Newscoma

We are auspiciously off the map when it comes to certain things. Hoots is a state of mind, of course, but it’s also a hidden little treasure if you are looking. Not a lot of people seek us out, and maybe that’s why we are allowed in some ways to do our own thing.

That is the way of all the Hoots in America. We make our own way.

And we have our little inroads to different and exquisite types of music, although we will never get credit for it. We are too far north of Beale Street, too far west of Nashville and only four-lanes tie us to the Interstate. It’s not necessarily easy to get to Hoots, but it’s easy for those of us who seek it to get out. We usually come back though.

We are the land of Gordon Stoker of Jordonaires fame and Dez Dickerson has connections here. His grandfather, as the story goes, worked in the school cafeteria and is still talked about for being a kind man and for his biscuit making ability. When Prince played here two decades ago, limos parked in front of one of the college hang-outs as he, and Dez, walked around a local nightclub called Oz.  People who were there, and now are in their mid-40s, talk about the day that Prince came to town in his high heels, checking out the nightlife. Little did they know that his guitarist already had connections here.

The tales we remember may not always be correct, but legends usually are never born without a bit of suspension of disbelief. But these are things that happened and although they might not seem a lot to people not from here, they are part of the legacy.

There is a folk singer that comes through Hoots about twice a year from New York. He found us through another band and he drops his anchor here each year as he heads to the The International Folk Alliance Conference in Memphis each year, which is next week. His name is Richard Thorne. In some ways, I think we tickle and intrigue him because he keeps returning to play his set, heads to Memphis for the conference and to pursue his music. His songs are funny and poignant, as all good folk music has both elements and he does both well. He sings of trains and corporations taking advantage of the needy, and long ago thoughts of a simpler time.

And he wears a smashing hat.

We met him last year and he returned last night to Mabel’s favorite bar. I ran late, waiting to go with Squirrel Queen, who is in the heart of high school tournament time. Two games a night have begun with every night but Sunday and thus she will cover roughly 12 games this upcoming week alone. I tease her about the glamorous world of sports writing and she usually playfully punches me in the arm. We know it’s not.

It was time for second act, which we almost missed due to a sick dog (not Mabel) and the games. Followed by another band that really deserves more attention, and is getting it to a degree, named Old Haul, we listened to original music where the lead singer growls at you with a deep raspy voice that is full of tender outrage. The band, all seven of them, playing what they call Americana which is what it is. Their following is legendary around here and now they will play the Cove in Memphis on the 20th of this month so I believe things are looking good. There is a bigger audience outside of Hoots, which goes without saying. I talked to the bass player and we discussed the club. I told him he’d like it, that it reminded me of bars they play around here so he’d be comfortable. I think he just wants to play, no matter where it is. As I was raised by a musician, I understand this wanderlust.

The bar was packed, with Pabst Blue Ribbon and Budweiser flowing as strong as the Mississippi, and Thorne laughed at the insanely cheap cost of beer with me as we bellied up to the bar. I was late, missing most of his set, I admit, but as I said before, it’s tourney time so he was gracious and understanding. We talked about how in New York, you’d have to take out a bank note for three beers but in Hoots, a tenner will give you a nice buzz to send you on your way. He said he’d never eaten at the Rendezvous, which I recommended, but that he’d gotten to go to Sun and Staxx records on past excursions to the, as Cracker calls it, the Bluff on the Big Muddy.

“How’s the newspaper?” he asked as Old Haul was setting up for their set.

“I’m not there anymore,” I smiled. “My life-long career choice decided it didn’t need me anymore. Hell of a time to be a paid writer.”

“What are you now?” he said, concerned. I appreciated the worried look on his face more than words can say.

“Still working on that,” I laughed although there are times that it throws me into the deep end of the pool because my identity was so tied up in that, even eight months later.

He nodded and I realized that, most likely, folk artists and freelance writers have a hell of a lot more in common than you would think.

We talked more about Memphis. He asked me about Midtown, and that he’d heard of it and wondered if he should go exploring. I told him that Old Haul was playing the Cove and that he might want to go see them before he heads back to NYC. He said he might. I wrote down some of the places I’d learned about that he might like and drew him a map from the Marriot.

“Memphis is one spread out place, isn’t it?” he said looking at the short list that I’d written down on a lavender piece of paper that the bartender gave me and the crude map I’d drawn highlighting how to take Union down to Midtown and spotlighting a couple of place on Madison.

Badger Beth and Richard Thorne showing how Twitter works

As we talked, I took his picture and showed him how to put it up on Twitter. He laughed saying that it was hard enough just keeping up with his Myspace page but I told him he might want to use it for immediacy if he was so inclined. Not everyone is as big of a fan of Twitter as I am, so I tend to be an evangelist about it with people that still don’t get it.

The conversation came to a close during the opening riffs coming from the small stage that could not accommodate all the members of the band, who had spilled out onto the makeshift dance floor. He watched them and his eyes showed appreciation for Old Haul, a band that isn’t playing by the rules. I think he liked that.

Yes, we are off the beaten path. If you navigate through the rocks and winding roads that get you here, sometimes you might find a bit of paradise hidden from view.

Give this time, but I swear I can’t quit watching this.  It’s got a Bigfoot vibe to it, but the other thing is that my first thought was did a trap get this bear and did it adapt. It takes a bit of time, and you need to see the end to when the bear is with it’s cub.

So very strange. I didn’t think it was real until the end.

Jack Lail talks about NiT going dark.

One of the sure bets of the digital age is nothing stays the same so, like Gilbert, I don’t mourn the change. The efforts that were ignited by broadcasting consultant Terry Heaton and Mike  Sechrist, then general manager of the Nashville station, however, were truly innovative and have continued to be.

Heaton,  Sechrist, Gilbert, Kleinheider, Grantham demonstrated that the future of media was as likely to be built or discovered in Nashville or Tennessee as in Silicon Valley or Silicon Alley. I’ve certainly studied what they were doing and borrowed unabashedly from their innovations.

I hope that spirit of innovation is not what is “going dark” at WKRN. It’s quite a legacy, quaint as it may seem to some.

An excellent interview this afternoon with Brittney Gilbert at Pith in the Wind by Betsy Phillips on the demise of Nashville is Talking.

I’m just going to say it. I miss those first giddy days of blogging and what Betsy said rings true to me as well.

From my perspective, when I was just starting out as a blogger, NiT was a huge deal. There was a vibrant community, people saying a lot of interesting things, and great discussion. The first few times you linked to me, I felt… I don’t know… really thrilled that some important media person was validating my ideas.

I agree. It was a fun time in Tennessee and if I hadn’t have been a part of that community, all the wonderful bloggers I know now I might now have met at all.

As I said at Speak To Power, it truly is the end of an era.

If you watch this and not run for a tissue, you did better than I did.

For once in our fine land of Hoots Proper, we have a sports bar for one day only. (I should mention one that isn’t playing Nascar.)

I will be there. I have been told that I must support the Saints but I will also look joyfully at the Manning Boy (which I’m going to start calling him) and smiling if he does well.

I must be supportive because I’ve been bitching about not being able to watch football in Hoots on the weekend when I wanna. With that said, already making plans for the first Thursday of March madness because it’s my favorite. May have to go back to Memphis that day.

I am flaming my inner sports geek today even though I readily admit I jumped on the bandwagon.

If I’m going to be in Memphis more, I need to know where to go and eat.

I think I found something to guide my way through the dark tunnels of learning a new place and it’s called LunchBrag.

I love this post. And she’s right, sometime the myth beats out the actual facts of what really happened. But I feel this way to sometimes.

It used to be that the Butcher and I would drive around and we both had this feeling like there was something out there, in the cornfields, or just around the next corner, some itch you just couldn’t quite scratch, but it seemed like, if you drove fast enough or long enough, you might catch up to it.

But you never could.

But getting in the car and chasing it kind of soothed me, in a way.

I was talking to my sis this morning. We haven’t really caught up much lately as life had gotten into the way. When I read B.’s words, I thought of how when she and I were teenagers and we loved the wind in our hair metaphorically speaking.

As I get older, I think of what was, what is and what really happened.

I guess we create our own myths about ourselves, but it is wonderful to remember when life was an open slate. I guess I’m PhilosophicalComa today.

This looks awesome.

I struggle sometimes to see the relevance of certain things and then small, significant things happen that put those very things into perspective for me.

I’m in Memphis right now. A stranger gave me a lesson on her views of the infrastructure here and why her city’s politics were fascinating. She did this while she was playing a Megatouch game that was somewhat like a Scrabble game.

“You new here?” she asked while staring at the screen, hitting letters to create words faster than the Blue Angels. My back was to her, so I was surprised that she had spoken to me. She was older, I’d say in her mid-50s, and was wearing a Beale Street T-shirt from 2003.

I nodded. She said she was a schoolteacher and noticed I was taking everything in. She called over the owner of the small bar I stopped into last night and introduced me to her. You could tell that she was somewhat of a regular, as their was an easiness between patron and owner. I told them who I was and we started talking. The conversation inevitably turned to politics when I told them about my part-time job. She told me her name was Sheila. The owner saw a friend of hers and left us to greet one of what I can only assume was a regular customer.

“Memphis politics is an odd funny game,” Sheila said, putting another quarter into the machine, her hands moving automatically into the creation of more words quickly. She eyed the machine and then gave me fleeting glances as to let me know that she was involved in the conversation and the game. “You just learning some of this stuff?”

I told her that I had watched Memphis politics for years, but always from outside the looking glass. She nodded as if she understood.

“I’ve been in the school system here for nearly 30 years. Herenton wasn’t a bad superintendent you know back in the beginning. He fought for us for some things we needed. Then he became mayor and we saw less of the man we knew. You familiar with him?”

I said that I was and that I’d seen him speak a few times.  I told her I didn’t understand why he’d run for mayor again only to say he was going to resign not even three months after the last mayoral election.

“I guess I just don’t get it,” I countered. “That just seemed like a colossal waste of time.”

She laughed, “No one does when it comes to him. You aren’t alone.”

Her game was over and she turned toward me. “Memphis is one of those places that politics doesn’t always make sense. We are the largest city in the state, but it’s like there are two or three cities here. The infighting in this town in incredible. I’ve been in the system myself for a long time and I can tell you that the thing that not only Memphis needs, but this entire state, is for people to be clear so we know what we are getting when we vote. I guess that is everywhere but it makes me lose faith. I want to know what’s going on. I don’t want politicians dumbing it down for me.”

She sighed. I was surprised she was being so frank with me, a total stranger, about her politics. Politics, such as topics such as religion, usually isn’t thrown out there within 15 minutes of meeting somebody.

“The thing is that we watch the fights, and then we find out about the bills these guys pass after the fact. But maybe it’s our fault too. I gave up on being a voice a long time ago when I thought I wasn’t making a difference. Do you think you make a difference?” Sheila looked at me intently.

(more…)

So I took Mabel outside in Memphis and she didn’t see her shadow.

Take that Punxsutawney Phil, you bastard.

I deem this a new Midtown tradition.

I’m headed back to Memphis today working on a couple of things that I think are pretty cool, going to hang out with the Delta crew and try to figure somethings out that I believe need figuring out.

I’ve been “stranded” in Hoots since a week ago Friday. I was headed south last week but there was another car emergency so sometimes you do what’s in front of you, not what you want to happen but what you have to do to make things work. Steve Austin, my car, is on the mend but is still ailing. I guess in car language he’s been in ICU but has a good prognosis.

I’m learning Memphis right now. I found some new, cool blogs I really like to educate me of the new terrain I will be trekking on, a few that make me take pause (Brick is the key word here and I’m not linking as to stay off the radar) and I’ve found Twitter questions to be invaluable.

While in Hoots, I’ve observed things I really like, people that I absolutely adore and sat with the family as snow poured down upon us. It’s amazing to me how we become instantly in love, and then despise, a good hearty snowfall.

Transitioning.

Things in Memphis I’m finding I enjoy are bright and shiny to me. I like new things although sometimes I’m comfortable in familiar place. I go to P&H, where I’ve gone to for years when I visit, is comforting to me. The cracked vinyl seats of the booth, the cartoons on the ceiling (especially the Ford Funeral home one), the temporary love letters in the bathrooms and on the lampshades, and the cheap beer around happy hour while a diverse group, whom I assume are somewhat regulars, sit at the bar smoking cigarettes and telling tales. Not much different than Hoots, but different faces that I’ve never seen before.

I’m more comfortable there than I should be. I’m sure I’ll find other places that give me a sense of belonging, such as P&H and the Blue Monkey as I journey along this path.

I haven’t lived in a metropolitan city since 1991. I have lived in Amsterdam, Montreal and Nashville, all respectably sized locales but it’s been awhile. I know the sheriff here, the judge, the mayors, business people and folks living underneath the shadows. They are a part of me as I am of them. I wonder if there will be that level of familiarity that I’m accustomed to. There is always a bit of anxiety when it comes to change.

I’m not gone from Hoots yet. There are ends to tie up, people to hug and to tip a beer with.

It’s a time of change. I hope for the best.