my adrian belew story

Same Adrian Belew, different hat

I'm ashamed that I haven't posted a darn thing to my blog in 2013. But I shall remedy that at the 11th hour, with a story that has nothing to do with New Year's at all.

In fact, these events happened on October 5th, 1999. My now-ex-wife and I were going to attend a Richard Thompson show that evening, at a now-discontinued series of outdoor shows in Nashville called the "Uptown Mix." We decided to simplify our evening by also getting dinner in the Vanderbilt/21st Avenue Area, and we decided to eat at South Street.

Once we parked and walked to the restaurant, I went inside and put our name on the list. Then, because it was a pleasant early autumn evening, we plopped down on a bench outside for the promised 30-45 minute wait. Almost as soon as we sat down, I noticed someone oddly familiar walking our way.

A moment later, I realized who it was: not someone I knew personally, but King Crimson guitarist extraordinaire Adrian Belew. I had never even seen him in concert, but I knew he had moved to nearby Mount Juliet, Tennessee, a few years before. (We apparently traded Peter Frampton to Cincinnati for him.) He was wearing a hat and holding the hand of a little girl, presumably his daughter, and, yes, it was unmistakably him, probably doing the same thing we were - grabbing a bite to eat before seeing Richard Thompson.

And... he was walking this way! In fact, he and the kid were headed directly toward us, and I hurriedly whispered to my wife, "that's Adrian Belew!"

Belew and child stepped onto the South Street porch, but then Adrian grimaced, turned around, and headed back onto the street. As they were walking away at a brisk pace, I heard him mutter sotto voce to the child, "They recognized us."

I figured he had to be referring to me. I really, really thought I hadn't been obvious about recognizing him. Sure, I did whisper about it to my wife, but I deliberately wasn't staring at him, was not going to make any attempt to intrude on his evening in any way, wasn't about to hop up and gladhand him, etc. etc.

But I still felt bad about it. I figured there was something in my expression or deportment that had made him think that I was going to hassle him, and as a consequence, he had to change his plans for the evening. I wouldn't have wanted to inconvenience the man who played the world-rending solo on Talking Heads' "Crosseyed and Painless," for gosh sakes, and somehow I'd given him the impression that I was about to throw my arm around him and tell him about how only I could understand the secret messages you hear when you play "Elephant Talk" backwards.

Several years later, among a group of friends, I was telling this story - and not telling it for the first time during these several years, mind you. I got to the part where Belew says "they recognized us," and my wife interrupted.

"It was me."

I was baffled. "What was you?"

"It wasn't you he was saying that about. It was me."

(pause)

"Why? I thought you didn't recognize him."

(longer pause)

"I didn't. I had been staring at him because he was wearing a terrible hat."

you can't beat it

Pete Townshend last night. Photo by Karen Kraft

Before last night, I had not only never seen the Who live, but had never seen any member of the Who in any configuration. It turns out that somehow the Who had never played here in Nashville before last night, which partially explains why I haven't seen them during the 24 years that I've lived in Music City.

Roger Daltrey played the Ryman a few years ago. During the bit of onstage banter and baiting between Daltrey and Pete Townshend that followed the Quadrophenia portion of the evening's entertainment, Daltrey referenced that show as the best of his career. Pete tartly replied that it couldn't have been that great "because I fucking wasn't there!"

Both of those gentlemen were very much in the hizzouse that is the cavernous, clangorous Bridgestone Arena last night, and they did their legacy proud. They served up their ambitious 1973 double-LP Quadrophenia in its entirety, followed it with The Only Five Who Songs You Hear on the Radio These Days, and then it concluded with the group's sole survivors, Pete and Roger, alone onstage for a little-known acoustic number.

For me, the drawing card besides getting to see the Who at all was that they were playing all of my favorite album. While I'm very sympathetic to the argument that the group's best period was their 1966-67 The Who Sell Out / A Quick One pinnacle of Who poppiness, for me, their crowning achievement was Quadrophenia. This concept album tried to combine the story of Mods vs. Rockers in the mid-'60s England of the group members' adolescence with a powerful subcurrent about Pete Townshend's own misgivings about his group's rise from the same mean streets as main character Jimmy (in "The Punk and the Godfather," the group even blows off Jimmy when he tries to greet them at the stage door!). And there's stuff about mortality and the ocean and drowning, because it's Pete Townshend, and that's just what he does, dammit.

accepted stroke, left

Tonight I went with friends - my America-tourin' out-o'-town pal Anna Borg, and Lisa McGuire, who's local but with whom I hadn't hung out in an embarrassingly long time - to see Julian Casablancas, aka "That Strokes Guy," at the Cannery Ballroom.

I know, you're used to detail-filled concert reviews, but in this case, I'm not the man to provide one. I owned the first Strokes album for about a minute, wasn't thrilled with it, sold it, and haven't kept up with the Strokes or Strokes-related things since. Setlist? Not when I don't know the songs!

Actually, none of us fortysomethings were really expecting much of anything. We were mostly just looking for something fun to do together, it seemed like the best entertainment option available tonight, and Lisa could get us in for free. Winner!

Anyway, if anyone wants to know where the hipster doofi of Greater Nashville were tonight, it was at the Julian Casablancas show. In fact, tonight I had the revelation that I listen to Old Person Music, because I realized that the hemlines at the shows I usually attend are no longer nearly as short as those sported by even the most conservative young women at tonight's festivities. So I guess I also no longer listen to Short Skirt Music, since I don't see them anymore when I go out.

I also wasn't prepared for how LOUD the show was! I wore earplugs to almost every show in the '90s, but hearing loss plus the fact that I listen to Old Person Music in small clubs had led me to abandon the practice with no discernible ill effects. But tonight, the sound was so loud that I could barely hear all the songs I didn't know.

Anyway, That Strokes Guy played That Strokes Song - actually very early, three songs in - plus some other songs that are probably from his recent solo album. The crowd was enthusiastic, bopping and singing along between trips to the bar for more PBR.

That Strokes Guy also played a faithful cover of Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark." When it first started, I thought "huh, he's playing a song that sounds like... wait a minute, IT IS!" And to close the regular set, he played "I Wish It Was Christmas Today," the latter-years Saturday Night Live yuletide staple (Anna recognized it long before I did). I would have been even more amused if he had covered Courtney Love's "But Julian, I'm a Little Older Than You."

Still haven't quite figured out what That Strokes Guy was wearing, and we also didn't figure out if he was bored or if that's just the way he rolls, super mumbly and hanging on to the microphone stand for dear life. His band did rock out effectively, and the crowd was eating it up, so he was indeed able to connect successfully to the Short Skirt/Hipster Doofi demographic.

After we felt like we'd seen enough and were tired of standing up - after all, we are consumers of Old Person Music - we prepared to exit at what we thought was an early departure point, but it turned out to be the end of the regular set! We were out of the building by the time the encore(s?) started, beating the crowd to the exits and returning across the Cumberland unhindered by traffic. Having observed Hipster Doofi in their natural habitat, we were relieved to be back to our homes and cats and physical media before midnight. It was a great evening mostly because of the company, but That Strokes Guy didn't hurt it either.

(Photo courtesy Lisa McGuire; title reference courtesy Game Theory)

baby, can i buy your car?

It happens the same way every time. I walk out of work, get in my car, turn the key, start to pull out, and then I spot it: one of these notes on the windshield.

They're always the same medium: ballpoint pen on paper grocery bag. And the same message, whether it's from Andre or Dave or Zach: they want to buy my car. As soon as possible.

I've gotten these notes eight or nine times this year, and twice this week.

My car is not a Lamborghini, Lotus, or even a Miata. It's not a Model A or '55 Chevy. It's a red 1998 Pontiac Sunfire GT with over 125,000 miles. In other words... uh, you want to buy this?

I was completely mystified until a few months ago when I posted a Facebook status asking why anyone would be so hot and heavy to buy my car. Jaimie Vernon responded thusly:

It's a popular chassis size that's easily converted into a street-racing car for the Honda Accord street thugs. Before I got rid of it, I had similar offers for my 1998 Ford Escort.

Huh. I had no clue. This makes me think I should be calling these guys and thanking them for offering to buy my car rather than just stealing it.

A few years ago, before I knew my wife, her '94 Mazda Protege got stolen. It turned up in a salvage yard a few weeks later, burned out and with "#90" spray-painted on the side. I hope the Happy Little Red Car does not have a similar fate awaiting it.

sign fail x 2

Side 1:

Inglewood Market, Gallatin Road, Nashville, July 29th, 2009

Side 2:

Inglewood Market, Gallatin Road, Nashville, July 29th, 2009

I can't decide which side I love the most. On the one side, we learn only Cricket-branded phones are allowed to play the lottery at the Inglewood Market. One pictures a line of scorned AT&T, T-Mobile, Sprint, and Verizon phones queued up at the Mapco or Circle K checkouts, each with a Powerball submission in hand, ready to buy the Tennessee Trifecta (beer, smokes, lottery).

On the other side, we are presented with "PLAY LOTTERY HEAR." Is it a commercial variant of "y'all come back now, hear?" Or maybe just two verbs with a noun plopped in the middle, three separate reminders from the market's proprietors to us, the general public: keep a spirit of fun in your day, always listen with an open mind, and, oh yeah, bring your Cricket phone here so it can play the lottery.

education fail

East Literature High School, Nashville, TN, July 29th, 2009

Here's hoping subject-verb agreement makes it to the curriculum!

they can't stand the rain

Nashville suffered through a gloomy, rainy day today. The worst thing about the weather isn't so much the weather itself, but the poor driving of Nashvillians when faced with any inclement weather whatsoever. Instead of taking more precautions, people here decide "hey, there are no rules!" and begin taking more chances. Put poor decision-making together with bald tires, poor drainage, and easily-saturated limestone soil, and it's a recipe for disaster.

The worst such incident I ever saw happened during the surprise blizzard of early 2004, when I witnessed a guy back across four lanes' worth of snow and ice on Nolensville Road. But today's behavior was uniformly bad: pulling out in front of traffic, sudden stops, running lights even later than people here normally run lights. I even sat for five minutes at 7th Avenue North and Broadway because someone up at the corner had parked in the street. In the middle of the day. Not conked out, not wrecked or disabled and seeking help, not waiting to make a quick passenger pickup. Parked.

But the most strange thing I saw today wasn't a bizarre driving incident. It was a man sitting on the road on Scott Avenue. He wasn't on the shoulder, he was sitting on the street itself, with no raingear save for the plastic grocery bag upon which he was seated.

I had thought that the randomly-materializing rooster who lives up the street and the dogs who ride the tractor were pretty weird. But right now, they feel like part of the comforts of home. I'm glad to be back inside, and I'm not going out again tonight. No sirree.

=====

WoW Ret Paladin followup (non-WoW audience can stop reading here): I discovered the magic ret paladin formula last night. Seal of Command -> judge -> Crusader Strike -> repeat last two steps ad infinitum. I should have known that if it was something a ret paladin could manage, it couldn't be brain surgery.

we never liked uncle clucky that much anyway

Actual sign, Madison, TN, 10/11/2008

While I'm hardly the first blogger to post an image of a restaurant sign that depicts animals, often wearing chef hats, merrily serving themselves or their relatives as fare, this one adds a layer of voyeurism to the proceedings. Are these barnyard fowls trapped in a pollo concentration camp where they are forced to watch friends and family members succumb to the roaster one by one, the witnesses contemplating their own similar, inevitable fates?

Or do they freely choose to watch their late defeathered friends cook? The scene certainly suggests a family gathered around the TV set for an evening of entertainment. Perhaps it could be the poultry version of Tyburn, a public meting out of justice for the main dish's crimes against chickendom.

I'm also disturbed by the choice of pollito instead of pollo. I'm no Spanish speaker, but I know there are a number of unsavory connotations for the word. And after all, you want nothing but savory connotations if you're advertising your roast chicken.

bring us your hirsute toys

Actual sign, McGavock Pike, 10/10/2008

I'm relieved that Nashville Barbies can now get their peach fuzz removed. And that they don't have to make an appointment for it!

Incidentally, this place is at least consistent with their apostrophes; it's "PERFECTION'S" not only on this changeable copy sign, but on the permanent sign affixed above the door.

the battle of the boulevard, presidential-style

If you think tonight's U.S. presidential debate is getting round-the-clock coverage in your neck of the woods, imagine what it's like if the debate is happening nine miles from your home. This debate logo is plastered on billboards all over Nashville, and the minute last Thursday's Palin-Biden debate ended, local news went from daily coverage of the Belmont Debate* to saturation coverage. Heck, I'm surprised Snowbird isn't the moderator.

It also means that Nashville is going to be seen on every news outlet for the entire day, and that's never any fun if you live here. Why? Because most of the time, it's an excuse for columnists, TV hosts and copy writers looking for an easy angle to whip out the most hackneyed tropes about our town being the capital of hillbilly doofusdom. For what it's worth, it doesn't matter to me if it's Fox News or The Daily Show doing it; it still rankles me. Today, when I read that right-wing shill and poor excuse for a country artist John Rich (you may know him from Big and Rich, lucky you if you don't) serenaded John McCain on CBS's Early Show this morning, I audibly sighed. This is exactly the kind of Hee Haw nonsense that Nashville doesn't need.

So rather than opine about the politicians or the debate itself, I'd rather use this space to let you know that Nashville is a great place to live, and is far more sophisticated than any way it's likely to be portrayed today or in the post-debate punditry. It may be the capital of a "red state" (god, I hate that "red state/blue state" taxonomy - did the news outlets hold a Council of Nicea in 1993 or something to regularize which party was red and which was blue? I swear, I remember the party/color correlation varying from network to network until then), sure, but Davidson County itself went for both quasi-native son Al Gore and purported Yankee elitist liberal John Kerry in the most recent presidential elections.

We have an opera and an Opry. We have a bazillion international dining options, a large and still-growing Hispanic population, an internationally acclaimed symphony, the greatest live rock band ever, and snowball-throwing polar bear statues:

(image taken from The Bridge & Tunnel Club because I'm

not risking motorcade traffic to go take a fresh pic myself)

It's not London or Paris or New York, but it's got enough of everything for me. Today it also has Barack Obama, John McCain, and millions of viewers, but keep in mind as you watch the festivities that you not only need to be sorting out truth from fiction when it comes to the candidates, you need to be doing the same thing with what you see and hear about Nashville.

*held at Nashville's own Belmont University, which was Belmont College when I moved here in '88, and was previously best known as That Formerly Baptist College That Vince Gill Is Always Donating To That Turns Out All Those Music Biz People. The "Battle of the Boulevard" referenced in my title is what the local press calls the basketball smackdowns between Belmont U. and their just-down-Belmont-Boulevard denominational-college neighbors, the Church of Christ's own David Lipscomb University.

gallatin roads and signs seen

Now that I have a "real" blog, I feel more of a need to have "new" content on a regular basis! I can't promise daily updates, but I'm setting that as a goal. I'll do my best to emulate the frequent-update example of friends Steve and Rog, who not only post on a daily basis, but provide high-quality readin' too.

I definitely have some longer posts in the gestation stage. For whatever reason, my creativity's been in high gear the last few days, and I've had an abundance of ideas.

But for today, I give you a sign seen earlier this summer at the Cat's Records* on Gallatin Road:

HOT
USHER
PLIES
ALANIS MORRISSETTE

While nothing in the way of marquee mad libs can compare to the days when Snatch was in theatres, I chuckled at this sign every time I made a Kroger run this past summer.

*The current incarnation of Cat's Records is technically still the same company as the one I knew in the '80s when I first moved to Nashville. But the Cat's of today is basically the 2008 version of yer '70s-'90s mall store (think Record Bar, National Record Mart, Camelot, Sam Goody's), and very unlike the great, long-defunct Cat's on West End with the well-stocked indie/import section that educated a generation of Music City rockers and fans. For example, it's the place where I discovered that Game Theory had another album besides Lolita Nation. Unfortunately, I arrived in town a few years too late to see Jason & the Scorchers play the most legendary parking lot show at Cat's (this may have been the show where Jason climbed the billboard).