ASCAP's Lobby - a serious place
Red Chevy and Bluebird
On Sunday, within a couple of hours of landing in Nashville, I had the honour of playing a couple of songs at the last Sean McNamara Irish night at Dan McGuinness’s Bar. If I hadn’t met with eight-time Nashville visitor and friend, Enda Cullen a week or so before embarking on my own trip, It might have taken me a day or two more to find my way into this excellent ‘Irish’ bar. Bars like this, Ireland could use. The food is wonderful – the best I had in Nashville – and, while the menu is reasonably priced, everyday they do a special; Fish and Chips, Thurs, Steakburger (incredibly good) is Monday etc. which is incredibly good value at around 6-7 Dollars.
Sean Mac’s been playing every Sunday Night for 6 or 7 years – an institution. He’s good too and is opening his own bar in February. Tears were shed on that stage on Sunday.
Dan’s, being so good – the staff are so welcoming (genuinely, in a relaxed way as opposed to the in your face trained friendliness), so good it’s become a popular Music Row hang out so, for example you run into Pat Alger – writer of numerous hits for Garth Brooks and others on your way to meet with Pat McInerney – Nanci Griffith producer and more. You were introduced to Pat Alger the day before by Ralph of ASCAP, who you’d met in the bar – only a few hours after you’d had an appointment with him in ASCAP’s beautifully quirky penthouse office suite. This bar raises the bar.
Ralph's Reception - Gertrude
Monday night 49 people had the idea that they’d like to play at the world famous Bluebird Café. 23 had a stamp showing that they gone previously and not got to play and these stamps guarantee you a slot the next time you turn up. It’s a fair system and I’m now in possession of a stamp. Back in 2 weeks.
Somebody I met at the Bluebird mentioned the Commodore Grill as being a good place to play and, once you put your name down with Debbie before 9, you’d most likely get to play. Somebody also mentioned the ‘Hall of Fame’ at the Music Row Best Western – my hotel, and with my Bluebird stamp safely stored where I’ll find it, I went home and played for a very appreciative audience.
In his office on Tuesday morning, Ralph Murphy also said I should check out the Commodore and talk to Debbie Champion – so I did. Debbie’s a diamond. The sound set up is superb with Debbie – sounding a lot like Sandy Harsh of RTE radio – speaking gently into her microphone from her desk at the back off the hall, encouraging you to check your sound – one by one for each of the three performers on stage. After agreement on the running order, everyone sings a song and then you each sing a second and Debbie reminds the audience of your name and thanks you as you leave the stage clear for the next round.
I felt I gave a strong performance of my two songs – Debbie came over and said she’d really enjoyed the songs and that there was a home for me here – anytime. I told her I’d maybe come back on Wednesday and she said ‘Please Do – we’d love to have you back’. All in all, a great Tuesday.
Aidrian Mayhen also played on Tuesday and, outside while we were having a cigarette, suggested that Wednesday would be a really good night but to come early as it was Jerry Foster and Friends playing. I didn’t know what that meant but I came early. I’d made the mistake of spending an afternoon at a shopping centre – a little smaller than Dundrum but just as energy sapping. I wanted something warm – got it. I wanted a Zippo – tick. A pair of boots – not cowboy or mountain, comfortable city boots. No. Starbucks, where I stop functions in the same – customer unfriendly way – as in Dublin. I avoid it there and will avoid Starbucks here too from now on. Twenty questions about how you’d like your coffee unique, stand waiting for way too long – and they’ve got your money at this stage so flee at your own expense – and then the coffee has you wondering why you’ve come in hoping things might have changed.
Do you like it strong?? Yes. Tough, this is what you’re getting. I think I’m too old for Starbucks – I just want a good coffee quickly and without too much interrogation. My daughter tells me that, in Canada, Starbucks is actually pretty good.
Anyway, I arrived at the Commodore early and sat down at a table with a spare seat. I’d noticed a lot of limos and huge SUVs and even pre-shrink Caddies, Chevies and 20ft long Lincolns in the Holiday Inn icy parking lot. Still with my post shopping mall melancholia – and beating myself up to for not enjoying every moment of this trip I though I’d never be on, I ordered food – which was OK – not Dan’s class but Ok. The excellent generic performers doing the ‘round’ were leaving the stage and Jerry Foster and Friends were setting up.
Jerry had at least one of his songs in the Billboard top twenty EVERY week for the duration of the seventies! A flutter as the petite blonde – not unlike Dolly Parton and in fact her sister, Stella came on stage with a guitar player. Then came Michael Peterson – Google him – and James Rogers (why he doesn’t call himself Jimmy, I don’t know) followed and checked their sound – one by one.
Dolly’s sister Stella had a great line in repartee and explained she’d brung a guitar player for the fancy stuff, as, while she didn’t mind shaving her legs for the gig, she wasn’t about to spoil her fingernails. The music was superb and my mood lifted when, about 20 minutes into the show, I got the distinct impression that Stella was glancing in my direction – a lot. There was only 10 metres or so between us and though the night it got more and more obvious that she was – and, when you’re my age and free and single, this is a babe.
So a bad day was improving – big time and I was now looking forward to playing my songs and Stella coming over after and saying ‘Hey, I really like your stuff.’ – fluttering long eyelashes. Time for the last song for Jerry and each of his friends. When Stella’s turn came around, she sincerely thanked us all for turning up on such a cold night and especially, - gesturing right at me, ‘my sister Dolly’s publishers who are sitting right over there.’ I looked around and, at the table behind mine, sat four smiling gentlemen in suits.
My name was called – and two more – to come up on stage. I walked up as Stella walked down – ships passing in the night. I even admired her left-handed guitar in passing and while she said a well rehearsed, ‘Why thank you!’ – the look said something more like, ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re looking at.’
With this, I find myself up on stage, watching a full hall start to empty and most of those staying on, forming little huddles to greet each other loudly. That’s a tough gig.
Thursday. To go or not to go to the Commodore. Flip a coin. Drag yourself out. You know Debbie will be polite and you’ll get to play but a part of you thinks maybe you’re pushing it – 3 nights in a row. Get there latish – after 8 anyway and walking in are grabbed by Debbie’s sound-man and hugged tightly. ‘Would you mind doing a main round instead of the open mic after?’ – Does Stella wear false eyelashes?
Apparently, a few of the main acts that night were not able to come down from the higher ground due to ice. Debbie too and Anthony was holding the fort. It was a great night and with some new friends went on to a great bar and open mic, Bob’s Idle Hour – a place where you can sing the songs you wouldn’t in ‘Polite Company’
That was Thursday and Friday was something else.
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