t referring to shittakes. “You got anymore?” I inquired at the top of my lungs over the music.
“Sorry, Fat! They’re all gone! I was like the Cookie Monster on those bastards! NOM NOM NOM!!! Ahahahahaha!!” he guffawed. More high-fiving and hugs. “So glad you’re here, buddy!!” Eugene was a-rockin.’
The show continued this way, beers coming one after another, more hand slapping, hugging, and small baggies and capsules being passed to and fro. The show was fantastic, and everyone around us, the entire venue in fact, was in a great Music City state of mind. The set break came and everyone shuffled outside to smoke cigarettes and shake hands with friends from days of hippie yore.
The discussion outside during the set break was centered around rumors that there were going to some special guests coming out to play with Panic. The big name floating around was Charlie Daniels. This definitely excited the predominantly Southern fan-base of Widespread Panic. I was skeptical about this rumor, as it has been my experience that rumors in the “lot” are usually bullshit. However, on this fall night in Nashville, the rumors were true. As the band came out for the second set, frontman John Bell, croaked, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Charlie Daniels!!” The crowd went nuts. The near perfect acoustics of the legendary Ryman roared with the ecstatic voices of 1,500 bleary eyed Spreadnecks as band ripped into “Ain’t Life Grand,” JB on mandolin, Charlie Daniels sawing on his epic fiddle. The devil in Georgia was wishing he was in Nashville tonight. They then went into the Bloodkin song, “Who Do You Belong To?” and then the blues standard “Fixin’ to Die.” JB’s soulful vocals turned to a near growl as he, Jimmy Herring, JoJo, and Charlie traded licks on their respective instruments. Charlie was pounding on his fiddle with such authority that his bow looked like a skinny, blonde chick headbanging on his shoulder. His 40 gallon cowboy hat covered his face and his enormous belt buckle shot flashes of reflecting light all around the auditorium.
Charlie Daniels left the stage to more screams from the crowd and the band continued through a really good set. The boys soon slowed the pace and moved into their usual second set “Drums,” as I noticed keyboardist JoJo exiting the stage. I assumed he was going to take a piss or a line, as the rest of the band remained onstage. A few minutes passed, and the band, save for Sonny and Todd(drummers), left the stage and the drum solo commenced. Normally, I go pee during this interlude, but tonight I stayed because the lines for the men’s room were unconquerable. Three rows in front of us was a guy in a ball cap, who seemed to be really enjoying drums. Mac soon pointed out to me that it was JoJo. JoJo lives in Nashville, and had come into the crowd to dance with his wife. He seemed to be having quite a time and the surrounding crowd soon realized who was dancing with us. After a couple of minutes he went back downstairs to the applause of the balcony, and resumed his position behind the keyboards and finished out the show.
I walked back to the Brew House after the show and sucked down a few more beers while waiting for my friends to rendezvous once again. Around 2 o’clock, I hopped in the car with Christy and Bruce to go over towards Vanderbilt. Some friends of ours from Knoxville had rented a house that was allegedly full of booze and nitrous oxide. There was indeed ample booze, but thankfully there was no hippie gas. It tends to give me a headache. This doesn’t usually stop me, but I was glad it wasn’t around, nonetheless. There was also a lot of good grass and a tire swing. And lots of rolled-up dollar bills. The owners of the house must have had some kind of new vending machine.
As 4am rolled around, I decided to all a cab and go back to the hotel. Nashville is a great taxi town, unlike Knoxville, and the cab arrived about 15 minutes after I called it. The fair was ten bucks, including tip, which pleased me to no end. I staggered up to my room, kicked of my boots and fell asleep immediately. I didn’t even watch any internet porn. I swear.
I extended my stay another night about thirty seconds before check-out on Thursday. You see, I had decided to stay in town another night in order to spend some time with the Nashville girl of earlier installments. Also, one of my new favorite bands, Band of Horses, was playing a free concert in downtown Nashville, in front of the Davidson County Courthouse.
I decided to continue my slumber for a couple more hours. I got up and showered, made a few calls looking for someone to have beers with, all to no avail. I talked to Mac, who somehow had my sunglasses, and headed over to his house. He was feeling horrible after three nights of debauchery and when I arrived, he wasn’t here. He pulled in behind me after a few minutes, having just finished a solo lunch at Cracker Barrel. Hungover decadence indeed.
I hung out with Mr. & Mrs. Mac and their son in their lovely home. “Can you say, “Hey, Fat,’ buddy?”
“Hey, Fat. Knuck, knuck..” his son said as he gave me the fist bump. Mrs. Mac and the baby soon left for a play date. “You wanna check out my deck?” Mac asked as he pulled out his mason jar.
“You know that I do.” I said. We hung out on the patio for a bit before my hunger got the best of me. “I need some grease and alcohol if I’m going to pull it together. Where is a good spot.?” Mac told me about the Sportsman’s Grill, across the road from his house. “Great. Let’s roll. You can drink one beer. By the way can I borrow a shirt. I have a date tonight, but I didn’t plan on staying so it’s t-shirt with smoke smell of t-shirt with beer smell.”
“Sure, Fat. Goddamn. Let’s go.” said Mac.
Clean, collared shirt on, we went to the Sportsman Grill for a cheeseburger and beer. The cheeseburger and Fat Tire’s were great and Mac and I got caught up about life, music, his fatherhood, and the sorry state of UT athetlics. After Mac finished his beer, I took him home. “I feel fucking awful, my wife thinks that I’m pitiful and I’m pretty sure my two year old is now smarter than me. Take me the fuck home.” I did, then went back to my hotel to get ready for Band of Horses.
Two hours later, Leslie came to the hotel to meet me and we headed back to the Brew House. We chatted for a bit over some cocktails and grabbed a cab up to the Band of Horses show. The cab ride cost about three bucks. But it was an uphill three bucks, so fuck it. There was a large crowd on the courthouse lawn and we were near the back. The volume was lacking, but the show good. They played a good mix of their albums, and the crowd was quite receptive. Before they finished, Leslie and I walked down to 2nd Ave. To get some more drinks and listen to some music. We found a small palce with a rock-n-roll cover band, deciding that shots were the best play. The band was pretty good, “Sweet Child of Mine” was a highlight, and the crowd was great people watching. It was some girl’s twenty-first birthday, and she and her hammered friends were quite a spectacle. Regrets were definitely in their futures. An hour or so later, Leslie ran out of steam and we started walking back to the hotel.
It was slow going up Broadway, what with the booze intake and all of the statues of Elvis, all of which Leslie demanded to be photographed next to. We finally got back to the hotel where I made a very gallant attempt to get Leslie back to my room. She declined, stating very convincing points, which I accepted, and walked her to her car. After a very long overdue kiss, I bid her adieu, sulking back to my room, shirt untucked, head hung. Back in the room, I ordered a disgusting pizza and wings(don’t order Sicilian Pizza) and went to sleep. I drove back to Knoxville the next day in gastrointestinal agony. Overall, good trip. I only had one day to prepare for Georgia...
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