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This travel blog
In North America it was Fall. From the Pacific Northwest, Oregon to Seattle, returning south to dust-bowl country, before turning inland: from the West Coast to East. and back again. Greyhounds through the night and day: Tuscon, El Paso, Fort Stockton, San Antonio, Austin, Houston, Lake Charles, Lafayette, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Mobile, Greenville, Montgomery, Atlanta, Athens, Chattanooga, Nashville, New York City. San Jose. Mountain View. Home. Through various festivals, concerts and record stores; buses, trains, planes, and the Staten Island ferry.
The blog begins in August 2007. It starts in the Archives. Or read from here and follow the journey in reverse.
The Return
I returned home on the Air NZ Sunday night flight, a bottle of cheap duty-free whisky & a suitcase overloaded with miscellaneous items of Americana: vinyl, clothing, candy et cetera. After several nights on several Greyhound buses, the 11hr economy-class flight was a breeze, indeed, a luxury.
Home. Absent of mother & father (in Europe), inhabited by four young men going about their daily business, adjusting to a lifestyle free of caregivers, custodians, supervisors, overlords. Hence, cleanliness was lacking. It was however inspiring to witness the awakening of leadership in the older brother, once dismissed (obviously underestimated!) as complacent.
Back to normality. Back to the library. Familiar faces, characters, mannerisms. Some welcomed with open arms, some provoked a yearning to return from where I had recently come. Overall though, beyond the anti-climatic twilight zone, these friends of mine...
The Last Day
Sunday 7 Oct. The airshow was happening in San Francisco, as was the Hardly Strictyl Bluegrass Festival. An early start: we drove to Palo Alto airfield, prepared the plane, left the VW, and flew north over the Bay Area towards the Niner Diner at the top of the Bay.
The experience was truly a musical pilgrimage, as we flew over San Quentin Prison, I imagined which building it was that Johnny Cash played. 
Bacon & Eggs for breakfast with black coffee. Barbara tried the cheese burrito, which I finished off. Here are the remnants: 
California
At Monterey we dined at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. Restaurant. Barbara & Brent shouted me fish & chips with a milkshake - Alabama something... It had chocolate and peanut butter in it from what I remember.
Monterey Bay is beautiful. The Pacific Ocean, a few surfers & seals, classic cars, cyclists, Mexican weddings...
Saturday afternoon, driving back up the highway to Mountain View California, we wondered how the All Blacks had done against France. Brent, sitting in the back, pulled out his iPhone and checked the World Cup website as we were driving along. He read the results to our dismay, though we felt better hearing about the Aussies' loss to England.
Brent took me to the Palo Alto Apple store - near the Silicon Valley HQ. I bought an iPod nano. It came in a tiny little box, with the simplest instructions I have ever seen. After years of hulking a discman around, this was pure bliss.
I left Manhattan the same way I had entered, on the A train. With a heavier suitcase, an NY education & a homeward-bound nostalgia. Friday evening, a window seat on JetBlue; we waited in a queue of about 30 planes on the tarmac at JFK. I pity those who must fly often. But that's just the way it is a the big airports. It was dark by the time we took off. I followed the map through the flight, saw the lights of what I thought were Philadelphia, Cincinnati, St Louis, Kansas City, Wichita, etc. We crossed the time zones, I watched the Simpsons, & by 10pm we were landing at San Jose CA. It was incredibly busy, but I found my bags intact, found Barbara & Brent, I was happy.
Returning to Mountain View was a little like coming home. Familiar territory. Back at B&B's there was coffee, Ben & Jerry's ice cream, a comfortable bed, and my surplus pile of vinyl and cds.
Saturday, I arose at leisure, being in no hurry to inspect nearby museums, monuments, icons & suchlike. Simply basking in the glory of a completed journey. We drove down the coast to Monterey
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Erin McKeown @ Gramercy
Dave Kane once gave me a cd of Erin McKeown's, one of her more folksy albums. She can be found in the country section at Real Groovy, though as Wikipedia aptly points out, she incorporates the sounds of pop, swing and funk. Yet another fantastic venue: the Blender Theater at Gramercy certainly has a theatrical atmosphere. And there is a sense of antiquated intimacy in the wooden trestle chairs.
The opening band was Joshua James, an artist of the Bright Eyes variety: trembling and timid. However, his tunes were palatable, in I enjoyed him more than most of Conor Oberst's material. He mumbled where he was from, introduced as a place "you all have probably never heard of" - Lincoln, Nebraska. I almost laughed out loud. Has this guy never listened to Springsteen?
...From the town of Lincoln Nebraska, with a sawed-off 14 on my lap, to the bad lands of Wyoming, I killed everything in my path...
It was good though, he played a banjo.
Erin McKeown played, she wore a men's tuxedo, with cropped hair she was the spitting image of Laurie Anderson. She played a jazz guitar & had a horn section. I'd say she's the female version of Elvis Costello. 
I walked home satisfied. My last night in New York and I was weary enough for sleep. But still so much to do. The prospect of returning to the West Coast & the homeward journey that lay beyond were consolatory enough. Back at 101st & Broadway my Italian pals were out, so I packed and slept.
On Friday morning, my last in New York, Richard from Connecticut, Ahmed from Turkey, Lorenzo & Andrea from Italy & I from NZ sat together in nearby diner on Broadway, eating bacon & eggs, pancakes & coffee, collectively contemplating our futures. It was a poignant moment, sitting with these strangers, sharing a certain affectionate understanding that I think only exists in relationships of the transient; the traveller, the adventurer. An anticipation of the road ahead, & a wistful glance at the figures already beginning to retire into the distance of the past. Ah temporality!
Empire State Building
Those philistine security guards at the Empire State took my dad's Swiss Army knife off me. I was given a ticket to reclaim it on my way out, but it slipped my mind. And the knife was probably an imitation anyway. Still, I remain incensed.
I went up the Empire State Building for the sake of tourism. There are some things one must undergo when seeking to fulfill a certain experience. Fulfilment often necessitates an obligatory deed. If you're a tourist in NY, Empire State's got to be done. Simple. Woe, my alternative counter-culture mentality is ebbing like the tide. I am becoming... mainstream.
I could've gone up the Rockefeller. But who'd want to sanction that faux-philanthropic monopolist? Not I. All those industrialists were the same I suppose: Rockefeller, Frick, whoever built the Empire State...
The view was great though. A bit smoggy, but great. The sun had just gone down, and the Hudson glowed red in the fading light.
The Frick Collection
The Frick Collection is at 1 East 70th Street (between Madison and Fifth Avenues). Not your typical art gallery: the artworks are exhibited in the mansion formerly owned by Mr Henry Clay Frick (1849-1919), one of America’s most successful coke and steel industrialists. There's a huge range of art there, from Italian Renaissance Titian to English Impressionist Constable.
My knowledge of much of Frick's collection is amateur at best. Suffice to say stepping into each room evolved my comprehension of grandeur. I absorbed all I could and when I got tired, sat in the central courtyard by the fountain, thinking of my ontological self in this space which, whilst temporal, accommodates such a wonderful history, and sanctity, that I wish it would be here forever.
Anyway...
The Frick was in the top 3 of Matthew's New York visit. Up there too was Williamsburg and a Vegan restaurant in the East Village called Angelica Kitchen. I forget what I ordered, but I recall one of the most colourful (aesthetically and palatably) salad I have ever witnessed. The meal actually commenced with a bowl of Cauliflower & Cream soup, which I consumed with the refined vigour of a superior Briton. It was very nice. I don't like cauliflower but it's great in soup. Also had coffee with rice milk. Not too bad. The whole thing was cheap too. A read the Village Voice and chatted to the local gentleman opposite me; a very pleasant New Yorker, one I shall not forget. I may go so far to say a 'quiet American'.
If you're ever in New York, go to Angelica Kitchen.
The Brunettes @ Mercury Lounge
My days in New York blur into a glorious amalgamation of sunlight and subways, streetlights and sidewalks. What I remember about Tuesday is the Museum of Natural History, on the 5th Ave side of Central Park.
Remember Holden Caulfield?
The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move... Certain things they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone...
I knew there was a huge model of a whale hanging in there somewhere. I searched and searched for that whale and suddenly, there it was: looming from the ceiling of the great blue hall. 94 feet long, weighing 21,000 pounds, it is based on a female found in 1925, sculpted in fiberglass and polyurethane. It is the largest model of the largest creature that has ever lived on Earth. Amazing.
Underneath the Museum of Natural History runs the Green line: subway trains 4, 5, 6. I headed back to Brooklyn to find Williamsburg and Earwax Records. Brooklyn is the most attractive part of New York to me, especially around Bedford Ave. At Earwax I bought cds: Yo La Tengo & Sufjan Stevens, and vinyl: Neil Young (Tonight's The Night brand new for $7.99!!), Dylan & Cash (Nashville outtakes!), and Van Morrison. 
Tuesday night was a sentimentally & musically nationalistic evening: I went to see Auckland band The Brunettes at the Mercury Lounge on the Lower East Side.
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They were as sweet as ever, a level of bubblegum pop sweetness I believe only they can achieve, especially when the NZ accent sneaks into a line.
Talking to them afterwards was somewhat surreal, as we chatted about mutual acquaintances in Auckland City Libraries etc. Here in New York City. Walking home, leaving fellow countrymen/women, was a blue moment. But my Italian pals in the hostel soon cheered me up.
My NY Soundtrack
Down Here Below (Steve Earle)
Pale male the famous redtail hawk performs wingstands high above midtown Manhattan
Circles around for one last pass over the park
Got his eye on a fat squirrel down there and a couple of pigeons
They got no place to run they got no place to hide
But pale male he’s cool, see ‘cause his breakfast ain’t goin’ nowhere
So he does a loop t loop for the tourists and the six o’clock news
Got him a penthouse view from the tip-top of the food chain, boys
He looks up and down on fifth ave and says “God I love this town”
But life goes on down here below
And all us mortals struggle so
We laugh and cry
And live and die
That’s how it goes
For all we know
Down here below
I saw Joe Mitchell’s ghost on a downtown ‘A’ train
He just rides on forever now that the Fulton fish market’s shut down
He said ‘they ain’t never gonna get that smell out of the water
I don’t give a damn how much of that new money they burn’
Now hell’s kitchen’s Clinton and the bowery’s Nolita
And the east village’s creepin’ ‘cross the Williamsburg bridge
And hey, whatever happened to alphabet city?
Ain’t no place left in this town that a poor boy can go
But life goes on down here below
And all us mortals struggle so
We laugh and cry
And live and die
That’s how it goes
For all we know
Down here below
Pale male swimmin’ in the air
Looks like he’s in heaven up there
People sufferin’ everywhere
But he don’t care
But life goes on down here below
And all us mortals, struggle so
We laugh and cry
Darjeeling Ltd.
Monday Oct 1st. My memory wanes... I remember spending a lot of time seeking the perfect pair of Levis. I know what my favourites are: 517's. But the 517's over here are a very different shape to the ones back home. What a catastrophe.
I walked through Alphabet City in the East Village, listening to Patti Smith's Horses and Ryan Adams' Heartbreaker: two very NY albums, though Redondo Beach is in California, I was in the vicinity of CBGB's. It's all Patti's territory. Heartbreaker is self-evidently appropriate, with such titles as Shakedown On 9th Street, Sweet Lil Gal (23rd/1st) and lines: "I'm as calm as a fruit stand in New York and maybe as strange".
Fruit stands in New York in fact are not that strange. I could buy an apple or banana for a quarter and what's more, they were fresh!
That evening I went to the Union Square Cinema. Darjeeling Limited. is Wes Anderson's latest film, and a damn good one too. In a similar vein to The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou and The Royal Tannenbaums. A typical Anderson-style family drama, rife with quirky sentimentality, and oh so funny. Jason Schwartzman + Owen Wilson + Adrian Brody, and even Bill Murray has a silent cameo at the open and close of the film.
I won't forget the energy of this town. I walk and walk and I don't want to sleep though my head is heavy in the sweltering heat of the 1am subway station where I lean against the lino tiled walls and watch the black rats frolicking under the rails while the kids read Kerouac and the fathers read Forster and all others have white earphones and lovers rest their heads on lovers' shoulders. See, anyone can be beat. For the record, I don't like Kerouac. He's shamelessly overrated. Give me O'Hara any day.
So another night ended with a satisfactory slice of pizza and a cup of Earl Grey from the shop on the corner below the hostel.
oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much
St John the Divine, Iron & Wine
Another bright day in New York City. I went north, on the 1 train to 110th st, and the Cathedral of St John the Divine (Episcopalian). I was there in time for the Choral Mass at 11. The elegant music and grandeur of the room... it was an impelling rendezvous with God. Nick Cave was on my mind -
Gates of the Garden:
Leave these ancient places to the angels
Let the saints attend to their keeping of the cathedrals
And leave the dead beneath the ground so cold
For God is in this hand that I hold
As we open up the gates of the garden
And T.S Eliot's Ash Wednesday:
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
Ah I love Eliot.
I took the subway down to 14th Street to meet Toby, former history tutor of Auckland University and current PhD student at Columbia. We walked and talked and ate pizza. Something I am now a certified expert at.
That afternoon I continued southwards, past the Wall Street bull to the Staten Island Ferry. It was nice to be near the ocean again. A new one though. Abruptly my thoughts turned to my distance from home. I half-expected a dramatic physical manifestation of this epiphany, but no, I bought a coffee and got on the boat.
The Staten Island Ferry is worthy of mention because it is free. And that doesn't happen much in New York. It also happens to float rather close to the Statue of Liberty. I took photos, which of course look the same as every other Statue of Liberty you've seen, but they're my photos.
I had been warned not to waste time exploring Staten Island, so taking heed of this I exited the Ferry, waited with the crowd and promptly re-entered. The view from the ferry is amazing, just watching all the tugs and cargo ships in action and turning to see the Brooklyn Bridge as the old brick towers of lower Manhattan loom closer. The wind was biting. I loved it; reminded me of home.
Brooklyn: Atlantic Avenue Street Fair.
Like most street fairs, I was offered foods of various ethnic origins, jewellery, etc. My special find was a near perfect condition vinyl of Fleetwood Mac - Rumors. $4!
Sunday evening at the New York Town Hall on West 43rd St was Iron & Wine. If you've read this blog you'll notice I included a track of his earlier called Sodom, South Georgia. I had a Jameson's, found my seat at the front of the glamorous upper balcony, had a catnap through the support act, and on came Iron & Wine. The full band was lush: acoustics, electrics and pedal steel, loop pedals, violin, drums & percussion, keys. Amazing musicians. They played mostly from the new album, with all the best from the prior albums and ep's. And then it was over. I bought the new record at the merch table (which includes a password so that one may download the full album free, in order to listen on one's ipod easily. Genius!) I walked off down 43rd, slice of pizza and a coffee, perhaps a Camel cigarette. When in America one must do as the Romans..
Photos
It has been almost a week since I last wrote. Abominable! First, here are some photos, (apologies, I have not yet edited this collection or captioned them, so you may have to wade through random pictures of fields, clouds etc. You have been warned).
New Orleans
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| New Orleans |
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| Athens, Georgia |
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| Nashville, Tennessee |
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| New York |
The blog rolls on...
I have returned to the homeland, but my accounts of NYC and my return to the West Coast are yet unfinished. Therefore I have many posts to come. And photos. Thank you.
Lucinda Williams Live @ The Fillmore (East)
Saturday 29 Sept. Bagel and coffee. Subway from 103rd, 1 train. I went to Century 21, a large department store downtown, right next to Ground Zero. A lot of great clothing for not much money; I had a ball. Especially in the hat section.
I lived on bagels, coffee and pizza this week. A slice of pizza is about $2, and the size of a small island.
It was strange, this was Saturday - my second day in the city, but I felt like I'd always been there. I belonged! I wore a leather jacket and was asked for directions.
The Fillmore East at Irving Plaza is created in the image of the original Fillmore in San Francisco, the same Fillmore where Lucinda Williams' spectacular live album comes from.
I got a Jameson's and browsed the merch table. Something caught my interest: a pile of albums I hadn't seen before... Upon further investigation I discovered the 'essence' of Lucinda's tour. Concept concerts! She plays for a number of nights in a row, each night playing a different album which is recorded, then mastered and burned to cd while she parties through the second half of the show.
So at my particular concert, Lucinda with her band came on and performed World Without Tears. She was beautiful and so entertaining, telling jokes and stories in that southern drawl. She finished all the songs from that album, and the first half was over. Out the back, the mastering of the new recording began...
Lucinda left the stage, and Fionn Regan came on. Sometimes there are so many young male solo folk singers in the world I just get sick of it. But this guy really is great. I guess nobody in that genre today can get away from the word 'Dylanesque'. There I said it. Now I need a drink. Regan's little show was cool but lively. He played what he wanted and didn't care about the obnoxious crowd. Soon after that Lucinda returned to jam with friends Jim Lauderdale, Chip Taylor, and my personal favourite, CHARLIE LOUVIN!!. He wore suspenders. What a funny old guy. I highly recommend his latest album, it includes Elvis Costello, Jeff Tweedy, Will Oldham, Tift Merritt, and David Kilgour! David Kilgour from Dunedin!
So all these great musicians partied their way through various Lucinda Williams songs, and Chip Taylor's big one - "Wild Thing", and the concert was over. And here's the best part: I bought the cd at the merch table of the show I'd just been at. Lucinda Williams live at the Fillmore East NYC, Sat 29 September 2007.
Greenwich Village
I was persuaded that night by an Australian girl to join her, another Aussie, a South African, and an Irish lad on an excursion to Greenwich Village. Boy am I glad I went. This Irish chap Stevie was hilarious, with a baby-face which I'm sure drew crowds of women, and the spirit of Shane MacGowan, which I'm sure drew crowds in general. I choose the word 'spirit' carefully. He took the Lord's name in vain in such a lyrical way, saying "Jesus H. Christ" with a charm only achieved by the Irish.
We took the 1 train south, changed at Union St; Stevie pacing ahead confidently, rambunctiously. Soon up the stairs and into the crowded night of the Village. First stop, a blues bar, a lot of people, a not bad band, a door charge... I was happy to be out there with people; the young Australian guy knew about NZ beer, laughing at himself every time he tried to pronounce 'Tui'. I kept laughing at the South African when he imitated Tony Greig. At least I think he was..
Next stop, Cafe Wha'. About 45 years ago Bob Dylan sat in here reading his newspapers. Today, this place is a disappointment. Filled to the brim with what could only be tourists, who one could tell were ignorant of Dylan simply by their uncultured appearance (I am an utterly sanctimonious). And on top of that, a $12 door charge! And the band! Oh the band, doing abonimable 'funky' covers of top 40 songs.. I was grateful they didn't attempt any Dylan.
NYC
The Airtrain took me to Howard Beach train station. JFK Airport is a small city in itself. From Howard Beach, the A train took me through lower Brooklyn and into Manhattan. I sat watching the tiled walls and stations fly by: Chambers - Washington Sq - 14th St - Times Sq - Columbus Circle... I was headed for the Upper West Side.
From the airport you don't see New York City. So to exit the subway station at 103rd, clambering up the steps into blue sky, red bricks, black fire-escapes and green Central Park was rather mind-blowing. The thought of being in New York brought uncontrollable chuckles of excitement to my typically reserved self.
I finally found the Broadway Hostel, checked in, more stairs, showered, then went walkabout. New York was such an inspiring way to finish the journey. After five weeks travelling through a country where walking is considered an alien phenomenon or a remarkable act of courage, joining the crowds on the NY pavement and subway was a joy.
It was Friday evening. I found the Bowery Poetry Club (across the road from the late, lamented CBGB's) for the Taylor Mead Show. Taylor Mead is an interesting character, known for his friendship with Andy Warhol, and lately for his part in Jim Jarmusch's "Coffee & Cigarettes".
He is poet laureate of the factory worker, and one of those people (like Woody Allen perhaps), known for the love of his town.
I ordered a Jamesons, went in and sat down. I was alone in the audience, but three more came along. Taylor Mead hobbled in, aided by his young sturdy sound-guy. He sat down at his desk onstage, surrounded by audio paraphernalia: a cassette player and a briefcase of papers, teeming with words, poems, drawings.
"My insurance company just cancelled my Vicodin" he drawls, "I gotta pay full price for my f*ck'n Vicodin". No matter what he says, it is utterly charming and inspiring. "I have 3-4000 pages in my apartment. Every so often my landlord tries to evict me and throws out a whole lotta pages. That's my editing."
I bought his latest book of poetry, "A Simple Country Girl". A collection of 'sublime quips'. For example
Philosophy of Cats
A minimum of effort
A maximum of error
I sat with him afterwards at the bar. No one else was around really. Another old fellow, ostensibly homeless, was trying to sell me a cd from a shopping bag. He could've been a genius, I could've missed out, maybe he was just an acquaintance of Taylor's. So I talked to Taylor Mead for a while, and he was fascinating. He offered to sign the book, which I accepted. Some time later I was on my way back to the Upper West Side.
DBT's in Nashville
Thursday 27 Sept. The purpose of my Nashville visit: Drive-By Truckers at the Mercy Lounge on Cannery Row. The Drive-By Truckers have many labels: neo-southern rock, alt-country, cowpunk, my favourite is psychobilly. I love them. It's the best kind of feel-good music, asserting a tough masculinity (of which I am deficient) that is achieved simply through highly lyrical narratives about getting cars out of ditches, or putting more lawmen in the ground "than Alabama puts cotton-seed". Not to mention the intertwining three guitars that lead the charge.
They're a heavy band. But their recent tour has been stripped back, following the departure of one guitarist. I liked it: with acoustic guitars their stories come across more potently, reflecting the style of earlier albums. And there's more space for pedal steel! The best part of this was that Spooner Oldham has joined the band. He's the legendary keyboardist, playing for Neil Young since Harvest, on a Dylan record or two, Steve Earle's latest album.. Incredible. You'll see him on "Heart of Gold" - Neil Young's Ryman Auditorium show. Spooner Oldham, and I stood a couple of metres from him. That's as close to Neil Young as I'll probably ever get.
So for the show they were seated, passing around a bottle of Jack Daniels, under the dim red lights, before a macabre animated background of the same vulture-swans that grace their album art. eg:
They finished with my favourite Truckers song, Zip City. That was perfect enough. But the encore was even better. They did two more from the new album, and using his infamous Gibson electric, Patterson Hood built up to a climax, passed his guitar to the roadie, stood up scowling, growling into the first row, launching into Springsteen's 'State Trooper'. Here's an image to aid description:
'State Trooper' is one of the best songs from my favourite Springsteen album 'Nebraska'. Now I had been on Greyhound buses for what adds up to days, long sleepless nights listening to 'Nebraska', and the Truckers' 'Southern Rock Opera' and watching the lights down the highway, waking up further from the Pacific. So to hear this awe-inspiring band play that very song was astounding in the most apt sense.
I walked back to the hostel, fast. Couldn't stand still. 1am. I had to catch a plane at 6, meaning I had to be up and out at 5. My German and Swedish pals were still awake, so we sat on the street outside talking 'til 2, when I went to bed. Luckily the odorous gentleman on the bunk above me started snoring at 4.30am, waking me up and forcing me out.
Dragging my ever-heavier suitcase through the dark street to the nearby hotel, (from where the airport shuttle departs), a police car passed, circled the block and stopped. I was asked for my passport, and once inspected was let on my way. Weird.
Nashville airport: we walked out on the tarmac, two people had to volunteer to sit at the back of the plane for take-off, the sun rose, we landed at JFK in New York at 10.30am.
Carl Perkins' Cadillac (Drive-By Truckers)
Life ain't nothing but a blending up of all the ups and downs
Dammit Elvis, don't you know
You made your Mama so proud
Before you ever made that record, before there ever was a Sun
Before you ever lost that Cadillac that Carl Perkins won
Mr. Phillips found old Johnny Cash and he was high
High before he ever took those pills and he's still too proud to die
Mr. Phillips never said anything behind nobody's back
Like "Dammit Elvis, don't he know, he ain't no Johnny Cash"
If Mr. Phillips was the only man that Jerry Lee still would call sir
Then I guess Mr. Phillips did all of Y'all about as good as you deserve
He did just what he said he was gonna do and the money came in sacks
New contracts and Carl Perkins' Cadillac
I got friends in Nashville, or at least they're folks I know
Nashville is where you go to see if what they said is so
Carl drove his brand new Cadillac to Nashville and he went downtown
This time they promised him a Grammy
He turned his Cadillac around
Mr. Phillips never blew enough hot air to need a little gold plated paperweight
He promised him a Cadillac and put the wind in Carl's face
He did just what he said he was gonna do and the money came in sacks
New contracts and Carl Perkins' Cadillac
Dammit Elvis, I swear son I think it's time you came around
Making money you can't spend ain't what being dead's about
You gave me all but one good reason not to do all the things you did
Now Cadillacs are fiberglass, if you were me you'd call it quits
The Country Music Hall of Fame is three floors of glitz and glamour. Everything shines: gold discs, gibson guitars, cadillacs. All facets of the Country Music tradition are explored, though not much attention unfortunately is paid to alternative country.
What is alt-country? Wilco's Jay Bennet said it's music that "applies a steel-toed boot to the rhinestone-encrusted ass of commercialized country crap." Good call. There are a lot of rhinestones in the Hall of Fame, and sequins too. But! Gram Parsons does make an appearance, as does Gillian Welch & David Rawlings. No Ryan Adams though. Yet. But does he deserve to be there? It's interesting that in the American record stores almost everything is lumped into the 'rock' section, unlike the eccentric and sometimes dubious 'country' section of Real Groovy.
Anyway, the Hall of Fame was indeed inspiring. The real young punks of early Country were the rockabillies: Jimmy Rodgers, Carl Perkins, Wanda Jackson, Janis Martin, early Elvis etc.. The photos and old footage of these performers exhbiit a raw energy unheard in the world of commercial country today, and indeed commercial pop music.
I found myself in a small cinema room and hearing an NZ accent, was utterly ashamed to find it was coming from the screen, starring Keiith Urban. What an embarrassment.
There were amazing artefacts on display: Nudie suits made for Hank Williams, Johnny Cash's guitar, Gram Parsons costumes, and walls of gold discs. I was happy to see a video clip of Gillian Welch & David Rawlings in an area dedicated to the neo-traditional scene. Unfortunately close by was a video clip of Shania Twain. My experience of the Country Music Hall of Fame, as I expected, was with mixed feelings.
It took the good part of Wednesday for us to get through the Hall, after which we left downtown to find a recommended record store up near the university. At 'Great Escape Records' I bought Hank Williams, as one should in Nashville.
I had been eating well. Near the hostel was the Baptist Hospital, with a cafeteria open to the public. Healthy, cheap food for all! I was a little nervous being surrounded by medical staff, so acted as hospitalised as I could, just to fit in.
Nashville's where you go, to see if what is said is so...
We entered Nashville in the evening, passing the Gibson headquarters, pulling into the 8th Ave Greyhound station, my last Greyhound station. Walked up to Broadway as the sun went down, surrounded by cathedrals. I stood on the corner and could see churches in every direction, it was incredible. Temperature - still hot.
Music City Hostel, a nice quiet easy-going place; I felt most at home here after the crowds of the Hollywood, Seattle and New Orleans hostels. In the office I met Klaus, a real German gentleman, with a name that makes me chuckle (See the Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou). He found out I was from NZ and immediately went off to find the "other kiwi guy", who turned out to be Brett, one of the assistant managers, originally from Invercargill. I felt most at home. Over the days I was there I admired Brett's progresss in painting a chess board onto a table, using post-it notes and glow-in-the-dark white paint. It really looks awesome now.
My great Nashville companion was Tanja, from Berlin. Another wunderbar German. She too was taking Greyhounds, checking out Americana. So together we visited the Ryman Auditorium, the Country Music Hall of Fame, and various other landmarks and record stores.
The Ryman Auditorium, original home of the Grand Ol' Opry, is a beautiful hall which has hosted pretty much every great artist in music. My favourite is Neil Young - see the dvd 'Heart of Gold' - it's a concert that pays homage to the Ryman and the tradition of Nashville. It's amazing to see the scars in the stage floor and think of Johnny Cash and June Carter, Hank Williams, and so many more, singing and dancing up there. Garrison Keillor performed A Prairie Home Companion up there. The Ryman is certainly a soulful place, you can sense it as soon as you enter. The rest of Tuesday was spent wandering downtown, Ernest Tubb's Record Store, the Cumberland River, like the Ryman, potent with history.
Tuesday night, the first of two concerts that had drawn me to Nashville: Animal Collective at the Mercy Lounge on Cannery Row. I walked in to a dark room, laser-lights, huge skeleton props, and freaky electronic folk psychedelia. It was stunning, such an amazing show. I bought a record from the merch desk, and walked home, my head spinning, loving what I'd heard.
Athens, Georgia and the coffee at IHOP
I was booked in at the Athens Days Inn. No hostel in this small town, so I had a room all to myself! Of course including the luxurious amenities: small soaps, shampooos, coffee, tv, Bible etc. I turned on the tv and found Sergio Leone's "Once Upon a Time in the West". What a great film, with lines like "How can you trust a man who wears both a belt and suspenders? The man can't even trust his own pants." So that was my afternoon in Athens. Following that I walked downtown (about two blocks), found the infamous 40Watt club where I was going to a gig that night, and entered the diner next door. This place had the best fries and grilled cheese sandwiches. Wuxtry Records was the next stop. Like all the best record stores this had a lot of material in a small space. This is the record store where the members of REM met each other I think. I kept an eye out for Michael Stipe. I settled for a Rolling Stones album in Athens, unfortunately not the elusive Let It Bleed, which I have long been searching for. The guy at the desk found out where I was from, and asked if I knew the Tall Dwarfs (Alec Bathgate & Chris Knox). Yes, says I enthusiastically, trying to sound cool at the same time. I mentioned casually that I work in a library with Alec Bathgate's sister, and I told him (for those who know) about the Captain Hammer and the Gold Stars gig, featuring Chris Knox. He was highly impressed. Tall Dwarfs had actually played in Athens, and this guy had shown them around. Small world.
That night was the The Watson Twins & Magnolia Electric Co. An excellent show, though the bar was only half full. Door charge was something like $10! Back home a gig like that would've sold out at $30 each. I guess I'm lucky. It was the weekend, and apparently all the college students go out of town, for some reason. I don't know why; the closest city is Atlanta, and that city doesn't seem attractive. Anyway, the Watson Twins were very beautiful, as was Magnolia Electric, with a Carter pedal steel and all.
Slept in on Sunday. Went back to diner for grilled cheese sandwich. Walked to the public library. A very long and hot walk it turned out. But the town is pretty. I walked down a very green street lined with old brick mansions with greek letters above the entrance. Fraternity houses! They actually exist beyond the movies. The air-conditioning of the Athens Public Library was heavenly.
I walked out and saw International House of Pancakes across the road. Tom Waits and Iggy Pop like the coffee at IHOP. I thought it was ok, bordering on average. The blueberry pancakes were delicious though. They clogged my arteries in the tastiest way.
What was on the TV that night? Saving Private Ryan. This really was a great 'blob-out' weekend.
Monday morning (24 Sept). Packed up, raided the hotel's breakfast supply in the lobby (I was the only one there), taking two muffins, a danish and a bagel in my bag for lunch. The Greyhound was not too bad this time. Didn't have to wait too long in Atlanta. Took the bus up to Nashville. Fortunately I've been reading a book about the creation of the Oxford English Dictionary, a truly enthralling tale involving murder and madness! On the road up through Georgia to Tennessee we saw the foothills of the Appalachians. A tad more scenic than the dust and scrub of southern New Mexico and Texas.
Arrived in Nashville on evening of Mon 24/9.
oh god it's wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much
Dear all, I am currently in New York City: one of the most exciting, and may I say, climatic, segments of this journey. I am currently in the public library at the Lincoln Center, and time is of the essence! So my blogging abilities are somewhat stunted by this situation. As are my photo-posting abilities, due to the misplacement of a usb cable, which I presume is sitting in the Athens Public Library. However, I shall obtain a new one, and continue soon enough.
Yours sincerely,
MDH.
Frank O'Hara - Steps
How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget's steeple leaning a little to the left
here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting's not so blue
where's Lana Turner
she's out eating
and Garbo's backstage at the Met
everyone's taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park's full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we're all winning
we're alive
the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building's no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)
and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining
oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much
New Orleans - Athens GA
New Orleans, Day 2.
Beignets and coffee for breakfast at Cafe Du Monde. Simple, cheap, delicious. Strolled along the waterside looking at the muddy Mississippi. Found the Louisiana Music Factory, should've bought some Fats Domino, but wasn't in the mood, so I bought Coltrane, Cohen and Springsteen. McDonald's for dinner because I was lazy. But what's so bad about that? When in Rome...
Day 3. At Betsy's Pancakes on Canal St I had the best breakfast so far in USA. Bacon & eggs (overeasy) with grits and black coffee. And of course the waitress asks "you wanna refill hun'?" I sat at the bar.
Magazine St is out of the French Quarter, and I was glad to be there, away from my fellow tourists. It is a beautiful street, with old villas and many trees. I found a tea house down there! In New Orleans I had the best cup of tea so far in USA. It was Irish Breakfast.
On Magazine St is Jim Russell Records. Rated by Billboard in the top 10 record stores in USA. It was a dusty old cluttered place, crammed with rarities. I counted about 12 vinyl copies of Blood on the Tracks, and they even had a Neil Young bootleg recording on vinyl! It was $50, which is a lot, but I probably should've bought it. From there I took the Band, and Van Morrison.
Back in the French Quarter I went to Faulkner House Books, but found no Faulkner! I did find a wonderful little manifesto by Ferlinghetti, called "Poetry As Insurgent Art". Next stop, Le Petit Soldier Shoppe. I bought a wee Confederate Infantryman. Chatted for an hour to a crazy local who painted the soldiers.
At the House of Blues this night were the Roots. It was a great show, with the full band, including a guy playing tuba. There was a great mix of people there. I did actually prefer the Arctic Monkeys gig strangely enough. Still, this was cool. Mos Def came on too. The more RnB songs I liked best - there was a great one (a response to the track by Nas I suppose) with a chorus line "i just heard somebody say that hip hop died a long time ago, but that aint so".
On Fri 21st September I took the overnight Greyhound from New Orleans, through Mobile, Slydel, Montgomery Alabama, and dawn came in Atlanta. After a long wait in that crummy station I took my next bus to Athens Georgia.
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