Cowboy boots are ubiquitous in Nashville – although not hats. ‘That’s Texas,’ one woman told us earnestly. Locals say, ‘y’all,’ ‘yes, ma’am,’ and make eye contact when they speak to you. Despite the lack of cowboy hats, this is still the South. Welcome to Music City, the capital of country and the gleaming buckle of the Bible Belt. Nashville is home to over 700 churches and numerous evangelical choirs. The Union Gospel Tabernacle, built in the 1890s by a Tennessee businessman, was once the largest church in the city. Now its simply the Ryman Auditorium. After the first world war, the owners found they made more cash booking secular performers.
The audience hated it, Elvis bombed and vowed never to return
For over 30 years, the Ryman was home to the Grand Ole Opry, a radio show broadcast live across America every evening. The Opry had been kicked out of its previous venue thanks to its rowdy crowds; the producers were said to be particularly drawn to the Ryman’s wooden pews because of how hardy they were.
A slot performing on the show became a rite of passage for country music stars and a pilgrimage for old-timers. Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, Emmylou Harris and Patsy Cline are among those who have played there over the years. The most famous become lifetime members and are allocated a postal locker for fan mail (Dolly Parton’s is no.163; according to the Opry staff she reads every letter she gets). But there’s still one big flop that everyone talks about: Elvis. The king of rock n’ roll made his debut at the Opry in October 1954 with a gyrating rendition of his soon-to-be hit ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’. The audience hated it, Elvis bombed and vowed never to return. Even now, 70 years on, the city has an uneasy relationship with Tennessee’s greatest son.
In the 1970s, the Opry moved on – this time to a purpose-built auditorium on the edge of town. But still, fans flow into its quaint auditorium to perch on replica Ryman pews (this time cushioned) to hear musicians rattle through a few of their best tunes. Each act is introduced by the host, dressed in a sharp grey suit. He stood behind a lectern, reading off the bands’ biographies before they came on. In the breaks he also read aloud a list of adverts: one for shoes, another for a state-wide chain of diners. One band I saw there were making their debut. They barely looked old enough to drink and were dressed in cowboy hats – Texans, perhaps? – and sang in pacy harmony. Their mothers whooped from the row behind me.
To hear some rougher material, you’ve got to head for the honky tonks. Narrow and crowded, with dim lighting and sticky floors, these bars are where country musicians go to test out their latest songs or just entertain the crowds with classic covers. Most of them are open from midmorning until the early hours.
At that time of night, normal people find themselves tiring of bluegrass and go in search of food. Nudging my way up the street through the crowds of tourists and hen parties, I arrived at Prince’s Hot Chicken in a brightly-lit modern food court nearby. Legend has it the first Prince’s Hot Chicken restaurant was started by a womaniser whose lover had tried to take her revenge by spiking his favourite hot chicken with extra chilli and spices. He loved it – and, like a true-born American, turned it into a money-spinner.
Nine dollars will get you four enormous tenders served on thick white bread with a few pickle slices laid on top. Simple, sure, but far from plain. The sharpness of the pickles cuts through the richness of the greasy chicken – helpful for packing in the last few mouthfuls. Only the bravest, though, would dare go above ‘medium’ on the heat scale (it goes all the way up to ‘XXX hot’). I slipped off home, away from the noise of Broadway and back to the Bobby hotel. Low-lit with thick red carpets, my room felt like a hideaway in which to finally succumb, gratefully, to jetlag.
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