tag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:/blogs/american-odyssey?p=2American Odyssey2020-07-28T10:16:06+01:00Tony James Shevlinfalsetag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63878112020-07-28T10:16:06+01:002023-12-10T18:21:10+00:00Dallas, Texas and Brinkley, Arkansas<p>Although Dallas wasn’t that far a drive (a mere five and a half hours) from Amarillo, I opted to stay the night in Wichita Falls, about half-way to Dallas, where a friend of mine runs the Iron Horse Irish bar. </p>
<p>I pulled into the motel car park and hit the button on the dash which starts and stops the Buick Lacrosse. A message flashed up. 'Are you sure you want to stop the engine?' This was followed by 'Car key fob not detected'. I decided that I would leave the engine running while I pondered what this meant. If the car's computer system couldn't detect the fob, then where the hell was it? I searched the car just in case it was the computer at fault. No fob. Then I searched myself. No fob. If I had lost the keys to a car in Wichita Falls TX that was rented in Nashville TN how would I get a replacement set, how long would it take to get them here and how much would it cost? I envisaged having to stay in this small town for days – and I would miss my next gig. Writing this all these years later, my stomach still turns when I think of it. Don't panic, I told myself. And don't stop the car. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/9bb9ce351e8e33a0df83b3ebf97ddeb1f4c16fb6/original/buick.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong> The Buick Lacrosse</strong></p>
<p>I had made only one stop since leaving Amarillo when I had pulled off of the freeway to get a bottle of water from the boot (trunk). Could I have dropped the keys, then? There was only one way to find out. </p>
<p>The half-hour journey back to the location of my pit-stop seemed to go on forever. I drove in silence, aware that although the fuel gauge was nearly into the red, I couldn't stop to fill up because the key to the fuel filler cap was on the key ring along with the fob. I turned off the air-con to economise on fuel. </p>
<p>When I arrived back at the side road, there was a big semi-truck parked exactly where I had stopped. I approached the truck, aware that it is best not to startle a truck driver – especially one from Texas. There was probably a gun somewhere in the cab. </p>
<p>I explained my situation and asked if he minded me looking under his trailer for my keys. He didn't. My search was fruitless. Would he mind moving the truck forward a little in case the keys were under one of his eighteen wheels? He explained that he couldn't move the truck for another ten minutes as he was taking a legally required break. </p>
<p>I went and sat in my very hot car. With the engine running. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/65f1db9beb18cafe21934debdd311ec7dceab45a/original/truck.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>Truckin' in Texas</strong></p>
<p>Ten minutes later, the truck fired up and pulled away. I rushed over and checked where the huge wheels had been. There were no keys. I had gambled and lost and now I was in the middle of nowhere with little hope of being able to get back to the motel. I'm pretty sure it was at this point that I would have cried except my attention was drawn to the fact that the truck had squealed to a stop about 200 yards up the road, just before the on-ramp for the highway. The driver jumped from his cab and began waving at me. I ran to him. As I got closer I could see he was holding something aloft. “I got your keys, fella!” he said. How he had spotted them lying on the ground from his cab I will never know. He could see the relief on my face. I thanked him until it was embarrassing to thank him anymore. So instead we tried to work out what had happened. I must've driven off with the keys sitting on top of the car, I surmised. We looked at the six lane highway. He said “You were lucky they fell off when they did. If it had been on the freeway, you would never have found them.” We stood there watching the fast-moving traffic. “Somebody up there likes you, my friend.” I nodded my agreement. He climbed into his cab, saying, “You have a nice day, now, you hear?” And like a true wild west hero he drove off into the distance. </p>
<p>I toasted the driver with no name with several pints of excellent Guinness that night. Then I tackled a Texas steak. It was a fine piece of meat. </p>
<p>I hummed the theme tune to the 1970s television show <em>Dallas</em> as I entered the city. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember who shot JR. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/b768f9c3947d2007653c75947cc5c7c0165c8785/original/book-depository.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>The Texas School Book Depository</strong></p>
<p>For people of a certain age, the Texas School Book Depository is synonymous with the assassination of John F. Kennedy. It was the location where Lee Harvey Oswald supposedly took the shots which killed the 35th President of the United States on November 22nd 1963. I say supposedly, as conspiracies abound to this day as to who killed JFK. </p>
<p>The building is now a museum. The famous 6th floor corner window has been preserved as it was on that day that shocked the world. Despite its macabre subject, the museum is a tasteful affair. The events are handled in a thoughtful manner. In the three hours I was there, I learned a lot about the man, his presidency, the reasons he may have been targeted, and his legacy. Graceland could learn a thing or two from the Dallas museum. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/008fe54e1ae77e025df39802bdfd6f2d00cd9e8c/original/dallas.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> The Opening Bell, Dallas TX</strong></p>
<p>The last night of the tour was a gig at the Opening Bell; an artsy coffee shop with a wonderful vibe to it. I shared the stage with a great duo called Brent and Kate whose stunning harmonies were the icing on the cake of thoughtful songs which were presented with grace and humour. It was a good end to what has been an amazing experience. </p>
<p>Before heading back to the UK, I had a week planned in Nashville, where it had all started ten weeks earlier. Dallas to Nashville is 675 miles and takes at least 10 hours, so I decided to stop en route. I was hoping to make Memphis but weariness caught up with me while I was still in Arkansas, so I pulled into a motel in the small town of Brinkley. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/635df7db286018e72e500dde268bba3e066d954a/original/brinkley-ar-001.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Brinkey, Arkansas</strong></p>
<p>Prohibition - the nationwide constitutional ban on the production, importation, transportation, and sale of alcoholic beverages lasted in the US from 1920 to 1933. It was sent on its puritanical way by the 18th Amendment but some states struck deals with temperance groups to supposedly keep people safe (and at church). Arkansas is one of these states. I didn't know this. </p>
<p>After checking into my motel, I went to a Mexican restaurant. The waiter asked what I would like to drink. A beer, I said. “No beer,” he said in broken English. “We have beer tomorrow.” I’ll come back, tomorrow, I lied. I tried another restaurant. “No beer,” came the reply. Thoughts of Monty Python’s Cheese Shop sketch came to mind. The young lass in the pizza parlour said the same thing. No matter, I said, I’ll have a take-away, buy beer in a shop and dine in my motel room. The girl looked at me, strangely but said nothing. She took my order. It would be 20 minutes. </p>
<p>I went to the liquor store; it was shut. I went into the gas station (please, that’s what they call it!). I took beer from the fridge and took it to the guy at the cash register. “Sorry, sir, I can’t sell you beer on a Sunday.” What? “No beer sales in this town on Sundays.” After asking for confirmation of this distressing news, I jumped in the car and headed to the next town. But alas, I was told: “It’s against the law to sell beer anywhere in the State of Arkansas on a Sunday.” I was gobsmacked. Had I travelled back in time to 1955? I just wanted a bloody beer! I said, how about I leave this crisp $20 bill that's in my hand, here on the counter and you leave a six-pack of beer at the back door, no questions asked? “Well, sir,” he said, “that would be against the law. And a sin.” </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/d51fe2b1e2e31c8f6fa630ba297a845d7e6cad33/original/brinkley-n-alcohol.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><strong> No Alcohol on Sunday</strong></p>
<p>I went back to pick up my pizza. The girl who had served me earlier, handed over my pizza wearing a wry smile; it cost her a tip. </p>
<p>As I drove back to the motel, I could hear something rolling around in the boot (trunk) of the car. It was a single bottle of beer left over from my stay in Dallas. Did I drink it hot with hot pizza or put it in the fridge and wait till it was cold and eat cold pizza? Reader, I waited. It was quite possibly the best-tasting bottle of beer I have ever raised to my lips. </p>
<p>Apropos of nothing, you can buy a gun in Arkansas on a Sunday. Of course, you can.</p>
<p><a href="https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/LocationPhotos-g31469-Brinkley_Arkansas.html#459545835"><img src="https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/1b/64/1c/eb/exterior.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
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<p><br> </p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63928522020-07-25T11:30:19+01:002024-01-16T10:46:06+00:00San Diego, El Paso and Amarillo<p>The drive to California was a beautiful one; from wide-open desert with intermittent rocks and scrub through to the mountainous terrain of Cuyamaca Rancho State Park. As I neared the Pacific coast the temperature dropped. After the heat of Phoenix, 95 degrees was suddenly tolerable. </p>
<p>I was staying with my old band mate from my hometown of Ipswich UK. His name is Nigel Cook and he has been living in San Diego since 2005. It was great to see him, and I think he enjoyed having someone from home around for a few days. We caught up with each other's news over a cup of English tea. It was the first decent cup I'd had since arriving in the US and I savoured it. </p>
<p>It rained that first day; it was as though the weather gods were making us both feel at home and we loved it! </p>
<p>We enjoyed being two lads from Ipswich, England out on the town in a US city. Over several beers we reminisced about gigs we had played together – the infamous New Year's Eve gig at The Railway pub and the even more infamous tour of Germany. </p>
<p>I notice that despite his decade in the US there is no trace of an American accent other than his pronunciation of garage (to rhyme with barge, instead of marriage) and he has dropped the ‘s’ on maths for a US math. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/64d6b4effa34cf1474488fdf0dde9c43cf58dfcc/original/pacific-ocean.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>A Paddle in the Pacific Ocean</strong></p>
<p>Nigel took me to a beach so that I could paddle in the warm Pacific Ocean. It felt very good. He revealed that he hadn't been to the beach in a long time. Maybe living right next to the ocean, you take it for granted. When I remarked that he didn't look particularly tanned. He said: “I leave my air-conditioned house, get in my air-conditioned car, drive to an underground car park in an air-conditioned building. I'm never in the sun!” </p>
<p>While Nigel was out at work, I set about trying to cash the cheque (check) that I had been paid from my gig in Muscle Shoals. I went to the first bank that I came across. A major US bank. Could I pay this in to my account in the UK, please? No, I was told, we can't do that. I then went to a branch of the bank that the cheque was drawn on. The bank teller looked at me aghast. Transfer the money to an account not in the US? Are you mad? So much for a global economy. Finally, I went to a check-cashing store in a rather run-down area of the city. Have you got I.D, they asked. I produced my UK driving licence. Despite having my name, address and a photo of me on it, I was told that won't do. “Do you have any American documentation?” Er, I'm not American, I said. “What about a social security number? That would do.” Oh, right. Yes, I lied. I can do that. She presented me with a form and pointed to a box marked SSN. There were nine spaces. I wrote down a random set of numbers. I handed the form back. I had visions of a SWAT team from the FBI suddenly appearing and insisting I put my hands in the air. </p>
<p>The teller glanced at the numbers, rubber-stamped the form and handed me my cash. </p>
<p>That night I played Lestat’s Coffee House. I got the feeling it was quite a hip place. The bohemian crowd were receptive but a lot cooler than I had become used to. <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/c0f46f7bc555be2c9da89c8ac6d0699a73387a52/original/san-diego.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong> Lestat's Coffee House, San Diego</strong></p>
<p>My next gig was in Amarillo, Texas but I had decided to pay a visit to El Paso, purely because of the Marty Robbins song named after the west Texas town. I wondered whether wicked Felina might still be whirling down at Rosa's Cantina. </p>
<p>Highway 8 becomes I-10 and the road turns south at Phoenix towards Tucson. At one point just before Yuma I was driving so close to the border with Mexico that my phone pinged and 'welcomed me to Mexico.' </p>
<p>I stopped for coffee in the town of Bowie – named after the American Pioneer who has a knife named after him. This didn't stop me singing Davie Bowie songs as I gassed up the car. </p>
<p>The reds, pinks and golds of the mountains, the sky and the desert as the sun went down in New Mexico were breathtaking. After you cross the Rio Grande at La Cruces, the highway swings south towards Texas. It was dark by the time I reached El Paso. </p>
<p>I didn't have a motel booked so I took a chance on wonderfully seedy-looking El Paso Inn just because it had El Paso in its name. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/e99e2f48bf91cc45bf860d1cad076650247c528f/original/el-paso-inn.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>The El Paso Inn</strong></p>
<p>The man on reception told me that there was a problem with the credit card payment machine so he could only accept cash. I smelled a rat here and felt sure that my $60 was going straight in his pocket with maybe $10 for the maid to clear out the room the next morning so the owners would be none the wiser that the room had been slept in. </p>
<p>I offered $30 and said I don't need a receipt. He said: “No way!”. I said fine and turned to walk away. He called me back and said “$40 – best I can do!” </p>
<p>We settled at $35 and I mentally thanked the author Lee Child who had his character Jack Reacher use this ploy in a recent novel. </p>
<p>The road from El Paso to Amarillo crosses briefly back into New Mexico. I made a slight detour so that I could pass through Roswell, where allegedly in the summer of 1947 an alien space ship crash-landed and was hushed up by the authorities. I drove around looking for aliens but the only one I could find was me. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/2dc28820b683bac6bf0d1891931c78348dd020aa/original/aliens.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Looking for Aliens in Roswell, New Mexico</strong></p>
<p>Back in Texas, I passed through the town of Friona which claimed to be the cheeseburger capital of Texas. How true, and how hotly contested a title that is, I have no idea. </p>
<p>I was about 50 miles from Amarillo, when an uncontrollable urge came over me. Despite having a large and efficient map of US state highways, a top-notch satellite navigation system, and adequate signage on the roads, I couldn’t resist pulling over to the side of the road, winding down the window, and asking a passer-by: “Excuse me, sir, but is this…….? </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/a6668702b0ce7c4cbadb4a36681917cfa50089d0/original/cadillac-ranch.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Cadillac Ranch</strong> </p>
<p>In Amarillo, I paid a visit to the city’s famous Cadillac Ranch – a public art installation – ten old Cadillacs half-buried in the earth by some hippie architects back in 1974, situated in an old wheat field off interstate 40. People go there armed with spray paint cans; every day the colours change. 40 years later, the piece is still a work in progress. <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/749f50e666d8ba88e598697bb5ba18cc3cdf69e1/original/806-coffee-house.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>806 Coffee House, Amarillo, TX</strong></p>
<p>My gig in Amarillo was at the 806 Coffee House. Also on the bill was Austin TX resident Devin James Fry. We decided not to do the usual opening act and headline and shared the night, playing five songs each and then swapping. It worked really well; it meant neither of us was sitting around for a long time, and the audience were constantly introduced to a change in style every half-hour or so. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/123847f5ccaec5fc6d60bddf680d0ebe761c045c/original/devin-james-fry.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Devin James Fry</strong></p>
<p>I am not a fan of the craft beers that I've come across in the US. I think this is because all of these micro-breweries popping up all over the country are still in their infancy and at the stage of thinking they can put anything they want in a beer (peanut butter-flavoured ale, anyone?). Perhaps, given time they will settle down and just make a good tasting beer. In the meantime, I muddle through tours drinking American domestic beers such as Budweiser and Miller, occasionally finding a bar that can keep and pour a decent pint of Guinness. I do confess to having developed a taste for a very old beer called Hamm's. But after two and a half months on the road I was desperate for a pint of British Ale.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/daf4e44618a21ec8a6a41b9a7924a4bdfac4b1ac/original/london-pride.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> London Pride</strong></p>
<p>So imagine my delight when I saw a bottle of London Pride made by west London brewers Fullers sitting in one of the chiller cabinets behind the bar. At first I thought I was hallucinating. But no, there were six of these little beauties lined up behind one another. They are all mine I told the barman. “No problem,” he said, “They've been here a while. Nobody else wants them.” Reader, I drank them all. </p>
<p>The cafe closed at midnight so Devin and I headed to a nearby bar. He introduced me to a Texas ritual of drinking Jameson whiskey and Lone Star beer together. The bar had an open mic night that was in full swing and we both ended up getting up to play. I just about recall that the end of the evening got quite messy.</p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63869632020-07-18T16:11:01+01:002023-12-10T16:50:56+00:00Memphis, Tucumcari and Phoenix<p>Memphis doesn’t feel like it’s in Tennessee. It feels more like Mississippi – which is just a few miles to the south. Maybe the difference is not just a geographical one due to the somewhat arbitrary drawing of state lines but because many of the musical greats who made their names in Memphis are from other southern states; people like Sam Phillips (Alabama), Johnny Cash (Arkansas), Jerry Lee Lewis (Louisiana), BB King and Elvis Presley (Mississippi). It certainly feels very different from Nashville. <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/81b4a1900078d3b7fcb977192d8961923e386251/original/sun-studios.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>Sun Studios</strong></p>
<p>There is much to see in Memphis; but the absolute must for me was visiting Sun Studios. It was very exciting being in the room where rock and roll was born. There is a photo on the wall of the ‘million dollar quartet’ – Elvis, Jerry Lee, Cash and Carl Perkins – taken in that room in 1956. Not forgetting that before Phillips started his label, he recorded the likes of BB King, Howling Wolf and Rufus Thomas. </p>
<p>I went to visit Graceland. If you go to Memphis you have to visit Graceland. </p>
<p>The Graceland tour is a well-oiled machine. Every aspect of it has been scrutinized and timed. You buy your ticket at an office across the road from the house, queue up, are given an iPad and headphones for commentary, and herded aboard a bus. There is even a traffic light to ensure a quick crossing for the bus. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/daffa2543a94529a5ffe4ca320a89ab178eeb58b/original/graceland.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> I'm Going to Graceland</strong></p>
<p>You go in the main door and the commentary starts. I felt a little uneasy and voyeuristic, making my way round a dead man’s house. I was strangely unmoved by the decor and artifacts. The disembodied tour guide reels off a myriad of facts, all of which I’ve forgotten. The number of awards lining the corridor walls is impressive but you learn nothing about the man behind the stage persona. The dreadful movies are glossed over, and the excellent 1968 <em>Come Back Special </em>is highlighted. Suddenly, you are in a room where there is a piano. The voice tells you that Elvis played this piano on the morning of August 16th 1977, went upstairs to prepare for the evening’s performance – and died. It finishes with the assertion that Elvis is even bigger now in death than he was in life. I think it is disingenuous not to talk about his final years, his struggle with drugs, junk food, and his ballooning weight. Those times are well-documented, and are no secret, and his fans deserve better than this Disney-esque re-imagining of events. It’s as though Colonel Tom Parker is still pulling the strings. </p>
<p> After my last three grave visits (Arthur Alexander, Hank Williams Sr, Robert Johnson) where I had the time to sit and reflect (and play a song or two), having to queue up to see Elvis’s grave was a little disappointing. Not to mention, the fact that the<em> This is Spinal Tap</em> scene where the band are standing at Elvis's grave trying to sing an acapella version of <em>Heartbreak Hotel</em> was playing in my head (too much f*ckin’ perspective!). Wasn’t it Lennon who said: “Elvis died the day he went in the army”? <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/b4c6c2ce5b75d2fe484b31d5f38c21880a0183e3/original/elvis-grave.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong> Elvis Presley's Grave</strong></p>
<p>I had to be in Phoenix in three days’ time. It was just shy of 1,500 miles taking 20 hours. I headed west on Highway 40. I made two stops along the way. First was Broken Arrow, Oklahoma – because I liked the sound of it. I booked into a motel and drove into Tulsa. I sat with some bar flies hoping that one of their sad stories would make a good song. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/3b46d1141b1068ced3a73804e34ce28ad5fe09ab/original/tulsa-sign.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Living on Tulsa Time</strong></p>
<p>The road from Tulsa to Tucumcari, New Mexico is part of the old Route 66. The signs that were taken down in the late 1980s to be replaced by i40 signs have been reinstated as part of the 'National Scenic Highway' and much is being made of its famous past (thanks mainly to the song <em>Route 66</em>). This has helped tourism in the region no end. And speaking of songs - I stopped at Tucumcari, New Mexico, purely because it is mentioned in the Little Feat song <em>Willin'.</em></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/38033d2386666f0ce53af08d37fe13627a093d7b/original/americana-motel.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> The Americana Motel</strong></p>
<p>My motel - The Americana Motel - was pretty basic. I didn't fancy staying in my room all evening so I drove out to Tucumcari Lake, and watched the sun go down. It was the date of my wedding anniversary, the first one that I’d been away for in 26 years. I was feeling a little sad about being away. I wrote a song called <em>Tucumcari Sunset</em>. It's the fifth song on <em>American Odyssey</em>. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/869f3edee5d1e8c92069a51a5e719591d87fb177/original/tucumcari-sunset.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Tucumcari Sunset</strong></p>
<p>I couldn't resist driving into Albuquerque to track down the house used in <em>Breaking Bad</em> that was used as the residence of Walter White and his wife Skyler. The real owners of the property don't mind you taking photos – they just don't want you throwing pizza on the roof... </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/d05251739e50d4a92d3fd0acc14094c750ececb2/original/breaking-bad-house.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Breaking Bad in Albuquerque </strong></p>
<p>Northern Arizona is surprisingly green, the mountains covered in foliage. It’s only as you head south that the scenery turns brown, and I see the first of many cacti. The temperature gauge in the car starts rising. It reaches 110 degrees Fahrenheit (43 degrees Celsius). Before I leave the state it will reach 115. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/79ee8c902fe161a8bb1436f88ee59f8b101fc4cf/original/cactus.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> My First Cactus</strong></p>
<p>I was staying with environmental lawyer David Johnson and his lovely family. David is a New Yorker. He says that Phoenix is a great place to live – apart from the summer. “When it’s snowing in New York in December, it’s 75 degrees here – but in July and August – you just can’t stay outdoors!” </p>
<p>Despite the heat, I drove to the town of Sedona to see the most beautiful range of giant red rocks. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/52245613cb8d91b446c7c94a92df54ec649b2b59/original/sedona.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Sedona</strong></p>
<p>My gig was at the Fiddler’s Dream Coffee House. I was struggling to find the venue when this guy comes up to me and says “Are you Tony James Shevlin?” I told him I was. His name was Jeff Murphy an Irish American New Yorker who at the time was living in Phoenix (nobody is ever from Phoenix, people move there for work!). He was a great supporter of Fiddler's Dream and had checked me out on the internet earlier. He took me into the building which was a Quaker Meeting House and introduced me to the lovely Nia Maxwell who runs the event. She made me feel very welcome and very special. </p>
<p>People in the venue go there to hear acoustic music. That's not just music played on acoustic instruments but music played acoustically in that there is no PA. The sound in the room is so good that you don’t actually need one. You just stand on the stage and belt out your songs. I loved it. The audience listened intently, and applauded enthusiastically. I’m sure that if I’d had any CDs left to sell, I would have sold a few that night. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/02c42fa2c33ec115b8f5811d8801a241a4216df6/original/doug-and-jeff.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Doug Haywood and Jeff Murphy</strong></p>
<p>Also on the bill that night was veteran musician Doug Haywood. As a session musician, his list of credits is impressive. Jackson Browne, Willie Nelson, George Harrison, Bonnie Rait, Linda Ronstadt and James Taylor. He was a wonderful musician and an absolute gentlemen. I think he was praising my raconteuring skills when he said: “I can't tell a story like these English / Irish guys can – I think they're inoculated with a gramophone needle.”</p>
<p>One of the downsides of being on the road is that just as you are getting to know the people that you are staying with, feeling comfortable and at ease with them, it's time to move on. I was sad to leave David and Jennifer but I was excited to be going to California to meet an old mate from back home. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/c04203dc245183f0c6a65a1a926dbf3e97c9416e/original/fiddlers-edit.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Fiddler's Dream Coffee House</strong></p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63845162020-07-14T15:11:30+01:002023-12-10T16:48:16+00:00Down in Mississippi<p>When I'm on the road I always try to listen to local radio stations. Quite often you can find out what's happening in the area and use it in your stage banter. As I drove by cotton fields on Highway 69 in Mississippi on a hot Sunday morning, I listened to a service being broadcast from Shilo Full Gospel Missionary Church. It was an amazing experience – being in the delta listening to a preacher trying to save my soul. The voices of the choir were joyous and uplifting. Eventually the signal faded out and it was replaced by a pastor from a Christian Evangelical Church who gave a sermon on how the children of America are being corrupted by television. But there was no need to worry as he had the answer to ensure that your offspring did not stray from the righteous path. And he would impart that information to you for a donation of $50. Those Lear jets aren't cheap, you know</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/fd5a3dea5adf41ec301bee070179894c82499920/original/ms-sign.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Welcome to Mississippi</strong></p>
<p>I was heading for Greenwood MS, one of three towns that claim to be the last resting place of blues legend Robert Johnson. Because of where his last gig was and the hospital which issued his death certificate, most historians have settled on Little Zion Baptist Church, Greenwood MS. </p>
<p>A website gave the church's address as Money Road. My sat nav wouldn't accept Money Road so instead I decided to put in Greenwood MS and ask for directions when I got there. </p>
<p>Segregation officially ended in the US in 1954 but in truth, many US cities have areas that are predominately white, black, Latino or Asian and I have found this is even more so in the south. To someone brought up in the UK this is very unsettling. Whilst these places are not exactly no-go areas, a degree of tribalism exists. This, naturally, creates a suspicion of outsiders. </p>
<p>According to FBI statistics: “Greenwood is not one of the safest communities in America.” ... "It has a crime rate that is higher than 77% of most towns and cities in the state." But I was not going to let that stop me on my mission to find Johnson's grave.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/535db608f20d9bceee114e25d4693b53f0b7cea0/original/greenwood-2.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Greenwood, Mississippi</strong></p>
<p>I pulled off of Highway 82 and stopped at the first petrol station I found. It wasn't until I got out of the car that I noticed that I was in a very run-down area. My shiny white Buick LaCrosse car stood out somewhat. As I walked towards the fortified concrete shop to ask the store owner for directions, I noticed a group of six young men, ranging in age from late teens to late twenties looking at me. One had a look on his face that reminded me of the hyenas in <em>The Lion King</em> when they corner Simba. It was too late to get back in the car. My natural inclination in situations like these is always to bluff. </p>
<p>The one on the far left called out to me. “You in the wrong part of town, man!” I decided to ignore him and instead focused on the big chap in the centre who was sporting more bling than the others. He was wearing a basketball vest that showed off his muscular physique and he wore his hair in cornrows. The other lads seemed to be deferring to him so I figured he was the big dog. </p>
<p>As I approached, they all stood up. In my finest clipped English accent I said that I was terribly sorry to bother him but did he know where Little Zion Baptist Church was? He took an age to answer. I couldn't see his eyes as they were hidden behind mirror sunglasses but I imagined that he was looking me up and down. Finally he said: “You Irish?” This took me by surprise - it was not a question I was expecting. This was also a quandary. The answer was 'yes'. I identify as Irish but clearly I don't sound Irish. It occurred to me that this was perhaps not the time to give this chap a lesson on accents and dialects. But it seemed such a strange thing to ask in rural Mississippi. What was the best answer to give? Did he like the Irish? Had he seen the movie <em>The Commitments</em> in which the main protagonist Dubliner, Jimmy Rabbit tries to convince his newly-formed band to play Soul music by saying: “The Irish are the blacks of Europe” thus forging (in his mind) a beautiful bond between our two cultures or perhaps his heart had been broken by a lovely red-headed colleen passing through on a gap year and so had vowed vengeance on anyone remotely connected to the Emerald Isle? It was a fifty-fifty choice. </p>
<p>Yes, I replied. Oi am. I could hear that in the space between the words 'yes' and 'I am' that my accent had made the 300 mile leap from London to Dublin. </p>
<p>His demeanor didn't change but he seemed pleased that he had called it right. He pointed at one of the other lads: “Go to the car and get me my phone,” he said. While we waited for the lackey to return we stood there in silence. I am a firm believer that people are basically good, that communication is the key to breaking down barriers so I thought it best to engage Big Dog in conversation. Except that my brain seemed to be devoid of any thought other than 'talk to him” and “say something.” I could see myself reflected in his sunglasses. I could see the sweat forming on my forehead. Big Dog spoke first. “Little Zion?” I answered yes. “Little Zion?” Er, yes. I believe the church is on Money Road, if that helps? He shook his head. “Ain't never heard of no Money Road,” he said. </p>
<p>At this moment, a big 1980s Plymouth Gran Fury pulled up at one of the fuel pumps. An elderly black gentleman exited the vehicle. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and pressed black trousers, he looked like he had just come from church. I wondered if he'd been at the service I'd heard earlier on the radio. He looked over, took in the scene and walked over. He addressed Big Dog, saying “What's happening brother? What's going down?” Big Dog turned to him and said: “Fella here looking for Little Zion Baptist Church. Says it's on Money Road. I ain't never heard of no Money Road” The man looked at me and said: “You want Robert Johnson!”</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/a10bed32f78dc8c715eb7990be02ffcb55573cbb/original/little-zion-baptist-church.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Little Zion Baptist Church</strong></p>
<p>Yes, I said a little too eagerly. The man then turned to Big Dog and gave him very precise directions to the church in question. “Left at the lights. Head out of town. Over the river once, over the river agin, drive for a mile, bend in the road, just a'fore the town of Money, church is on the left.” Now we all knew where Little Zion Baptist Church was. Big Dog nodded and turned to me. He said: “You go left at the lights. Head out of town. Over the river once, over the river agin, drive for a mile, bend in the road, just a'fore the town of Money, church is on the left.” I listened intently as though I was hearing these directions for the first time. The old man winked at me, smiled and returned to his vehicle. I thanked Big Dog. I put out my hand for him to shake it and said it was very kind of him. He took my hand, pulled me in close. He looked over the top of his sunglasses to reveal startling brown eyes. “You know it,” he said, and strutted away. </p>
<p>I think often about this encounter. Was I worried unduly? Was I ever in any real danger? And what the hell was the Irish thing about? I have decided to chalk it up to an overactive imagination and the kindness of strangers. Because people are basically good. </p>
<p>I followed the explicit directions. On the way, I crossed the Tallahatchie Bridge made famous by Bobbie Gentry in her haunting song <em>Ode to Billy Joe</em>. I stopped to throw a stone into the Tallahatchie River and I wondered just what Billy Joe and the protagonist of the song threw in the river that day... </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/cc4237661917ee9b8d6098df920198e0d2714d2b/original/tallahatchie-bridge.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> The Tallahatchie Bridge</strong></p>
<p>The church was exactly where the old man via Big Dog had said it was. There were no cars in front of the wooden building. There was a board at the front of the drive that marked this place as an historic site. It was titled 'Robert Johnson' citing: 'he is thought to be buried in this graveyard'. There was no indication of exactly where the grave was. Somehow, I knew it would be in the far corner under the shade of some trees, so I wandered that way. And there he was. The man to whom blues musicians and fans the world over owe so much.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/b9faf609e27090fe52ca77d559ead8bb9910a94e/original/robert-johnson-2.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Robert Johnson's Grave</strong></p>
<p>With the mythology that had been built up around Johnson and his supposed deal with the devil, selling his soul for his prodigious talent, I’d expected it to be a little creepy standing at his grave but it felt very peaceful. The sun was setting behind the trees, with just a few rays breaking through that made it look like there was a spotlight shining down on the grave. The deafening cacophony of the cicadas’ chorus had yet to start up and I stood there in a respectful silence. Then I got my guitar out, and sang and played my favourite Robert Johnson song – the beautiful and heartbreaking<em> Love in Vain. </em></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/3b623696cf8343a9cd666ea2c5b0343fc2b6d494/original/robert-johnson-1.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Me and Robert Johnson</strong></p>
<p>I set my sat nav for Memphis. A few minutes later, I’m on a dirt road. Ten minutes later, I’m still winding my way down a dirt road. I thought that, any minute now, I’m going to come across a couple of good ol’ boys cooking up moonshine on an illegal still, and that’ll be me done for. I started to drive a little faster. All this did was make a huge plume of dust rise up behind me. It was like I was announcing my arrival. I drove a little bit faster. This made pebbles jump up and hit the car; the car rental people would make a meal of this and keep my deposit for damaging the car but I didn’t care. And at least the noise of the engine helped drown out the sound of banjos in my head. </p>
<p>After 20 minutes, I saw the lights of the highway up ahead. Before I hit the main road, I stopped to relieve myself in some bushes. The cicadas were in full swing. I looked around and noticed that I was in swamp land. Alligators live in swamps, I thought. No, I’m too far north in Mississippi for alligators. Comforted, I carried on with my business. But a thought struck me. What if an alligator was more lost than me? I hurried back to the car. </p>
<p>The journey to Memphis was uneventful.</p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63820252020-07-10T18:13:25+01:002023-12-10T16:53:01+00:00Sweet Home Alabama<p>When Pete Thomas of Oh Mercy! Records first suggested a tour of the US, we sat down and discussed where I would like to play. I had said that I would go anywhere (he took me at my word and I ended up driving 11,000 miles) but to please, please try and get me a gig in Muscle Shoals. </p>
<p>I had recently seen the wonderful documentary by Greg Camalier called <em>Muscle Shoals</em> which told the story of the area in Alabama that produced so much great music in the 1960s and 1970s. Pete came through and I was booked to play at a bar in Muscle Shoals called Swampers.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/3a650b21378c71d185b0d81d961a4af856767735/original/alabama.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>Sweet Home Alabama</strong></p>
<p>As soon as you cross the state line from Tennessee to Alabama, you start to notice the plethora of churches. They seem to be every quarter of a mile, each one a different denomination or a variation on a name. I thought that I’d found the buckle in the Bible belt. </p>
<p>The Muscle Shoals area is really made up of three small cities: Florence, Sheffield, and Muscle Shoals itself, all nestled on the banks of the Tennessee River. Much is made of the river's influence on the music that came out of the region. The Yuchi tribe of Native Americans believed the river sang to them.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/d3b4f317f09b51f0128f68b8c0be07a23bd5e940/original/fame.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>FAME</strong></p>
<p>The FAME Studios (Florence Alabama Musical Enterprises) is still a working studio. Guided tours were limited on the day I visited as Alicia Keys was recording there. I was so excited to be in the room where Aretha Franklin sang<em> I Never Loved a Man,</em> Wilson Pickett sang<em> Land of 1,000 Dances</em>, and Etta James sang <em>I Would Rather Go Blind</em>. This was also the room where Southern Rock was born when a young guitarist named Duane Allman convinced Wilson Pickett to record a funky version of <em>Hey Jude</em>. I spotted a box of recording tapes labelled 'Duane Allman Outtakes'. I would have loved to listen to that! The tour guide told of how even though segregation was the norm in 1960s Alabama, inside FAME black and white musicians worked and played together (it comes as a surprise to a lot of people that the rhythm sections on a lot of R&B and soul music's biggest hits were a bunch of white college kids. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/d463556cd90918b39a33f8a29438a8c93cb9ef8f/original/duane.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong> Duane Allman Outakes</strong></p>
<p>The next day, I visited 3614 Jackson Highway – the Muscle Shoals Sound Studio, set up in 1969 by the musicians known as ‘the Swampers’ (“Muscle Shoals has got the Swampers, they’ve been known to pick a song or two” – <em>Sweet Home Alabama</em> – Lynyrd Skynyrd). It’s not a recording studio any more but as they just closed the door on the place in the late 1970s to move to bigger premises, it’s as it was when the Rolling Stones went there to record <em>Brown Sugar </em>and <em>Wild Horses.</em></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/293ed11efeed2105d9e7b78180efd8ba6343dbca/original/muscle-shoals-3.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong> Muscle Shoals Sound Studio</strong></p>
<p>There were no other visitors in there when I arrived; I had my guitar with me because I didn’t want to leave it in a hot car. I stepped through the front door and waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom of a room with no windows and low lighting. There was a young man sat behind a desk reading a music magazine. He put it down and smiled at me brightly. Can I look round the studio? I asked. “Sure, you can, if you’ve got five bucks,” he replied. I thought that was a bargain and offered up a five-dollar bill. He noticed my guitar and said: “Do you wanna go in there and play?” I did not expect this. Yes, please, I said. I walked into the studio. The room looked old. If you were making a film set in the 1970s about a recording studio, this is how you would want it to look. I spent ages just standing in the room, soaking up the atmosphere and looking at the black and white photos on the walls. Among them were candid shots of Mavis Staples, Rod Stewart, Paul Simon, and the Rolling Stones.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/9933e8f9ddd42c5b0b8e316b6861c6ea3ef0bf4b/original/muscle-shoals-2.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>Recording in Progress</strong></p>
<p>I sat on the sofa where Mick and Keith once sat and I played as many songs as I could remember that were recorded in that room – and there were quite a few. I also got out my digital recorder and recorded some of the songs I’d written during the tour. Just so I can say, “Here’s one I recorded at Muscle Shoals”. Well, can you blame me?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/b3cce2671f3344d69de97ba9336cab02a4b8bac2/original/muscle-shoals.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>Shevlin Swamper</strong></p>
<p>Swampers bar turned out to be situated in a Marriott Hotel. As well as getting paid for the show, the management had thrown in a meal, a couple of drinks, and a very nice hotel room. It was a holiday weekend and the hotel bar was packed. After I had played <em>Restless Celtic Heart </em>a man came up and said in a broad southern accent “My great granddaddy was from Ireland. Do you know <em>Black Velvet Band</em>?” Of course I do. He promptly popped $20 in the tip jar that I hadn't noticed at the foot of the stage. Every time that I played a traditional Irish song, somebody came up and dropped a $20 bill in the jar. By the end of the night (three sets of 45 minutes) there was $200 in there. I also played some songs recorded in Muscle Shoals. The audience appreciated my homage to the area. </p>
<p>Two local musicians took the time out to speak with me. Malcolm and Eddie play in a band called the Wildwood Ruminators. They told me about life in Muscle Shoals. They told me that the Swampers are just regular guys – keyboardist Spooner Oldham even played on their album. </p>
<p>We were enjoying the chat so much that we agreed to meet for a late breakfast the following day.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/9d25a2aec96facc4467af20ab9f6c62ae166d4c0/original/eddie-and-malcolm.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>Eddie and Malcolm - Wildwood Ruminators</strong></p>
<p>Breakfast was at a Cracker Barrel. These are southern-themed restaurants and gift shops. I've been at quite a few since that day and it seems they always keep you waiting for a table, giving you ample time to peruse the gift shop. I had to try a classic southern breakfast of biscuits and gravy (like a scone with bacon-flavoured porridge poured over it) and grits – crushed ground corn with all the fixin's.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/d096e27a1c6966abb859b7c18b5ad1ac74dc4500/original/arthurs-grave.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Arthur's Grave</strong></p>
<p>The lads were very knowledgeable about the history of Muscle Shoals. After breakfast, they took me to the grave of local singer-songwriter, Arthur Alexander – the only man to have his songs covered by The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan. His success paved the way for the FAME Studio. Without Arthur, there would be no 'Muscle Shoals sound’ and yet there isn’t even a plaque recognising his contribution to music. </p>
<p>I wish that I could have stayed longer in Muscle Shoals and with the friends that I had made but it was time to move on. Eddie suggested that one day I come back to Muscle Shoals and record there. I wish.</p>
<p>On the road to Montgomery, I pulled over to the side of the road and wrote a song about Muscle Shoals. It's the second track on <em>American Odyssey</em> and it's called <em>Set Me Down by the Singing River.</em> </p>
<p>My next gig was in Memphis, but I had decided to make a detour. Quite a detour, actually – of 200 miles. To visit a grave and a bridge. </p>
<p>In Montgomery I found the grave of Hank Williams Sr. He is one of my all-time favourite songwriters and I wanted to pay homage. </p>
<p>A warden of the graveyard helped me find the grave. He thanked me for taking the time to pay my respects. </p>
<p>There was no one around at the monument to Williams, so I got my guitar out and sang a couple of Hank’s songs at his graveside. I thanked him for the music and left. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/f956ec766f16d298c4a2b331322c17bfa8c112bd/original/hank.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong> Hank Williams' Grave</strong></p>
<p>I stayed the night in a motel on the edge of the city (the cheap ones are always on the edge of town near the freeway). I planned to drive to Greenwood, Mississippi the next day in a quest to find the grave of legendary bluesman Robert Johnson, so I turned in early, but the night air was oppressive and I struggled to sleep. When I did, I had the weirdest dream involving Hank Williams and Robert Johnson. I woke up in a sweat. I couldn't get back to sleep so I sat up wrote <em>Robert Johnson's Blues</em> - the final track on <em>American Odyssey</em>. </p>
<p>I had breakfast in the motel. This was a Sunday and the television in the dining room was tuned to a religious channel. A heavily tanned man wearing a smart suit and a plastic smile was offering redemption and a DVD for a mere $129.99. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/30d68ba9a0351f3f18e6b3d17872a358d4b998db/original/edmund-pettus-bridge.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> '<strong>Bloody Sunday' - Selma, Alabama</strong></p>
<p>I drove out of Montgomery to the town of Selma. I stopped at the Edmund Pettus Bridge. The bridge crosses the Alabama River on Route 80. This is where on 7th March 1965 - known as 'Bloody Sunday' - some 600 marchers led by Martin Luther King Jr were attacked with clubs and tear gas by local and state policemen. </p>
<p>It was quite thought-provoking standing on that bridge. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/839dc3881f47a9a0ca5d75695a9c2647ade836af/original/state-capitol.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><strong> Montgomery State Capitol Building</strong></p>
<p>Before leaving for Mississippi, I decided to drive back in to Montgomery to visit the Alabama State Capitol Building. It's a magnificent structure. I was staring at it, thinking of the history; this is where Martin Luther King Jr and the Civil Rights marchers were making their way to, so they could cast their votes on 'Bloody Sunday'. I was lost in thought, thinking about what those people went through. My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a man on a Harley Davidson chopper motorbike. “T'aint right, I tell ya!” he shouted at me. “They took down the flag without no ceremony, no nothing and that ain't right.” I knew what he was referring to. I had been following the news concerning the Southern Cross flag, which had been removed from government buildings after the shooting of seven people in a church in South Carolina. The victims were black and the perpetrator was white. The jacket he wore was adorned with a Southern Cross flag. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/5cc4fb1c5a86e1dbe5b5443b1bcdf147e5b3b703/original/confederate-flag.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>Confederate Flag Plaque</strong></p>
<p>Before I had time to respond I heard a voice behind me. “Damn right, it's right!” </p>
<p>Coming down the steps of the Capitol building was a woman dressed in a pink top and wearing a big white hat. She marched right up to the biker and told him in no uncertain terms just why she thought it correct that the Confederate flag was no longer to be flown on government buildings. It was like a cross between <em>Fried Green Tomatoes</em> and <em>The Sons of Anarchy</em>. </p>
<p>The biker capitulated and roared off on his bike. The southern belle introduced herself as Sharon McClendon Price, “a liberal, a Democrat with a gay son, living in the heart of the Bible belt... I'm a minority.” </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/e10f816ef52f5cbc2b21b171a8dba23985738434/original/sharon.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><strong> Sharon McClendon Price</strong></p>
<p>We spent a while talking; she was keen to hear how the UK viewed US politics. We both concluded that it would all turn out okay as long as Donald Trump (who had recently declared his intention to run for President in the 2016 election) wasn't elected. I mean, that couldn't happen, could it?</p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63734652020-07-03T14:43:41+01:002023-12-10T17:39:18+00:00Independence Day<p>I left Santa Fe early in the morning. I was very keen to get back to Kansas City, Missouri. A bit too keen, according to the Kansas State policeman who pulled me over in Lawrence County, Kansas. I thought that I would be able to sweet-talk my way out of the $180 fine but the humourless ‘County Mountie’ was having none of it. It’s also hard to blag when the blag-ee has a gun. He told me, quite sternly, that if the fine wasn’t paid by a certain date, and I didn’t appear in court on August 8th an arrest warrant will be issued with my name on it. I would be a fugitive from justice – an outlaw! How cool is that? </p>
<p>I was heading back to KC to spend Independence Day with all the friends I had made on my recent trips to the city. </p>
<p>July 4th started for me and my good friend Matt with pancakes, as I thought this was a terribly American thing to do. To hell with King George, I said, let’s eat pancakes. I was sure that there must be something in the constitution about the inalienable right to eat pancakes smothered in maple syrup. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/159748d563b197466f8889312e868aff78af82ed/original/pancakes.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Independence Pancakes</strong></p>
<p>The pancakes were very good. </p>
<p>It was time to start celebrating. Several bars were visited, and one private redneck drinking club. There is a sign outside the club which states: ‘No guns’. I wondered how they enforced this, as the miscreant breaking this rule will be carrying a gun! It’s probably by producing a much bigger gun! </p>
<p>It was at this point Matt said to me: “You need to meet Mr Piggles”. This was by no means the strangest thing Matt has said to me in the time I have known him, so I just said, okay. </p>
<p>Mr Piggles is a black pig who lives in a recording studio on the fifth floor of a converted warehouse a couple of blocks from where Matt lives in an area called the West Bottoms. He was very friendly and I’m glad I got to make his acquaintance. I didn't find out what his role at the studio is. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/17f23d2f4c44439a79e5f6ce101656619a64ed80/original/mr-piggles.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Mr. Piggles</strong></p>
<p>The main event took place at the house of Jay and Jenny – friends of Matt. There was a pool and a barbecue which are prerequisites in my fantasy of a perfect Independence Day party. Somehow, most of the guests were people I had met in my time in KC, and all were people I wanted to see again. People like the charming and affable Shep (a lawyer who when I told him of my speeding fine, took my ticket from me saying: “I know some people in the District Court Clerk's office in Lawrence County.” I never heard any more about it); his lovely wife, the smoky-voiced Rita, and their charming neighbours, Jack and Patrick. Shep and I bonded during my last visit to KC. He is a gambling man, and when I had told him about the only time I ever gambled in my youth, we realised we had a shared love of, and owed a debt to the jockey Stevie Cauthen. Shep even has a tattoo on his back in honour of the great American horseman. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/9cfdc1ae72fda1f5cc2739025597d0353c59ac7c/original/shep-and-me.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>My Lawyer Shep and Me </strong></p>
<p>Americans take barbecuing very seriously. But in Kansas City, it is a religion. I have witnessed many conversations about the merits of barbecue - Bryant's v Gant's; whose burnt ends are the best; whose re-fried beans are best; even whose coleslaw is best. </p>
<p>There is tremendous dedication needed to ensure the perfect burger; I would feel under immense pressure but host Jay casually inspected and flipped the meat as he talked about the prospects of the local baseball team, the Kansas City Royals for the upcoming game against the Minnesota Twins. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/36f7406435bcceb4de27e6b02ad60d91f04ac89d/original/july-4th-4.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Pool Party</strong></p>
<p>At dusk, and after much eating, drinking and larking about in the pool, the entire party was moved to the roof of the three-storey building to watch the fireworks display. This was not an official event, as letting off fireworks in Kansas City, Missouri is illegal, but it is a pyrotechnic panorama put on by the public which the police turn a blind eye to. For three hours or more, the sky was filled with non-stop, colourful explosions as far as the eye can see in all directions. It was a truly remarkable spectacle. I watched the inhabitants of the house across the street let off a small fortune in noisy rockets but I don’t think you can buy the bonding experience between the father and son of that house as they carefully prepared to ignite their precious booty. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/6215a3401224f2bc8c0255a5be67941aaa0f31e8/original/july-4th-2.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Up On the Roof </strong> </p>
<p>The final event of the evening was my debuting the song that I had written about Kansas City, MO called <em>Kansas City Won’t Let Me Go</em>. The song is peppered with locations and references that only locals would appreciate. I was a little nervous presenting it to them but I was emboldened by the fact that I was quite pissed (that’s UK pissed, not US pissed). Drunk as I was, I managed to perform a reasonable version of the song, and it went down a storm. It even made Shep cry; while I don’t like to upset people, I was thrilled that, as a songwriter, I had hit the nail on the head. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/64d8c88431e393019b4602e34315d2e53c690bb6/original/royals.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Baseball Buddies </strong> </p>
<p>The next day Matt and I went to the Royals game at the Kaufman Stadium with his friend Verne. This was my first baseball game. I thoroughly enjoyed it, despite not having a clue about what was happening down on the pitch. I cheered and I applauded and I looked concerned in all the right places, taking my cues from the crowd around me. The games go on for quite some time. The heat was such that I had to go and find some shade to cool down in. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/4843a4773cb88fa1ca72e7e846ea4ecb29a07857/original/diamond-thingy.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> The Diamond Thingy</strong></p>
<p>The Royals ran round the diamond thingy more times than the Twins, so they won. </p>
<p>I am now, of course, a dyed-in-the-wool, full-on Royals fan, for ever. </p>
<p>Matt and I had supper at Rita and Shep's. Rita had cooked her Sicilian grandmother's special three-day sauce. As she stirred the pot she said to me: “I don't cook this for just anybody, Tony.” I felt honoured. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/bcda22fb7ac28bcb67016ad1de110dcdcf479aa7/original/rita-and-shep.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Lovely Rita, Me and Shep</strong></p>
<p>Shep presented me with a photo of him in his college days to remind me of our horse racing bond; it was his turn to make me cry. That photo is now framed and hanging on the wall in my music room. </p>
<p>The next morning, I said goodbye to Matt and his flatmate Anders for the last time that year. </p>
<p>I was bound for Alabama.</p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63713392020-06-30T18:44:30+01:002023-12-10T17:58:59+00:00New Mexico<p>My destination was the town of Taos (pronounced Towce) where the following night I was due to play at the Historic Taos Inn. The Dalai Lama once said that God inhales in Nepal and exhales in Taos. It is regarded as a spiritual, mystical place. </p>
<p>I was staying with Keith McHenry, a political activist and founder of Food Not Bombs who have been feeding the homeless for over 20 years. When I’d contacted him to say I’d like to meet him and could I stay with him, he’d said, “Sure, you can sleep in my tepee, anytime”. I thought that was just a turn of phrase. It wasn’t; as I approached his farm, I could see this ruddy great tepee rising up out of the land. This was a bit of shock because I like my creature comforts, but I thought, like so many things on this trip, I would embrace it. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/a45d4e3f07c33cf5e7fc92daa5871d6baae02816/original/teepee.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Taos Tepee</strong></p>
<p>There were some personal belongings in the tepee. Keith explained that they belonged to a young man called Adam who came and went but wasn’t there at the moment. Keith said that this was just as well as Adam was "a little strange.” As Adam wasn’t going to be there, I didn’t pursue the matter. </p>
<p>Keith and I headed into town for a drink at the Taos Inn where I was due to play the following night. During the evening, we got separated, so I made my own way back to the farm. There was a light on in the tepee. Adam had returned. I could see that he wasn't happy at having his space invaded. I think it was his rocking back and forth as he said: “Keith didn’t say nothing about nobody staying here, man”. I asked if it was a problem. He relented and offered me a sleeping bag and pointed to a space, saying, “You can sleep there.” He plugged earphones into his phone and starting watching a movie. There seemed to be a lot of screaming involved in the movie's soundtrack. On the upside, this seemed to cheer Adam up. In dark moments, when I might have imagined my demise, I’d never thought it would be in a tepee in New Mexico. </p>
<p>I woke up early. I was just glad that I’d woken up at all. The fears of the night evaporated; Adam turned out to be a nice lad; he was just different, living off the grid. I felt guilty for doubting him. </p>
<p>Keith took me to the Taos Pueblo – a nearby Native American reservation belonging to a tribe whose name I can’t pronounce, and as they have no written language, can’t be written down anyway but translates as ‘the red willow people’. They were there before the Spanish Conquistadors came in the 16th Century, and of course, long before the white settlers came and stole their lands. Our guide around the reservation was Jaro, who was born there, and after he graduates from college he will work for the organisers of the reservation. He was a gentle soul, and he told us of how the tribe’s traditions hadn’t changed throughout history, of how in tune with nature they are, and how spiritual they are. It made me wonder what so-called civilisation brought to the continent. It was a very humbling experience. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/17b35fc3afbcf65a889ea1ca47488fff71201dd2/original/jaro-and-me.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Me and Jaro of the Red Willow tribe</strong></p>
<p>Back in the tepee, I reviewed my contract for the gig that night. There in the small print was a clause that offered the artist the use of a hotel room. Before you could say ‘Geronimo’ I was in the car and heading into town. Within the hour, I had showered and was fast asleep in a comfy bed. </p>
<p>The gig consisted of three 45 minute sets. That’s a long time to play original material, and as there were quite a few tourists in the audience, I decided to throw in some covers (songs by British and Irish artists – I would feel odd playing American songs to US audiences). Original and covers were all well received. </p>
<p>There is an American tradition of tipping musicians at small venues. I am not comfortable with this. I like a contract, and to know what I’m earning. If I’m honest, I find it demeaning. However, as I was playing, the bar manager put out a tip jar. Before I could protest, someone came up and put a 20 dollar note in the jar. Okay, I thought, let’s go with it. 75 dollars later, I’m glad I did. On a tour like mine, that’s the difference between a seedy motel and a decent one. <might for="" muscle="" save="" shoals="" this=""> </might></p>
<p>The following morning, I left for Santa Fe, calling in at the spectacular Rio Grande Bridge on the way. The front cover of <em>American Odyssey</em> is a photo from the bridge. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/5eb4c5ddce22bcc2e5dcd659c07f0f53f7e318c7/original/rio-grande-bridge.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Bridge over the Rio Grande</strong></p>
<p>Santa Fe is a beautiful town with wonderful Spanish-style architecture. I viewed the cathedral and the Native American Arts Museum. </p>
<p>There is an area of Santa Fe called Agua Fria. It was once a town but so much has been built up around it that it is more of a district now. The town is mentioned in a Marty Robbins song called <em>Big Iron</em>, which tells the tale of an Arizona Ranger’s gunfight with a notorious outlaw. It was one of my Dad’s favourite songs, and it had a profound effect on me as a songwriter with its lyrical and poetic storytelling and its wonderful rhyme and meter. </p>
<p>I found what I considered to be the centre of Agua Fria; I got my guitar out, and sat on the street corner and played and sang <em>Big Iron</em>, much to the bemusement of people passing by. A police patrol car pulled up beside me. An officer got out from the car; fortunately, he was smiling and didn't feel the need to pull out his big iron.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/b7c07b9284db6b442125626ec6179fac3759c710/original/police.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Santa Fe's Finest</strong></p>
<p>My gig was at a Belgian beer house called Duel. Three 45 minute sets of all original material (they were very adamant that there be no covers). With all 10 songs from the album, five from the EP, and a couple of new ones I’d written since being in the US, plus my elaborate story-telling, this was no problem at all. And I was offered a house concert next time I’m in Santa Fe. </p>
<p>I sampled the Belgian beer. After three beers, the waitress refused to serve me anymore. “It’s too strong,” she told me. “It might be if you’re used to Bud and Miller Lite,” I protested, “but I’m used to drinking British beer – and Guinness.”. I stared at her. She thought about it for a moment, and said, “Okay”. I mean, really. </p>
<p>Performing artists are allowed fifty dollars gratuity in food and drink. I had barely come close to this amount so the bar owner handed me a bottle of Jim Beam for me to take back to my room. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/54d9b383b62d5998a7b5ac7f37a525c44e8090f8/original/duel.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Belgian Bar - Duel</strong></p>
<p>I do not drink spirits or 'liquor' as the Yanks call it. Occasionally, I'll take a glass of Irish whiskey (mostly when it's offered in US bars when people realise my Irish heritage). I learned long ago that drinking large amounts of spirits can change my mood drastically so it's best that I avoid them. I either become very depressed or indestructible. Much to the delight of the occupants of the rooms adjacent to mine that night, I'm sure, it was the former. </p>
<p>After a couple of glasses of Jim Beam I started feeling homesick so I picked up my guitar and started writing a song. A good ol' country song that I imagined George Jones singing. After writing the first verse I rewarded myself with another glass of bourbon... </p>
<p>I was woken by the New Mexican sun streaming through the window. I was on the bed, in my clothes. I had the mother of all hangovers. On the bed beside me was my guitar, my digital recorder and an empty bottle of Jim Beam. </p>
<p>The digital recorder's LED light was flashing. This indicates that the machine's memory is full. I plugged in my headphones and clicked the playback button. There in its entirety was <em>Santa Fe Sadness</em>. Apart from the slurring it's as you can hear it on <em>American Odyssey</em>. I made a promise to myself that if the song ever made any money, I would share the proceeds with Jim Beam. </p>
<p>Then I went in search of aspirin. </p>
<p>It was July 3rd. I'd been invited to spend the 4th July celebrations in Kansas City. It was a twelve hour journey from Santa Fe to KC. </p>
<p> </p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63563822020-06-26T14:09:36+01:002021-12-27T02:04:54+00:00Colorado Springs<p>I hitched up my wagon – well, I put my suitcase and guitar in the boot of my Buick Lacrosse and headed out west. My destination was Colorado Springs but it was too far to travel in one day, so I looked at the map and chose Ogallala, Nebraska as an overnight stay for no other reason than I liked the sound of it. I like saying 'Ogallala'. It’s fun to say 'Ogallala'. Try it. Don’t you feel better for saying it? It’s fun. However, saying 'Ogallala' is a lot more fun than being in Ogallala. I’m thinking that the word 'Ogallala' is probably Arapaho or Cherokee for ‘bugger all happens here’.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/468f1a18568e76858915056fd6b0c872f60d378a/original/20150626-145314.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Heading west</strong></p>
<p>But to be fair to the Nebraska town, I didn’t get to see a lot of what it had to offer because I was stuck in my hotel room for the entire time I was in the city limits, due to the mother of all storms taking place. The television warned of hail stones the size of tennis balls, just before the electricity cut out for the night. </p>
<p>Speaking of my motel room, it was straight out of a 1950s B movie, where the protagonist is hiding out from the law. The sign – in Spanish as well as English – which requested that you don’t flush your toilet paper down the loo but place it in the bin provided, kept me mentally occupied for quite some time. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/56114d541dcb65d8dd605ce3a4f615eb23303b23/original/the-message.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Shit sign</strong></p>
<p>I went to a local diner for breakfast. “Do you have anything that’s not been smothered in either syrup or cheese?” I asked the waitress. She looked at me, blankly. I had coffee and left for Colorado Springs. </p>
<p>After the humid heat of the mid-west, and the flatness of the landscape, the State of Colorado was a welcome change. The Rocky Mountains slowly came into view, and then took an age to reach. Once they are upon you, they are awe-inspiring. I heard myself saying, ‘wow’. </p>
<p>The area of Colorado Springs where I was performing is called the Black Forest. Unfortunately, the forest was living up to its name as, two years ago, the area was subjected to one of the worst forest fires in US history. I saw acre after acre of charred woodland; it was a very sad sight. How the wooden structure of the Black Forest Community Centre survived no-one is quite sure – but survive it did. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/0ba12e01775afe36dba2fc3a92ff2ec05840762b/original/the-rocky-mountains.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Colorado Springs and The Rocky Mountains</strong> </p>
<p>The Community Centre is home to the Black Rose Acoustic Society – which is dedicated to the preservation and presentation of acoustic music. </p>
<p>It’s a great-sounding venue; the natural acoustics of the room are enhanced by a quality sound system which is in the hands of a sympathetic sound engineer. My sound-check lasted about two minutes. As soon as I plugged in my guitar and strummed it, I knew it was going to be a good gig. </p>
<p>There were about 150 people in the room, who were all there to hear acoustic music. That means they were a listening audience, who hang on every word from the artist. I knew they were on my side the moment I opened my mouth – once again, the accent helped. Every song was greeted with enthusiasm but I could feel that two songs in particular were touching a nerve. I could sense the emotion in the room intensify as I played <em>Judgement Day</em>, which deals with the death of a loved one. And the finale of <em>Restless Celtic Heart</em> complete with a preamble about Irish history and my ancestry, had the crowd cheering along by the end of the song. I sold out of EP CDs, with almost every customer checking that either of those two songs was on it. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/8e2c9a4cf80e47d0e33e68ab6c4de831df2fb5cb/original/black-forest.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Black Forest Community Center </strong></p>
<p>Prior to my performance, I had booked into a motel in town online. After the show, I found an email requesting I confirm my reservation within an hour (which was now three hours ago). I contacted the motel to be told my room had been let. I rang every motel and hotel in Colorado Springs to be told that due to the White Water Rafting Festival in town the next day, there were no rooms to be had. </p>
<p>I was going to have to sleep in the car. I thought that alcohol might aid sleeping in uncomfortable circumstances so I headed to the nearest bar to while away a couple of hours. My plan was to be the last to leave the bar and then sleep in the car park. </p>
<p>I was in the bar so long that I inevitably started chatting with the barmaid and told her my predicament. She suggested that I pull the car behind the bar as there were strict vagrancy law in the state of Colorado. She said that if the police found me sleeping in the car they would surely arrest me. </p>
<p>Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of her boyfriend. She had confided in me that she wasn’t sure about them as a couple. I could see that. She was a delicate and thoughtful flower, he was loud and brash. If this were a scene in a 'teen' movie he would be the one bullying the shy, awkward hero of the film. Think 'Biff' from <em>Back to the Future</em>. After he left, I told her she could do better. I think there’s a song there, somewhere. </p>
<p>I settled down in the car behind the bar for the night. An hour later, a visit to the bathroom (a nearby bush) was quickly curtailed by a coyote howling. I might have swore as I quickly adjusted my clothing and hurried back to the car. I lowered the seat back and wondered if coyotes could open car doors. </p>
<p>I didn’t sleep much. </p>
<p>I had breakfast in a diner at 6am: “Can I have that without cheese?” </p>
<p>I cruised the main street of Colorado Springs. I saw people leaving a motel and thought that maybe rooms would be available today, so I took a chance and pulled over. I was in luck. The motel owner kindly rushed house-cleaning to prepare my room, and I was asleep in a nice clean bed within the hour. </p>
<p>I spent the weekend being a tourist. I went to the White Water Festival (I forgave it for stealing my motel room) and saw a great Celtic-punk band from New York called Potcheen. I went to the jaw-dropping Royal Gorge (a sort of mini Grand Canyon) and also to the beautiful Garden of the Gods (an amazing rock formation, millions of years old). </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/1ff01aa41076f4140d50cc55065da9cdd7372422/original/celtic-punk-band-potcheen.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Celtic-punk band - Potcheen</strong></p>
<p>I headed south for New Mexico, the Rocky Mountains giving way to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the green of Colorado giving way to the rusty brown of New Mexico. </p>
<p>En route, I stopped at the Coor’s Inn in the town of Pueblo to eat a “slopper” - an open hamburger sandwich covered with chili and onions, and the inevitable cheese. It was delicious. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/3c26f2c2331aa113b15ad497bb62733d0ea2785b/original/slopper.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Coor's Inn, Pueblo CO - home of 'The Slopper'</strong></p>
<p>I struck up a conversation with a biker couple. They were riding Harley Davidson motorbikes down to Mexico. One of their bikes was having some work done in a nearby shop. Ginny told me how joining a motorcycle club had changed her life. How she and Randy had met and fallen in love. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/5f762ad62f622ce29e41717d4551ad32f3cb8a00/original/ginny-and-randy.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Ginny and Randy</strong></p>
<p>As I passed the dealership where Ginny's bike was being fixed I noticed the large Harley Davidson 'wings' logo above the shop. </p>
<p>I headed south to New Mexico on Highway 25. I kept thinking about Ginny's story. I turned on my digital recorder and started singing. This would become a track on the <em>American Odyssey</em> album. Two years later, Ginny and Randy married. For their first dance they had a song called <em>When Ginny Gets Her Wings </em>by an Anglo-Irish singer-songwriter.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/1f96b940ca46edc722cc38addbda4892f1a3f373/original/colorado-springs.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" />. <strong>The Black Rose Acoustic Society </strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63500152020-06-16T20:47:13+01:002022-01-05T15:05:19+00:00Omaha, KC (again) and Des Moines<p>When travelling across the USA I usually have my Sat Nav set so it avoids going on the Interstate. I prefer the two-lane blacktop and the back roads that take you through small towns because that's where the people are, and hopefully that's where the stories that eventually become songs are, too. </p>
<p>As I headed north for Omaha, Nebraska in June of 2015 I think the navigational device was annoyed at having to work so hard. It’s probably used to saying, “drive straight for 300 miles”. At one point, it suggested I take a left turn which would have taken me in to the Missouri River; another time, if I had not questioned it, I would have crossed some rail tracks and gone in to a ditch. </p>
<p>My route took me briefly in to state of Iowa passing through the town of Hamburg. It seemed rude not to stop for lunch. I had a hamburger.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/b879e2d312cf5bde4e6cf3c5657100e184057d69/original/20150611-153159.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Hamburg, Iowa</strong></p>
<p>The radio station I was listening to issued a tornado warning for southeast Nebraska. I pulled over and consulted my large map of the US to see exactly where I was. I was in southeast Nebraska. The tornado never materialised but rain like I had never experienced before did. I couldn't see the bonnet of the car. I conceded defeat and pulled over until the rain had passed. </p>
<p>When I reached Omaha, I decided to check out the venue for tomorrow night’s gig - the Barley Street Tavern. It’s in a once-rough neighbourhood called Benson that was being regenerated. I met the sound man, Dan Quinn. He had just come back from gigging in Ireland and we quickly found common ground. He was also in love with an Italian girl; me too, I said. Not the same girl, I added. </p>
<p>I was pleased with the venue. The stage was in a room off of the bar but where people in the bar could still see and listen to the act on stage. There were tables and chairs in the music room, a good-sized stage, a good PA system, and Dan sounded like he knew what he was doing. I started to look forward to the gig. </p>
<p>I spent the next day checking out Omaha. My favourite part of the day was crossing the Bob Kerrey Bridge over the Missouri River, which connects Nebraska and Iowa, and standing with one foot in each state. Four years later the bridge will feature in a song of mine about the Missouri River called <em>Big Muddy</em>. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/df6c9ef8167489564d04a2ed96efee0fe9555d86/original/bob-kerrey-bridge.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Bob Kerrey's Bridge</strong></p>
<p>I nearly bought a 1969 Yamaha FG10 acoustic guitar in a pawn shop but I decided that it was bad enough trying to get one guitar on to an airplane without putting it in the hold, never mind a second one so I thought better of it. Whilst I was browsing, the storeowner noticed that my wedding ring had a kink in it. He offered to straighten it; he took it over to the jewellery section, tapped out the kink, and polished it, too. How friendly was that? </p>
<p>First on the bill at the Barley Street Tavern that night was a very large gentleman wearing a straw boater hat. His songs were very long and wordy. There was one that mentioned all 43 US Presidents; it seemed to go on longer than a term in office. At the end of his set, he asked Dan, the soundman, if he can do one more song. Dan pondered on what he has just heard and said, “Have you got a short one?” No, said the portly troubadour, and he slunk off stage. </p>
<p>I considered my performance to be the best of the tour, so far. It was the first time that I felt as ease playing the Martin guitar (it has a smaller neck than I was used to). I also think that the set list came together that night – which songs to play, in what order, when to tell a story, when to shut up and play the song. I got a great response from the crowd, and sold a lot of albums. Dan immediately played my song <em>Restless Celtic Heart </em>over the PA. “Let me know when you're passing this way again and I'll sort you out some gigs,” said Dan. I did – and four years later I would go back to Omaha to play two nights at an Irish bar called The Brazen Head. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/a054d59809ca4de297cbeca415ef9a5b1e1418fd/original/omaha.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>The Barley Street Tavern, Omaha, Nebraska</strong></p>
<p>I was up early the next morning and drove back to Kansas City for a festival called Porchfest. This is held at a neighbourhood near the Missouri-Kansas border where a number of house front porches are given over to bands playing acoustic music. You can wander down a street and hear myriad different genres: classical, jazz, bluegrass, and several different types of country (blues, swing, americana). By the time you come back down the street (pulling your beer trolley behind you) the bands will have changed. The event was well supported by the locals and the hot streets were packed with music lovers. The heat eventually got to me and I retired to a friend’s house where the guitars had come out and a jam was in session. It would have been rude not to have joined in. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/e9311b605eb9a0b3c74ef9f7fd7b73ecff22c5dc/original/porchfest.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Porchfest - Kansas City</strong></p>
<p>That evening we headed out to Knuckleheads to see The Mavericks. The band consisted of two guitars, drums, double bass, keyboards, accordion, trumpet and sax. Everyone but the drummer sang backing vocals. The musicianship was outstanding. Their infectious Latin-tinged country is perfect party music and the place was swinging. It was one of the best gigs I’ve ever attended. And yes, I danced the night away...</p>
<p>It was too early to go home, so we went to the American Federation, a club that has been hosting jazz on Saturday nights since prohibition. I was not particularly enamoured by the modern jazz being played on the stage but I was happy to be in a room where the likes of Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Charlie Parker had performed. </p>
<p>My friend Matt seemed to know every down and dirty bar in the city, and the names of the bartenders, too. We cruised a few of them including the Shady Lady, which more than lived up to its name. </p>
<p>We called it a night at 4am and had breakfast in a Mexican restaurant. </p>
<p>The next day there was a blues jam down at Knuckleheads. The musicianship was so good that I couldn’t resist getting involved. The bemused crowd’s interest was piqued when they heard my English accent. Whilst they were rooting for me, I felt there was an element of, ‘okay, show us what you got’. Just as I did back at Papa Turney's jam session in Nashville, I dug out both my blues staples of <em>Unchain my Heart</em> and <em>Before You Accuse Me</em>. The band were excellent and the crowd got behind me. I was thrilled to have played on the stage where only the night before I’d seen The Mavericks. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/9a7f330a219e7532b4cc68597afe851e3c63ddeb/original/knuckleheads-jam.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Jamming at Knuckleheads</strong></p>
<p>Kansas City is famous for its barbecue. And rightly so. Barbecue is very important in KC. The folks there can talk for hours on the various merits of different establishments. Debates cover such topics as the 'sauce' the 'burnt ends' and the 'refried beans'. My favourite (and in the years that have followed I have tried every other outlet available) is a very down-to-earth restaurant called Bryant's (as frequented by one Barack Obama). </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/776f5a2875035550041167e17366248b3b7a8bda/original/bryants.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Bryant's Barbecue</strong></p>
<p>During that week, I visited a venue called BB's to see the excellent Nick Shnebelen Band. I hung out in a bar called Johnnies and watched the local baseball team – The Kansas City Royals play. And I sought out a statue of political fixer 'Boss' Tom Pendergast. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/402ef5d08f280accdb7e5fd52495292dd32701fe/original/boss-tom.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> 'Boss' Tom Pendergast</strong></p>
<p>I thought Kansas City deserved a song. So I wrote<em> Kansas City Won't Let Me Go</em>. The following year I would appear on US radio and televison performing that song. And it is played at Kansas City Royals and NFL team Kansas City Chiefs' games... in Johnnies. </p>
<p>On subsequent trips I have canoed on the Missouri River, gambled in a casino, and driven an 18 wheeler semi-truck. The only thing left on my to do list is hop a freight train. I'm working on it... </p>
<p>The next day I headed north for the gig in Des Moines, Iowa. I only knew two things about Des Moines. One, that it is the insurance capital of the US. Two, that it's home to rock band Slipknot. I like to think that the two are related. I think that’s why the band wear masks – by night they are rock stars but by day they are middle management loss adjusters for one of the big firms and want to keep their identities secret from their bosses, and keep their job options open just in case this rock star thing doesn’t work out. While I’m not a fan of their music, I admire their prudence. </p>
<p>My gig in Des Moines was a house concert – which is as exactly what it sounds like - a gig in someone’s house. </p>
<p>House concerts are very popular in the States (perhaps because they have bigger houses) and work like this: the host books an artist they like and invites friends to come and see the artist perform, for which they pay an entrance fee. The guests get to see the artist up close and personal, and interact with them before and after the show. The host gets the kudos of having introduced friends to a new artist; the artist gets to perform to a new audience, is paid the entrance money, sells merchandise, and is also fed and watered and put up for the night. It’s a win-win situation that, in the fractured business model that is the modern music business, can be the difference between a tour losing money, breaking even or actually making money. </p>
<p>I am now a veteran of house concerts. My tours are now made up more of house concerts than bars and clubs. But this was my first one and I was very nervous. </p>
<p>My host was Scott Stilwell, a songwriter I first met in Nashville in 2014; we had written a couple of songs together. We have since co-written several more songs together and become close friends. He visited the UK in 2019 and we played a gig together. We were supposed to tour the UK together this summer but... </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/2f064c6dadb8df901acfce8543b61e7b8ab51b00/original/scott-and-me.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Me and Scott Stilwell</strong></p>
<p>At Scott's house that night, there was no PA amplification; just me and my guitar sitting in the living room of Scott’s apartment, in front of about 20 people. It was very intimate. It was very laid-back. The audience listened intently. During certain songs I could feel the intensity heighten. As an artist you respond to that and your performance of the song builds and the audience responds to that; it was very organic. Very magical. </p>
<p>I also enjoyed that I was able to take my time telling the stories that set up certain songs. </p>
<p>I played two 45-minute sets with an intermission of 20 minutes. I only usually play one set, so I had spent a long time mulling over the set lists. I like to think that I got it right, in terms of light and shade, different keys, major and minor, happy and sad, fingerpicking and strumming, fast and slow. </p>
<p>A set staple is a song of mine called <em>Crazy</em>. In my introduction I tell the audience that there is a trombone solo on the album recording. This is to set up a 'mouth' trombone solo from me. However, I was completely upstaged by Scott's mother's impromptu and quite exceptional mouth trombone solo of her own! She's one classy lady. </p>
<p>At the end of the night, I insisted that Scott play a couple of his new songs he’d played to me earlier. It was nice to shine the spotlight back on him. </p>
<p>The people of Des Moines were very generous; not only did they pay a minimum of $15 dollars admission, but everyone present bought either an album or an EP as well. It was my best payday of the tour. And I didn’t have to drive to a motel. </p>
<p>I spent a couple of days in Des Moines. My favourite places of interest were the John & Mary Pappajohn Sculpture Park and the stunning State Capitol Building. </p>
<p>Scott invited me to a meal his son was hosting because it was Father’s Day. I was far away from my own children and was missing them terribly, so it was nice to spend some time in the warmth of a family environment; we toasted fathers everywhere. </p>
<p>The next day, with thoughts of the intrepid pioneers of long ago, I headed out west.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/47fb1c06fd4a6cfc9f798f273af4cbe87357a2f9/original/img-1562.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>House Concert in Des Moines IA</strong></p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63474852020-06-11T11:57:37+01:002022-08-05T15:16:32+01:00Kansas City Here I Come<p>If there is any place in the US that I could claim as my home, it is Kansas City, Missouri. Every time I visit the US, some time is pencilled in both to perform and hang out with the good friends that I have made there. But as I drove west out of St. Louis in June of 2015, I knew nothing about Kansas City other than that the Beatles covered a song titled Kansas City on their 1964 album <em>Beatles for Sale</em>. And I knew that there are two Kansas Cities – one in the state of Missouri (the one where I was playing) and another in the state of Kansas. The two are (mostly) separated by the great Missouri River. I was warned not to get on stage and say “Hello Kansas” – I was in Kansas City, Missouri. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/3cca39d584fd1edae29e2ccf685e9b5201a031d1/original/big-muddy.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> The Missouri River - The Big Muddy </strong> </p>
<p>The Missouri River eventually flows into the Mississippi, but for over 2,000 miles it is very much its own entity, starting its journey in the Rocky Mountains in Montana. There is a scene in one of my favourite Clint Eastwood films, <em>The Outlaw Josey Wales</em>, where the river has a starring role. I pulled over to contemplate the importance of this body of water and tried to put myself in the place of explorers such as Lewis and Clark and tried to imagine how they must have felt when they first traversed its length. In later visits I would get to canoe down the 'Big Muddy', in my head, re-enacting scenes from<em> Last of the Mohicans</em>. I find it hard not to jump on to the bank, kneel down to look at the ground and say: “A Huron war party passed this way, maybe two, three hours ago.” </p>
<p>My Couchsurfing host is a photographer named Matt Mayfield. His address is in an area called the West Bottoms. My satnav took me into an industrial area besides a major hub of train tracks and abandoned warehouses. I pulled up beside one of these warehouses which boasts several floors of a museum dedicated to a 19th Century horror writer. </p>
<p>My initial instinct was to drive away and find a motel. I am so glad that I didn't as Matt has become a dear and close friend who has got me into all sorts of scrapes in the intervening years. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/49a8051da58ac35ef3ed30f358478a6e5a9b63cd/original/matt-on-the-harley.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Matt take the Harley out for a spin</strong></p>
<p>Matt lives on the 7th floor of a converted warehouse. The living room is massive. There are four motorbikes in it – one of them is a Harley Davidson, another is a 1970s Honda. There is also a canoe and some guitars. Oh, and some guns. Lots of guns. Coming from the UK this was something of a shock. Matt and his amenable room-mate, Anders, could see my discomfort at seeing so many guns and they tried to reassure me that none of the guns were loaded. Well, apart from the handgun they each keep by their bedside in case of intruders. I made a mental note not to go to the toilet in the middle of the night. </p>
<p>We went out for drinks. Several drinks in several bars. I later wrote in my diary, 'the bars here never seem to close'. </p>
<p>The warehouse is located in an industrial area of Kansas City MO. There are train tracks very close by. I was sitting in my room absently doodling on my new guitar, when in the semi-darkness (the sun goes down early and very quickly in the Midwest) I heard a train whistle blowing. It was such an incredibly evocative sound; so American. I wrote a song about trains whistling and rivers flowing. It's called <em>Rambling Days</em> and it's the opening track on the 2017 album <em>American Odyssey</em>. </p>
<p>My gig in Kansas City MO was at a venue called Davey’s Uptown Ramblers Club. As I was setting up, the soundman informed me that Stevie Ray Vaughan once played this room. </p>
<p>Matt and Anders have put the word out about tonight’s gig and I’m pretty sure that between them they know everybody in the room. I think Matt was more nervous than me. </p>
<p>As it happens, his nervousness was unfounded and the gig went well. I even felt comfortable enough to perform <em>Rambling Days</em>. People came up to buy copies of the <em>Songs From the Last Chance Saloon</em> album. Matt looked pleased that he had introduced his friends to a new artist but confessed that just before I started, he was worried. “What if you’d been shit, man?” </p>
<p>We celebrated by hitting a few bars on the way home. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/af5d537b92d564b65dba95f4805fb8026dd17712/original/20150608-210130.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Davey’s Uptown Ramblers Club, KC</strong></p>
<p>Kansas City (Missouri, don’t forget) has a great musical legacy. During the prohibition era of the late 1920s and early 1930s, political boss Tom Pendergast (an Irishman, I note) allowed alcohol to flow into KC. As far as Tom was concerned, it was as if prohibition wasn’t happening; the city was seen as “wide open”. And where there was drinking, there was music, and musicians flocked to the city. It was blues-based swing that would eventually be called jazz. For many of the jazz greats such as Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong, KC was where they honed their talents. Charlie Parker and Charles Mingus would follow in their footsteps, taking jazz in a daring, different direction. I spent a couple of hours in the splendid American Jazz Museum. They have Charlie Parker’s saxophone on display; I stare at it in awe, wondering what events it was a witness to, and was a part of. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/17c04a8d39e4bd984bc7ad9c9303af04aebc60a7/original/charlie-parkers-saxophone.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Charlie Parker's Saxophone</strong></p>
<p>Housed in the same building as the Jazz Museum is the Negro Baseball League Museum. It tells the story of a time in US history when black baseball players were not allowed (and in some cases, not wanted) by teams in the major leagues, so they formed their own. This situation only started to change after World War II when it was pointed out how absurd it was that blacks and whites could stand side-by-side to fight and die (to combat racism) but couldn’t play sports together. By the mid-1960s there was no longer any need for a separate league. I think it’s good that there is a museum like this where the country can come to terms with its own dark past. </p>
<p>Two floors below the apartment where I’m staying, there is a public attraction dedicated to a well-known American poet, famous for his tales of the macabre. It was closed for the summer but I was told that it is quite a scary walk through, with ghostly noises and theatrical effects such as a blood-spurting guillotine. </p>
<p>I was returning to the building one evening, and the lift (sorry, elevator) wasn’t working, so I took the stairs; the lights were out on the stairwell and unfortunately, I took a wrong turn and wandered deep into this museum of mystery. It was pitch black; I stepped forward, gingerly, for fear of coming to some stairs. It was so hot in there that I immediately started sweating profusely. I had my phone with me, which had a pitiful light on it, but it is all I had. I turned on the light. Close to my face, I saw the contorted skeletal face of a wax woman who has had her throat cut. I let out some choice words that I’m pretty sure the poet, himself, did not use in print. </p>
<p>Matt’s room-mate Anders has the ability to retain an amazing amount of information. I’m pretty sure that when Google doesn’t know something, they come to him. Over lunch, he tried to explain about the speed that bullets travel at. Halfway through a sentence that I think contained the words trajectory and ratios, he stopped and looked at my face which was probably looking somewhat blank. He said, “We need to go shooting”. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/ca43b647fa91d703842896dc85e2b332e95a7abe/original/gun-shop.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Gun Shop</strong></p>
<p>I accompanied Anders to a gun range. On the way there, we stopped to buy ammunition. In the shop there are more guns than I’ve ever seen in my life. I listened in to a salesman telling a prospective customer the merits of a certain pistol in the same manner as a washing machine salesman. I balked slightly when the customer revealed he was purchasing the firearm for his 10 year-old daughter; I wondered if it came in pink – my little pistol. </p>
<p>When the owner of the store heard my accent, he got a kick out of showing me all manner of weapons: an AK47, a Tommy Gun as used by gangsters in the 1930s, and an Uzi. I couldn’t resist doing my best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, saying, “Come with me if you want to live.” </p>
<p>At the gun range, Anders let slip that I have never fired a gun before. The Range Master (he’s carrying a pistol just in case someone goes renegade in the range) looked Anders sternly in the eye and said: “I did not hear what you just said.” Anders corrected himself: “Tony is very experienced in the use of hand guns.” The Rangemaster had one eyebrow raised: “That's what I thought you said.” </p>
<p>We quickly proceeded to the range. </p>
<p>Anders very carefully instructed me in range etiquette and how to behave around loaded guns. Only when he felt that I was ready did he hand me a gun. </p>
<p>He deliberately started me off on something small; it’s a Ruger Mk II .22 calibre. I aimed at the target, breathed in, breathed out, and gently squeezed the trigger. Despite wearing ear protectors, the noise still startled me, and the kickback surprised me. When I had sufficiently recovered I looked at the target and see it had a hole very close to the bullseye. I fired a further nine times. Nine out of my ten shots were on target. Anders high-fived me: “Way to go,” he said. I grinned at my beginner’s luck. </p>
<p>The next gun I shot was a Walther P99 .40 as used by Daniel Craig’s James Bond. My jaw tightened as I aimed it. The kickback was substantially more than with the Ruger and I felt my heart racing. My first 10 shots were fairly wild, my second 10 were a little better, and by the third 10 I was getting close to the bullseye. </p>
<p>We finished the day by firing a replica Colt 45 “Peacemaker” (no one seems to know how it obtained this moniker). Firing one of these was completely different (I really wanted to fire it from the hip!) and my shots were all over the place. </p>
<p>As with the other two guns, Anders showed me how it was done – and proved he's a very fine shot. I thoroughly enjoyed my time at range, and found the experience very exciting. I’m still not sure, however, that I could fire a gun at another human being; I hope I never have to find out. </p>
<p>On my last night in Kansas City, Matt took me to a great venue called Knuckleheads, a sort of outdoor club, which has hosted acts such as John Prine and Steve Earle. Despite me having to leave the next day for a gig in Omaha, Nebraska, Matt bought me a ticket to see The Mavericks in Knuckleheads that Saturday night. As he handed me the ticket, he said, “Now, you have to come back to Kansas City.” I smiled, too. </p>
<p>I did go back to Kansas City. I'm still going back. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/aca82ba1510591b1827055787d629ae912c52f23/original/kansas-city.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Rambling Day</strong>s</p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63421392020-06-04T18:18:59+01:002022-03-07T19:25:56+00:00Meet me in St. Louis<p>The state line between Illinois and Missouri just happens to be the Mississippi River. And it is magnificent. Just the mention of it makes me think of a dozen or more songs. I wanted to add to this canon so after I had crossed the bridge, I pulled off the freeway, grabbed my guitar and my digital recorder and made my way down to the river bank. I wrote what I thought would make a good chorus for a song. It went: “I'm gonna ride the Mississippi down to New Orleans / the river of my dreams.” I couldn't think of any verses to I packed up and headed into St. Louis. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/6055fe85aa517e68fefd0e960580cb4707e6925d/original/mississippi-river-bridge.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Bridge over the Mississippi River</strong></p>
<p>St Louis is very green. And because the authorities want you to be able to see, from all over the city, the magnificent arch which the city is famous for, there are very few high-rise buildings, which sets it apart from many US cities. It’s really more a collection of neighbourhoods. </p>
<p>The people were very welcoming and friendly. My Couchsurfing host was a young lad named Leo who was putting himself through college by working as a bartender in one of the many bars in the downtown area known as the Delmar Loop. He was a thoughtful, engaging young man, and very laid back. He was happy to show me round the city, where to go, and also where not to go after dark. We went to where the rich people live – an area called Frontenac. And, knowing my Irish ancestry, he took me to an area that was much associated with Irish immigrants in the 19th century – a place called Dogtown. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/bf39613b50d4eb136e518fd1c11add7a178ec071/original/leos-lair.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Leo's Lair</strong></p>
<p>Leo’s house was in a predominately black neighbourhood. While Leo was out at work, I went for something to eat at a fast food restaurant. I was the only white face in there but at no time did I feel threatened. Interestingly, a black policeman came in. I noticed that the counter staff were slightly less cordial to him than they had been to myself or other customers. As he turned and left, he scanned the room. His eyes settled on me and he gave me a nod. It felt as if I was the only one he felt comfortable interacting with. I nodded back. </p>
<p>The truth of it is that St Louis is a much-divided city, racially. Where I was staying was about 10 minutes from the town of Ferguson, where in 2014 rioting took place after the shooting of an unarmed black man named Michael Brown by a white police officer – who was later acquitted. Leo told me that tensions were still high. </p>
<p>One of St Louis’s most famous sons is Chuck Berry who lived there until his death in 2017. No one person can claim to have invented rock and roll but, if you made a list of contenders, Berry would be near the top. As Keith Richards has said, “We all owe Chuck”. Or as John Lennon said: “If you wanted to give rock and roll another name, it would be Chuck Berry.” </p>
<p>I discovered Berry as a teenager, and it was his lyric-writing that first fascinated me. The poetry, and the meter of his lyrics, and the way his words run together has always been an inspiration to me. </p>
<p>Leo told me that the veteran rock and roller was still occasionally performing at a restaurant called Blueberry Hill. But he warned that he was not a well man and didn’t seem to know what was going on around him. I decided that I was happy to remember him as the feisty rocker of old rather than a frail old man going through the motions. </p>
<p>St. Louis has a great blues tradition. I was lucky enough to catch local artist Leroy Jodie Pierson playing at BB’s Jazz, Blues and Soups on South Broadway. He looks like a bank manager (or how I imagine a bank manager should look – I’ve never met one!) but the way he plays his National Resonator Guitar (that’s the steel one) and with his wonderful soulful voice, you know that he is blues down to his core. </p>
<p>The following morning I was invited by Leo to watch him and his friends play softball. Arriving at the park, we were told that the opposing team could not field a full team and so were forfeiting the game. It was decided that a game that was just for fun would be played and I was invited to join in. It was a very relaxed affair, with just one rule that had to be adhered to: at no time could you play without a beer in your hand. It was a fun afternoon. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/bf2955dfa5ce3c1ca5e817eefa1b4919a5ccb8b7/original/softball.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> The A Team</strong></p>
<p>After the game, I declined another beer, saying that I was driving. A black friend of Leo called Oscar looked at me quizzically. “Ain’t no chance of you getting stopped for DWB,” he said. I hadn’t heard of DWB. I knew DUI was driving under the influence but DWB? “What’s that?” I asked. He grinned. “Driving whilst black!” I could tell it was a joke grounded in reality. I smiled – but apologetically. I didn’t know what to say. </p>
<p>My own gig was in a trendy neighbourhood full of bars and restaurants in an area of the city called North Euclid at a place called Evangeline’s. I had put the address into my satnav/GPS but when I pulled up outside a burned out building in a very rundown area I was pretty sure that I was in the wrong part of town. I called the venue and explained my situation. “Oh, man, you’re way too far north.” He then proceeded to give me directions that involved multiples of compass directions. Americans do that a lot. “You go east on 47th for ten blocks and then south for ten more.” I think it must be a relic left over from the pioneer days when there were no actual roads. If you ask someone in the UK for directions they will say things like, “turn left at the High Street. Take the 3rd street on the left, Cherry Blossom Avenue…” Or in the case of my Irish father, the directions include multiples of pubs. “You go past the King’s Head, turn right at The Coach and Horses. If you get to The Red Lion, you’ve gone too far…” </p>
<p>I looked up at the sun fading in the sky. I knew that it sunk in the west. So if I kept the sun to my right, I figured I was heading south. </p>
<p>The area gradually became a little smarter but I still had no clue where I was. I saw some policemen eating donuts and drinking coffee so I pulled up alongside them and asked for directions to the venue. One cop stepped forward. He took a swallow of coffee to help the donut in his mouth go down. He looked back the way I had come and said: “You want to go north for about 20 blocks…” </p>
<p>Eventually, I arrived at Evangeline’s restaurant, which boasts music six nights a week – and original music, at that, as owner Don Bailey wants to give his clientele something new and different. </p>
<p>It can be slightly disconcerting performing to an audience of people eating but I find that if you talk to them so that they realise that you’re not background music, they respond in a positive way. In Evangeline’s they were very attentive, laughed at my jokes, and were enthusiastic in their applause. Whenever I play my song <em>Crazy</em>, I explain that on the album there is a trombone solo, and I ask if there are any trombone players in the house. At Evangeline’s a hand went up; I ask the gentleman if he has his instrument with him. He says that he doesn’t. After the show he came up to congratulate me on my performance. He introduced himself as Jim Tyler – a retired Los Angeles session musician from the 1960s. He had some wonderful stories. It just goes to show that you never know who is in the audience. </p>
<p>I had enjoyed my time in St. Louis. It’s a city with lots to offer both socially and musically. During my time there I had scribbled down some notes about being there. They were things Leo had said to me such as “There's always something going on in Delmar” and “the likes of you an' me ain't never gonna get a house in Frontenac.” I was hoping they might make their way into a song. I had yet to write a whole song since being in the US. </p>
<p>All that was about to change. Kansas City was calling.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/a1f07cc4c2d1558bbcdc7d70c9d7fc233390019c/original/st-louis.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Performing at Evangeline's</strong></p>
<p><strong> </strong></p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63359052020-06-01T12:58:48+01:002020-07-28T13:50:54+01:00Chicago - My Kind of Town<p>About a week before I was due to leave Nashville to start the tour proper in Chicago, I called into a well-known car rental company to book a vehicle. They are an international firm, and they have an advert that runs on UK television where they espouse the American virtues of courteousness and are very proud of their friendly service. </p>
<p>The girl behind the counter gave me a big beaming smile, told me her name was Tammy and asked how she could help me. I told her and she put together a special deal for me as I would be hiring the car for two months. It was booked from the day I was leaving Nashville until the day I flew back to the UK. But there was something in the transaction that didn’t feel right and as I walked away I made a mental note to check on the booking before the day arrived. </p>
<p>Three days later I called in at the rental office. Tammy was nowhere to be seen. There was now a very smiley man in her place with a name badge that read William. I’d like to check on my booking, I said to him and gave him my name. He could find no booking of that name. He offered no explanation and no apology. I suppose from his point of view, if it didn’t exist, why should he apologise? I asked if I could re-book (or from his perspective – book). Yes, sir, he said. What’s the name? I wanted to say that it was the name you were just looking for but gritted my teeth and told him. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “And the date?” he asked. Still, June 1st until August 1st I said. </p>
<p>The deal he offered was more expensive. I showed him my notebook with the deal I was previously offered. I had even made a note that I had been dealing with Tammy. He stared at his computer screen and then tapped furiously at the keyboard. “Oh, I see what she’s done!” He mumbled something about monthly rates vs daily rates and seasonal discounts and eventually agreed to honour the deal that never was. I watched him type my name into the computer and felt satisfied as he clicked enter. </p>
<p>The following Monday morning, my friend Sonya dropped me off at the car rental office. </p>
<p>Tammy and William had been replaced by Brandy. Brandy confirmed my booking and we started on the paperwork. Everything was going swimmingly until I tried to pay with a debit card. Brandy insisted on a credit card, saying it was company policy. Then why hadn’t Tammy and William said so. Brandy smiled at me. It was the same smile I had seen on the faces of Tammy and William. It was as if they were all on the same one-day Smiling Seminar in Car Rental College. I didn’t have a credit card with me. Along with my debit card, I had a ‘Cash Passport’ with enough money on it to pay for the hire. It’s not easy to keep a smile in place while saying no but Brandy managed it, admirably. </p>
<p>I felt like the whole tour was now in jeopardy. I told Brandy that my wife had a credit card. I could call her at work. “Okay” said Brandy. </p>
<p>I called my wife back in the UK and told her the situation. She had her credit card with her and gave me all the necessary details. I breathed a sigh of relief and handed the notes I’d made to Brandy. The smile didn’t falter. “I’m sorry, sir, but the cardholder has to be here in person.” My smile was much weaker than hers. “Are you taking the piss?” </p>
<p>In the best English upper-class accent I could muster, I demanded to see the manager. Brandy went into a back office and came out with a man whose smile put all the other staff to shame. He must have gotten an A* at the Smiling Seminar. I notice that he didn’t have a name badge – I’m thinking that that might be some kind of status symbol in the world of car rental. He was extremely apologetic but rules is rules and company policy could not be ignored. And then he offered me the gem that the branch out at the airport did take debit cards as long as you could produce your flight itinerary to show that you were leaving from Nashville. I wanted to argue the point that it was not then company policy if one branch did accept debit cards and another didn’t. Or was the airport branch staffed with a bunch of do or die mavericks that play hard and fast with the rules? I settled for him phoning the airport branch and confirming that they would give me the same deal. </p>
<p>Thirty minutes and a 30-dollar cab ride later I was in the airport. The woman behind the counter (Sheryl) had no record of a phone call from the downtown office. As it happened, she offered me the same rate as before. At no point did she ask for my flight details. I tell you, those airport rental guys are just crazy! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/9dd879cf24498b9efdf2f2c82c127983b7ab7ac4/original/buick.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>The Steel Horse I ride - a Buick Lacrosse</strong></p>
<p>I left Nashville in a big old Buick Lacrosse and headed north for Chicago. I had programmed my Sat Nav / GPS to avoid the Interstate highways. I figured that if I wanted to meet and interact with the good people of the US, it was better to go through the small towns and counties, stopping at diners and cafes along the way. I meandered through Tennessee, Kentucky and Indiana, taking in the countryside. I saw quite a few barns. At one point, I passed a wind farm that took 20 miles to pass; there were hundreds of blades, twirling away like a nightmarish collaboration between Philip K Dick and Busby-Berkley. </p>
<p>In Huntsburg, Indiana, I got talking with two guys in a diner. They were fascinated with my story and bought an album each. I felt like this validated my reasons for not going on the interstate. </p>
<p>Touring is an expensive business. There are travel costs – flights, car hire and fuel – plus food and accommodation. To help with the last of these I had signed up to a website called Couchsurfing. This is a site where people who would be happy for you to stay one or two nights in their home put out a digital welcome mat. You have to fill out a profile (I expect that this is to prove that you are not an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac), you then send them a request that they host you. They then read your profile and decide if they like the look of you or not. Most hosts want some sort of cultural exchange for their hospitality, and I suspect an awful lot are hoping that karma is watching their kindness and somewhere down the line when they go travelling, somebody will host them. </p>
<p>I was booked to stop with Brad in Chicago. Brad lived in an affluent suburb of the Windy City. It was dark as I approached Chicago and the night-time skyline looked amazing. </p>
<p>I was somewhat surprised when I pulled up outside a grand-looking brownstone house in a leafy suburb. I hadn’t given much thought to what I imagined the average couch surfer host’s home might look like but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the magnificent building that stood before me. I had thought most hosts would be people who travelled a lot themselves – students on gap years and backpackers. </p>
<p>As I approached the front door it was opened by a man who looked very like the actor John Malkovich. I found this quite unnerving. He was, however, very friendly and welcoming (not that I’m saying John Malkovich isn’t). He showed me to my room. It had its own en suite bathroom. He asked if I would like to shower before supper. I said I was fine. Then he offered to fire up the hot tub on the roof which he said would revive me. I declined. </p>
<p>He cooked me supper. He said I looked tired and offered up the hot tub again. I declined, again. </p>
<p>He made us tea which we sat and drank together. He spoke of a wife but she was nowhere to be seen. He said that there were two other couchsurfers staying that night, a Turkish couple but I could see no sign of them. I’m pretty sure that we were alone in the house. </p>
<p>I was convinced that my host was a serial killer who lured innocent couchsurfers to his house and drowned them in the hot tub. I was to be a victim of what the media, in years to come when he was finally caught, would call the Chicago Hot Tub Killer. That night I slept with my suitcase placed up against the bedroom door. </p>
<p>The next morning I sat and had breakfast with a lovely Turkish couple. Over coffee, Brad explained that his wife was away on business. They were a successful couple and, as part of their Christian ethos, wanted to give back to the world. One way to do this was to open their home up to couchsurfers. I felt somewhat contrite. </p>
<p>After breakfast, I went out to explore Chicago. It’s a bold, confident city; there’s a bit of a sassy swagger to its manner; but the people are friendly and eager to assist. I stopped to ask the fattest policeman I have ever seen for directions. As he gave me precise instructions, I remember thinking that if he were to chase me for some misdemeanour I had committed, there was not a chance in hell that he could catch me. Then my eyes drifted down towards the gun he wore and I realised that he probably wouldn’t bother to give chase – he would just shoot me. I started paying attention to what he was saying. </p>
<p>I stood on the shores of Lake Michigan. Up until that point, I had no idea just how big it was. You can’t see the other side; it’s not so much a lake as a small ocean! </p>
<p>I had made a list of places in the city that had been used for Hollywood movies and was happy to spend the day searching them out. I think it’s safe to say that Chicago is Gotham City. And some of these locations have appeared in more than one movie. The bank that The Joker robs in <em>The Dark Knight</em>, is also where Ferris Bueller’s Dad worked. I also spotted locales used in Harrison Ford’s <em>The Fugitive</em> and John Cusack’s <em>Hi-Fidelity</em>. And, of course, <em>The Blues Brother</em>s – it’s everywhere. I just had to pay a visit to Richard Daley Plaza where the authorities chasing Elwood and Jake finally catch up with them in spectacular style. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/cfd72bd49aed9cc6a232547c7e22eb6eb48d6105/original/blue-chicago.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Blue Chicago</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Of course, you can’t go to Chicago without hearing some blues so I went to see the Shirley Johnson Blues Band at Blue Chicago. Think Mahalia Jackson and Etta James, with a hint of Ruth Brown thrown in for good measure, and you might have some idea of what this powerhouse of a woman sounds like – and, with a kick-ass band to back her, it was without a doubt the best blues I have ever heard. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/879d107cb914e38e5332bdfd8c09e70b895b014e/original/reggies-chicago.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong> Reggie's Chicago IL</strong></p>
<p>My Chicago gig was at Reggie’s on South State St. As I pulled up outside, my heart sank. There was a line of about 30 young men, all in black, sporting mohawks, and with more metal in their faces than a car scrapyard. I wondered “what have I been booked into?" Turns out there are two Reggie’s – the Rock Club (where the young men were headed) and the Music Joint (where I was headed). I breathed a sigh of relief – I’m pretty sure those kids didn’t want to hear an acoustic singer-songwriter. </p>
<p>It turns out that local ice hockey team, the Chicago Blackhawks, were playing an important game that night, and Reggie’s was showing the game on a large TV just above the stage. The game had gone into extra time. The owner called all the bands together, saying: “Listen guys, if I turn the TV off, there’ll be a riot.” The bands agreed that it would be sensible to each cut our set short and go on later. So I ended up watching the game, rooting for the Blackhawks; not because I have any affinity with them – but if they were to win, I knew I’d be playing to a happy crowd. Thankfully, they won. </p>
<p>On stage, I made a big thing out of it being my first ice hockey game, saying that I would now forever be a Blackhawks fan. The crowd cheered. They were a good audience and they were up for the cup in more ways than one. </p>
<p>To my surprise, I got to hear the punk-metal band playing in the rock club next door – through the wall. I decided not to play my quiet introverted finger-picking songs. </p>
<p>I said to the club owner afterwards, you need to soundproof that wall. He had a pained expression on his face. “It is soundproofed. You shoulda heard how loud it was in the room.” Ouch! </p>
<p>The next day, I left for St Louis where I would learn about the true state of race relations in the US, and about the importance of knowing which way is north and which way is south.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/fb0dd4485540cd40ecb13fec5ecbce5d119d76c4/original/chicago.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /> <strong>Playing at Reggie's Chicago IL</strong></p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63262392020-05-23T13:47:35+01:002022-05-23T09:30:22+01:00Still in Nashville <p>It was three days before I felt like I was on Tennessee time. This was just in time for my slot at the famous Bluebird Cafe. </p>
<p>I could have taken a cab directly to the Bluebird but I took a bus instead. I like buses. Buses show you much more of a city than cabs can. Cabs go direct; buses go where the people who do all the work live. Cities are the same the world over. On the margins, you will find disadvantaged communities, where the rest of society doesn’t go. I have walked at night through rough areas of London, New York, Belfast and Moscow; the secret is to not look like a tourist or a victim – just a working guy making their way home. What you don’t want to do, however, is get off at the wrong stop and start walking the wrong way. And walk a long way, the wrong way. In new shoes. Carrying a guitar. Under a blazing sun. <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/a3632cdf6757ba6e84798de28c4fc2f3100aefbf/original/bluebird-cafe-nashville.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="Playing the Bluebird" /></p>
<p> <strong>The Bluebird Cafe, Nashville TN</strong></p>
<p>I walked for several miles down a road called Hillsboro Pike through a leafy suburb named Forest Hills, thinking that sooner or later the Bluebird Café would appear on the horizon. It didn’t. </p>
<p>At a junction, I flagged down a guy in a pick-up truck and asked if I was heading in the right direction for the Bluebird Café. He pointed behind him to the way that both he and I had come and said: “It’s a couple of miles back that way, sir.” I thanked him and he drove off. I sat down by the side of the road. I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry because I would miss my slot at the Café. I wanted to cry because I was hot, tired and thirsty. Most of all I wanted to cry because my feet were bloody killing me, with both my heels bleeding. </p>
<p>As I sat there with my eyes closed, a voice said: “Hey how ‘bout I give you a ride?” I opened my eyes. It was the guy in the pick-up truck. Somewhere down the road he had turned his vehicle around and had come back to find me. </p>
<p>His name was Brad; he was on his way home from work. He said that his momma would never forgive him if he had passed up the chance to help out someone who was in need. I mentally thanked Brad’s momma and her diligent parenting skills. </p>
<p>Brad dropped me right outside the Bluebird Café. For the second time in two days, I marvelled at Southern hospitality. </p>
<p>The Bluebird is a very intimate venue with a listening audience. It is widely known as the venue where Garth Brooks was discovered. More recently, it has been featured in the US TV drama Nashville. Its new celebrity status is having an effect. Tourists are turning up, not so much for the music but hoping to see members of the cast (I’m reliably informed the TV studio have built a replica Bluebird set on a soundstage out of town). </p>
<p>It would be a shame if this revered venue – the cafe’s motto is “shhhhhhhhh” –turned into something like the Hard Rock Cafe. I would hate it if the respect shown to songwriters was diminished by a TV show that at its heart has some fantastic songs. </p>
<p>When I went on stage and said “hello” and not “hi”, there was a quiet “ooh”. I introduced myself as coming from England and being very happy to be in the home of songwriting. I had decided to debut a new song called Nashville State of Mind that I had written after my trip to Music City last year. It was very well-received. </p>
<p>I took a cab home. </p>
<p>I had been invited by talented singer-songwriter Annemarie Picerno to play at the Spring Fling Festival at Smitty’s Bar and Grill in the town of Lebanon about 30 miles east of Nashville. It was something of a shock when I walked in; I was the only male in the place who wasn’t sporting either a Stetson, bandana, beard, tattoos, cowboy boots or a mixture of all five. If you remember the scene in 48 Hours where Eddie Murphy walks in to a redneck bar, you’ll know how I felt. <strong> </strong> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/c23d207191e806a4ef08344a55374b9c7120271f/original/smittys.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="Smitty's Bar & Grill" /> <strong>Smitty's Bar & Grill, Lebanon TN</strong></p>
<p>Once on stage, my English accent silenced the crowd. I thought it best to flag up my Irish ancestryand explain the reason for writing the song I was about to play called <em>Restless Celtic Heart</em>. I had prepared a whole speech about how the Irish had brought their folk music across the Atlantic Ocean with them in the 19th century and how America had developed it into bluegrass and how eventually it became country music. But nerves somehow got the better of me and I blurted out “the Irish invented country music.” There was absolute silence in the room, and bewilderment on many of the faces looking my way. As I contemplated trying to make a run for it, an old man with a more than passing resemblance to Western movie stalwart Walter Brennan stood up and started clapping. “Yes, sir-ee,” he said. Pretty soon others joined in, until the whole room was whooping and hollering. I started the song which has a sort of Johnny-Cash-goes-Celtic vibe to it and pretty soon the whole room was clapping and singing along. </p>
<p>I reminded myself that the clientele in Smitty’s were no different to the people I used to play to in the working men’s clubs back home where I cut my musical teeth as a young man; ordinary people looking to be entertained after a hard week’s work. I chastised myself for my initial fears. Some very good musicians came up and complimented me on my performance. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/074ce3f72eef6e036c234a8b73c6c24a52307cc7/original/20150523-181213.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="Annemarie Picerno" /> <strong>Annemarie Picerno</strong></p>
<p>On the way back to Nashville, Annemarie suggested we call in at Papa Turney’s Smokehouse Restaurant in nearby Hermitage. The barbecued ribs were reputedly the best in the state. There was also a blues jam going on. The house band led by Kevin William Ball was as good as the ribs. Papa Turney himself turned out to be as good with a guitar as he was with a cooking pan. Annemarie got up and belted out some old blues tunes. She has a powerful voice and is a consummate professional. </p>
<p>When the band heard that there was an English musician in the house they were keen to get me up to perform. Now, I am no blues player but I have a couple of blues songs in my musical arsenal that I keep tucked away for just such an occasion. Kevin kindly lent me his lovely old Gibson semi-acoustic. I joked with the audience that I had travelled 4,000 miles just to play at this jam. I sang and played the Ray Charles / Joe Cocker classic <em>Unchain My Heart</em>, and the blues standard <em>Before You Accuse Me</em>. The crowd loved it and there were high-fives all-round from the band. </p>
<p>As great as the shows at Smitty’s and Papa Turney’s were, the gig I was most looking forward to was my slot at the Commodore back in Nashville. It’s a regular hang-out for Nashville songwriters so I knew there would be a few in the audience. Plus, many of my Music City friends had never seen me performing my own material, so there was a lot riding on this particular show. I kicked off with Nobody from Songs From the Last Chance Saloon, which had served me so well in the past. I was also keen to perform <em>Nashville State of Mind</em> because The Commodore is mentioned in the lyrics. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/65f7df6e496362adffd5ddaba25ffd7e347438ce/original/commodore-1.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="The Commodore, Nashville TN" /> <strong>The Commodore, Nashville TN</strong></p>
<p>After my set, I received lots of good comments from members of the audience. It’s always good to get positive feedback from the crowd but, knowing the standard of talent in that town, it felt doubly important. Comments such as “great songs,” “very professional” and “good stage presence” were all gratefully accepted but my favourite was from songwriter Tucker Bouler who said of <em>Nashville State of Mind</em>: “You nailed that one, brother!” </p>
<p>I finished off my stint in the Tennessee capital with an impromptu performance with the house band down at Tootsie’s. The bar is famous for being where Hank Williams Sr would sneak across the alley from the Ryman Auditorium whilst playing at the Grand Ole Opry, and where Willie Nelson sold the rights to his song Crazy to pay his bar bill. All the kings and queens of country music have frequented Tootsie’s. In honour of Hank I sang a rocked-up version of <em>Your Cheating Heart</em>, and because I wanted to sing an English song, <em>Honky Tonk Woman</em>. </p>
<p>I had enjoyed my time in Nashville immensely; the kindness of strangers and the warmth of friends, but it was time to move on and see some new places. I was looking forward to visiting Chicago and St. Louis. After that there was Kansas City and Omaha. Further down the line there would be Des Moines, Colorado Springs, Phoenix, Amarillo, Dallas and others. My American Odyssey was at last underway.</p>Tony James Shevlintag:tonyjamesshevlin.com,2005:Post/63023962020-05-15T08:11:37+01:002020-07-28T13:55:04+01:00Nashville, here I come<p>My flight from Heathrow was due to leave at 8.30am so I was at the airport for 6am.<strong> </strong>This was a great time to drive through London; the city was not yet fully awake; the only activity seemed to be from birds and bin men. The calm I saw from the window of my black cab was at complete odds with the excitement I felt. </p>
<p>It was my first time flying United Airlines. It was hopefully my last time, too. The flight was packed, the seats were cramped (I was in a middle seat, no-one likes the middle seat) and the service was terrible. The journey across the Atlantic felt a lot longer than eight hours. </p>
<p>I had a couple of hours’ stopover in Newark, New Jersey before a second flight onto Nashville, Tennessee. From the windows of the airport bar, you can see the big cranes that Tony Soprano drives by in the opening sequences to <em>The Sopranos</em>. If I’d had more time, I would have paid a visit to the Ba Da Bing Club but ‘what you gonna do?’ (shrugs shoulders). </p>
<p>I chatted with a local who was flying off to Florida. When he heard my accent, he shook me by my hand: “Da Bridish are the only ones of our so called ‘partners’ who have always stood by us.” He then proceeded to slag off most of the European Union and a few other countries. On behalf of the nation, I gracefully accepted his commendations as though I were personally responsible for British foreign policy for the last hundred years. “Yes, we’ve always stood together,” I said, piously. He thought about that for a second, and said: “Well, there is the little matter of the Revolutionary War but we won’t go into that.” No, let’s not, I thought. </p>
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<p><a contents="" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://The%20Batman%20Building%20Nashville%20TN"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/cefe37023c831dab399edfd5a5cbdee83d7a3da9/original/the-batman-building.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="The Batman Building, Nashville TN" /></a> <strong>The Batman Building, Nashville TN</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I arrived in Nashville at 6.30pm local time but my body was telling me it was half past midnight. I was greeted by two beautiful Southern belles – Sonya and Donna. I had met Sonya on my visit to Nashville a year earlier and she had kindly offered me accommodation at her swanky city central apartment should I ever visit Music City again. These girls like to party but first of all they whisked me off to dinner in downtown Nashville. I’d been to Puckett’s before so I was very wary of the portions that would be served up. They didn’t disappoint – my plate of Southern fried chicken could have fed a family of four. </p>
<p>From there it was a short walk down to Broadway; the girls had some friends playing a bar called Honky Tonk Central. Downtown Nashville – especially Broadway – is a party town on a Friday night. I was content to sit back and watch the amazing musicianship on display. And there are so many great musicians in Nashville – drawn from all over the US. </p>
<p>The music in Nashville starts at 10am and runs till 2am. Bands work in four-hour shifts; the first band will play from 10am – 2pm; the second from 2pm – 6pm; the third from 6pm – 10pm; the last band from 10pm – 2am. I spoke to a bass player who told me he’d done eight gigs in four days – that’s two gigs a night! Two of the gigs were consecutive, so he had to hotfoot it from one venue to the next; fortunately, all the venues have a house bass rig so all he had to do was pack up his bass… and run!<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/72a6cf4d3d55fa6788dc8ad0212b724205d698ac/original/20150516-022431.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="Broadway, Nashville TN" /></p>
<p> <strong>Broadway, Nashville TN</strong></p>
<p>I had elected not to travel with a guitar but to buy one in Nashville; there are many music shops to choose from.</p>
<p>For no other reason than it was the only one open on a Sunday (and I missed not having a guitar to hand, feeling I couldn’t wait till Monday!) I went to The Guitar Center (their spelling, not mine!). A sales assistant named Barrett treated me like I was the most important person in the world. I had a suspicion that I was not leaving the building until he had sold me a guitar. He sat me down in a soundproofed booth and brought me guitars that were in - and just above, I noticed - my price range. I tried Martins, Taylors and Gibsons. I must have tried a dozen or more. I narrowed it down to two Martins. At one point, a young lad came in and started jamming along with me; no matter what I played, he played along. Even when I played my own songs, he played along. He never said a word – or even looked at me – he just played guitar; it was like something from <em>Deliverance</em>! His father was standing nearby. He smiled at me and shrugged his shoulders in a half-proud, half-embarrassed way. <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/2382ac8406aec82d4742616312ca21031fad7bb5/original/brandon.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong>Brandon from The Guitar Center</strong></p>
<p>I was surprised at my own choice of guitar. I’m normally a cedar-top, jumbo-sized kind of guy but there I was paying for a small-bodied, mahogany-top Martin 000.15M. </p>
<p>This particular model came without electrics included so I needed a have a pickup fitted to it. Barrett swore that a Fishman Matrix was the best to have. It did not escape my notice that it was also the most expensive in stock. While guitar tech Taylor fitted it, I looked around the store. </p>
<p>A grizzly, old – and, quite frankly – barking mad, ex-roadie heard my accent and struck up a conversation with me. Well – he talked at me! At the end of a rambling anecdote that involved him, Ozzy Osbourne, a vacuum cleaner and some hookers, he offered to tour with me – and also to send me a gun – piece by piece – back to England, so I could “take out any ‘mofos’ who want to mess with you and yours.” I declined both offers. </p>
<p>I called in at a nearby bar for a celebratory beer. I had intended to call a cab after one drink but I got talking to an elderly couple called Larry and Beth and ended up staying for hours. And in an act of altruism that was to repeat itself again and again in the coming months, they offered to drive me home. I later looked up on a map where they lived and realised that they went way out of their way to show kindness to someone they had only just met. </p>
<p>When I got back to my apartment, I took my newly-acquired Martin guitar from its case and played it until my fingers ached. I fell in love with that guitar that evening – a love affair that continues to this day. <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/317381/5c814d43d147b999ed7373b6618aa6b6a10a856f/original/20150519-142426.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> <strong> The Martin Guitar</strong></p>Tony James Shevlin