Quick Trips

Quick trips: What’s the big deal about Nashville? Everything

I hit town two hours ago, and I’m already on stage at the Bluebird Cafe.

The performers aren’t, though. Tonight, four singer-songwriters take turns holding forth in a circle on the floor, while the tiny stage is occupied by two tables of wine-sippers. The Bluebird likes to mix things up.

These days, it’s hard to get into the Bluebird, a little 100-seat hovel in a strip mall. That’s the fault of the ABC series Nashville, which resumes with new episodes Jan. 15.

I figured it was time to head off to Nashville myself, in search not of fame and fortune (I don’t even own a guitar) but of what all the fuss is about. The Bluebird’s a great place to start an exploration of this song-centric city, which The New York Times extolled as the new “it” city.

“The Bluebird is a listening room,” warns Nancy Kruh, Nashville friend and photographer. “If you talk, you will be shushed.”

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The audience is expected to listen rather than yammer? Charming concept. Indeed, as Adam James launches into a done-me-wrong rocker, somebody at the next table emits a few words and is promptly met with “Shhhhhh!”

Tonight’s other featured singer-songwriters are folk-rocker Jameson Elder; Michael Castro, a funky, genre-defying artist who writes engaging songs, sings soulfully and whistles enviably (you might have seen him on American Idol Season 8); and Heather Morgan, a staff songwriter for Sony ATV who throws down a lot of good hooks. The four rivet us for two hours as we easily top the cute little $7 food-and-beverage minimum.

From the Bluebird’s home at 4104 Hillsboro Pike (which is more residential street than pike), my friend drives me to check out Music Row: two streets packed with recording studios, music company offices, music lawyers’ offices and the big honkin’ ASCAP building. (The American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers makes sure those folks get royalties every time their songs get sung, even badly.) Have no doubt: Nashville is the beating heart of the music business.

As if that weren’t enough to brag about, Nashville has a Parthenon. A replica originally built for Tennessee’s 1897 Centennial Exposition, the Greek edifice now houses art and hosts events, and as we drive by, kids are cavorting on its lawn.

We roll past the Union Station Hotel (good place to stay in a 19th-century rail station) to end the evening on Lower Broadway, where music pours from neon-jeweled honky-tonks as crowds meander from joint to joint, block after block.

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The next day, we pick up where we left off, heading back to Lower Broadway to pop into Ernest Tubb’s Record Shop, one of the coolest record shops in town (the other is Jack White’s Third Man Records) and gawk at the walls of show posters at Hatch Show Print (which has since moved into the Country Music Hall of Fame)..

A block away, we prayerfully enter the Mother Church of Country Music, Ryman Auditorium. First opened as the Union Gospel Tabernacle in 1892, this hall has housed everything from Broadway shows to boxing. It was home to the Grand Ole Opry from 1943 to 1974. When the Opry moved to Opryland, there was talk of tearing Ryman down, but Nashville wouldn’t let that happen, and a renovation brought it back to life in 1994. It now plays host to major names in every music genre, and the Opry returns in winter (lower crowd) months.

Whomever you go to see at the Ryman, you could well hear from other stars who aren’t on the bill. The performers know their friends are in the audience and often call them up — the local talent pool in Nashville is mega-deep.

If you go to a show at the Ryman, take a pillow. Those church pews are hard. If you can’t see a show there, take a tour ($14 for a self-guided one that includes an eight-minute video). This is a major piece of Nashville history, haunted by the ghosts of talent past.

A few blocks away from the Ryman, near the new, giant convention center called Music City Center, we’re awed by the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, a city block full of exhibits that tell the story of country music’s various paths. There they are: Maybelle Carter’s guitar, Earl Scruggs’ banjo and Bill Monroe’s mandolin, right behind a really big crowd of people looking at … a Taylor Swift video. Well, that’s all right. Swift gave $4 million to the museum.

Worth noting: Toby Keith and the Dixie Chicks are trapped in the same display case. Somebody has an evil sense of humor.

The museum and its unbroken-circle Hall of Fame are testimony to how seriously Nashville takes it music history and talent, and a just-opened Songwriters Hall of Fame gallery in Music City Center adds an exclamation point.

Nashville’s more than music, of course. It’s also home to good food (loved my spinach and ricotta crepes at Marche and Mexican caramel artisan ice pop at Las Paletas), college (Vanderbilt, Belmont and more), hiking (Radnor Lake’s a good spot), art galleries, Cumberland River cruises and Andrew Jackson’s house, the Hermitage. Also, it’s green — beautifully, lushly green.

But the music is magic in Nashville, and there’s only one way to conclude this trip: with a visit to the Grand Ole Opry. The Opry, a Nashville institution, is a live, two-hour radio show, complete with voiced commercials (Boot Barn’s annual Stinky Boot Sale). It’s a hoot, and far more varied that we expected.

We hear (on pews with cushions, thank you) insane bluegrass from the Lonesome River Band, a touch of Cajun from Jimmy C. Newman and vintage country from Bill Anderson, the Whites, Ray Pillow and Connie Smith. Riders in the Sky cover Rawhide (and gently rope the announcer while he reads a commercial), Exile does I Want to Kiss You All Over (because how could they not?), Brandy Clark charms with a rollicking husband basher, Stripes, and Angie Johnson, a former contestant on The Voice, rocks her single, Swagger. In the evening’s women-rush-the-stage moment, Charles Esten — Deacon on Nashville — belts out I Climb the Walls. It’s a grand ol’ stew of country flavors.

All in all, there’s a whole lot to make a fuss about in Nashville. Am I fan now? Heck. They had me at “shhhhh.”

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