Tuesday 26th January 2010 - A Bit of Peace and Quiet

          Venturing out in Nashville seems, inevitably, to be accompanied by a delicate start the following day.  I don't think I'd like to have to work here.  Except, of course, as a musician.  Maybe that's how they do it: maybe they're all musicians.

          The Nashville Fire Department sent an alarm call for me.  American fire engines, as well as the usual lights and sirens, have a tug-boat horn which can be heard quite a long way away.  They sent their entire fleet to the federal courthouse opposite:

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quite a wake-up call.

 

          I spent most of what was left of the day in the state archives.  Such an oasis of peace is hard to believe in this riotous city.  Perhaps that's why they have to close on Mondays; perhaps all the staff get together downtown and sing and dance and shout at each other for eight hours.  Then they can put up with all this quiet for the rest of the week.

          I was checked in at the door by a grown-up lady from Spain.  From Madrid, she said, although she didn't say it like that, she said it the way Spaniards say it.  I was immediately assigned a researcher who was waiting at the door, a bit like a taxi.  He found the date of Lube Glasgow's death in no time at all,  so I found the appropriate edition of the "Weakley County Press, Martin Mail, and The County Times" in one shot.  And there it was on the front page:

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Reading old newspapers is intrinsically fascinating, so I tried to skim through the 1920s to see if any mention of Glasgow the place appeared, but I wasn't lucky.

 

          Later that night it was back to the Station Inn where, on Tuesdays, they not only have an acoustic jam session, they also have cheap beer.  On the way there, I passed the old Union Station, where I spotted a beer bar called the Flying Saucer.  It serves up eighty-one draft beers.  It also, reluctantly, serves wine and spirits, but there are none on show.  They are having a quiz night, and also selling a cheap beer, the very splendid "Fat Tire" from Colorado.

          When I got to the Station, the jam session was in full swing: not an amplifier or drummer in sight.  But I can now say I have finally come across a very young virtuoso bano player, although, disappointingly, he didn't look the least bit inbred.

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(That photo number gave me a start.  I don't know what I'd have done if it had come up 666: left town in a hurry, I suppose.)