Pestle to the Mortar

I’m still here, I’m still not dead, and I’m only mostly broke; today marks three weeks that I’ve been in Nashville, and I’m here to report that things remain relatively unremarkable, though not negatively so.

I’ve spent a lot of time meeting people, cold calling folks I respect, sending emails into the black hole of cyberspace, seeking knowledge, direction, and positive reinforcement. And mostly, that’s what I’ve received; the people, it seems, are why one stays in Nashville. I know that I’ve raved and ranted blindly about the social climate here in the past, insistent that the people of Nashville—or, more specifically, of the Nashvillian music scene—would have to be nice, professional, and supportive, if only for the sake of career longevity. First of all, this can’t entirely be true, semantically or ideologically, because it would also therefore indicate that people in New York City wouldn’t be pretentious, arrogant assholes completely self-deceived of their city’s importance, and people in L.A wouldn’t be smug, over-sexed meat heads completely self-deceived of their own importance, and we all know that not to be true. Oh, stop it. (Yes, I realize that I am making bold, unsubstantiated claims about entire metropolitan populations, but what fun would a blog be without some bitching? In addition, suffice it to say that I have many, many friends in both of those cities whom I love and respect for being bigger, better people than me, and I would be both delighted and enthralled to have the opportunity to live in either of those fair points of egress. ‘nuff said.)

But, for the most part, it is true: people in Nashville are nice. Sure, some drive like dicks, and some are probably bigots, the public transportation authority sucks, and the discrepancy between wealth and poverty is all too apparent. But, hell, you can find that stuff anywhere, places where there isn’t an amazing community of musical minds and industry folk, a few of whom still believe in music. I can say, with certainty, that all of the people who I’ve met or contacted have been fantastically accommodating, humans of the highest caliber.

You may also have noticed that I’m getting a little work. I’ve got my first Nashville date coming up in March, at the hip club The Basement, which I’ve mentioned frequently in the past. This gig is with a singer/songwriter named Chad Harris, a talented and earnest chap who reminds me, musically, of Emerson Hart, the former lead singer of the-big-in-the-late-nineties-band Tonic. He’s got some good things in the works for future touring and also has the current theme song for Speed TV. I’m sure I’ll have more to report on this soon.

Also still cooking on the stovetop is the record for my bud Matt Mackey, which is somewhere in studio-land, being mixed and awaiting overdubs of piano and organ by none other than keys maestro and Nashville resident Gabe Dixon. I’ve been told I might have something to do with this, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed. From what I’ve heard (literally, I’ve listened to a couple of cuts, not just heard it through the grapevine), Mackey’s record is going to very cool, and fill a unique space in today’s music market, falling squarely between the contemporary sentimentality of white-guy singer songwriters and the grit and sex of Bill Withers, which, in my humble opinion, is a pretty cool place to be. I really hope to get out and tour behind that record, but all of that is yet to be seen. I’m hopeful though, as Matt just moved a bit closer to me, now finding himself in Alabama to be near the missus, so look for some regional dates on my calendar.

So, the good news is I like it here. The bad news is, I’m going to have to stay here to make this work. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has reminded me that the only way to get to where you want to be, career-wise, in this town is to be persistent. One engineer/drummer told me it took seven years to get the gig he wanted, and now holds. Jason Lehning, one of my favorite producers in town, and a member of one of my favorite bands, The Silver Seas, told me it took him ten years to get to where he really wanted to be. But everyone has told me that it can be done, but you can’t just talk and dream, you’ve got put the pestle to the mortar, as it were. Just watch me.

Meanwhile, I’ve been keeping a revolving schedule of periodic homebody-ing followed by peripatetic and automotive tomfoolery. I’ve found an excellent fromaggeria to buy rich smoked cheeses and rosemary ham. I’ve drunk gallons of coffee. I went antiquing with the roommates, and found granite-topped armoires and mounted deer heads out of our price range, and a crystal whiskey decanter which wasn’t, and so it now sits on my kitchen counter illuminating the Rittenhouse Rye within. It’s been three years since I lived in Boston and I must say, it’s good to be back in the city again.

Currently on the docket is making preparatory accommodations for our first in-house fire (in the fireplace, of course), working with Harlan on our book of Retro-sexual miscellany (my proposed title: The Man-ifesto. Get it? Also, as a preview, our hall of illustrious alumni includes Capt. Myles Standish, Abraham Lincoln, Ernest Hemmingway, Cary Grant, and George Clooney) and opening a wine store (it’s a long story, but check out http://www.n2yn.com for delicious hints for the rumor-mongering). Pestle to the mortar, indeed.