On the drive down to Nashville we passed a warehouse/adult superstore that appeared closed despite the tattered red and white vinyl “open” sign hanging on the side of the building. It was set back from the highway in the middle of nowhere and I couldn’t help but think about how it would make a great horror story; someone’s car breaks down there in the middle of a storm only for a killer to be hiding among the fuzzy handcuffs and penis shaped straws. The lights go out and chaos ensues as our protagonist wonders which toy will make the best weapon. Don’t ask, this is just how my mind works.
I watched the temperature reading on the dashboard climb higher until it reached a comfortable 72 degrees somewhere in southern Kentucky. Oh, what a tease the weather was last weekend. Monday in Ohio greeted me with rain and enough humidity to frizz my freshly washed hair. I cracked the bathroom window as I massaged moisturizer onto my face and attempted to cover signs of tiredness with makeup. The gentle smack of raindrops falling against the rooftops reminded me why I don’t mind the rain so much.
I’ve always treasured the feeling of seeing a new place for the first time, especially when you crest a hill and the towering buildings of the city come into view. There’s some kind of magic in the moment, as if the world is expanding all around you and suddenly you’re made aware of what exists beyond the confines of the place you call home. And maybe even for a little while you begin to feel comfortable in this new place, maybe you imagine yourself settling in there from time to time. If only we could slip into a new life and try it on for a bit, but that’s travel isn’t it?
We rolled into Nashville as the sun began to dip behind the houses and trees and were greeted by a hoppy, plump boxer mix named Angel on the back steps of our AirBnB. Bags were dropped upstairs by the bed and we combed through a binder full of suggestions to find some barbecue because you can’t go to Nashville and not get some type of meat smoked or fried. Mentally, I was trying to process how I was going to cram as much as possible into less than 48 hours, but my rumbling stomach told me to put it on hold and enjoy some hot chicken tacos and creamy mac and cheese. People stuffed oversized slices of jalapeño cornbread into their mouths and sipped on cool drinks with the doors and window open, welcoming the first taste of spring. I grabbed a six pack from a tap room across the street and got my first glimpse of The Basement East, where I would finally be seeing Inhaler on Saturday night after two years of rescheduled tour dates and pandemic madness.
The best laid plans never turn out how you think they will, but I’m a firm believer you can do a lot with a “come hell or high water” attitude. So, I made Nashville happen back in June, when I said fuck it and bought tickets to a show without any real plan. It was more of an idea.
That first night I had a dream I bleached my hair right after I had it professionally colored and cried for hours because it looked like matted straw. I also dreamt I overslept my alarm. Turns out anxiety dreams don’t go away when you’re relaxed on vacation.
Saturday was all about Broadway, and apparently accidentally witnessing a girl flash her boobs to a bar full of what I assume were overly horny men in the middle of a dry spell. I immediately bought a 1/2 pound peanut putter cookie the size of my face (literally) right after so I could eat it and think about how I’ll never have the balls to do such a thing. Not that I want to. I’ll stick to downing cheap beer at a rickety wooden table with my mom, awkwardly swaying my shoulders to angsty country tunes about cheating men.
I didn’t exactly want to get shit-faced and possibly climb on top of a bar while my mom watched on with a look of disappointment in her eyes. Then again, maybe she would be proud of me. It’s hard to say. I should have know striped trousers and a cotton shirt would make me grossly overdressed in the country music capital of the world.
We grabbed dinner at an Asian street food place with colorfully decorated walls and cocktails with puns for names. There was already a line outside of the venue when we got back to East Nashville at 3:30pm. I remember those days. Instead I went back to the AirBnB and squeezed into my black bootcut jeans after devouring a bowl of noodles and wore a dress two sizes too small as a top. I guess I’ve reached the age where I call anyone under 21 babies, not in a condescending way, but more in the sense that I remember what it was like to be that young and obsessed with a band. When did I reach the age where it became unacceptable to lose my shit over seeing a band that creates music I’m low-key in love with? Or unacceptable to “obsess” over something which in reality I care greatly for and makes me happy? The people who don’t understand and roll their eyes are the lame ones.
I forgot how much I missed screaming lyrics at the top of my lungs until I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and getting dressed up in something that made me feel like the hottest person in the room. No shame in admitting it. Two years of energy pent up finally released through an hour long set performed by one of the most talented bands I’ve ever seen. I forgot about anxiety. I forgot about the urge to hold back and not be too much. I forgot about what existed beyond the dark, cramped room with people crowded in like sardines. If I could nail down my idea of paradise it’s either solitude with a good book or being in a room full of people at a show moving and grooving until sweat is dripping down everyone’s skin, lost in the moment. Damn.
At the end of the show I was chatting with the guy working the box office when Eli Hewson (for those who don’t know he’s Bono’s son) ducked through the front door and tried to get back into the green room. It was locked. In that moment I thought about what it would be like to be famous, or at least a well-known person with people lurking around, waiting for their chance to say they ran into you that one time. I know I’d hate it, people feeling like they should have access to you because you’re a performer, someone they paid to see. I looked over and smiled, then returned to my conversation, watching from the corner of my eye as a flock of girls contemplated coming back into the building for a photo op. Do famous people ever get any peace? I sure fucking hope so. I’d rather grab a beer and shoot the shit with someone I admire than get a five second, most likely awkward photo. End rant. Go listen to Inhaler, they’re a group of incredibly talented guys.
There was a time I would have waited around, when all I wanted was a picture to look back on so I could prove I brushed shoulders with someone notable. Instead I returned to a cozy loft, washed my face, fell into bed, and was already plotting my next trip. Maybe it will be hopping across the pond to see The Cure, or at least that’s what I imagine when I daydream. I will see Robert Smith’s perfectly smeared lipstick in person one day. I will get to cry during “Plainsong”, mark my words.
Thank you Nashville, you filled up my heart and broke it at the same time. I loved every minute.
*Full disclosure, the title of this post is a joke and I remember how much it sucked to have those irritating Sharpie slashes on the back of your hand
The Rummy Writer 