voto

It’s weird being from Nashville. Most cities shuffle into oblivion. Kansas City. Lincoln. Columbia. Waco. But Nashville lingers. It has a reputation. Sometimes inaccurately countrified, but occasionally dead on. To those who know it, they love it. They see it for the quirky, dive bar, Flying Saucer, not-quite-vintage town that it is. It’s where people go when LA burns them out and the congestion of New York is wildly apparent. It’s a life-giving source of new imagination and authenticity. It breathes the soul back into limping hearts. Well, at least for some.

It’s a Sunday night and I’m leaning against the back wall of the Casbah holding an emptied Heineken and watching Rocky Votolato play harmonica on stage. It’s vaguely reminiscent of home as intentionally grungy-dressed youth filter through the crowd, swaying slightly to the sound of poorly-amplified indie rock. Smoke funnels. Beer pours. Music thrives. We all move.

It wasn’t a great show. But it was good to go. Good to be Nashville for a night.