From The Drummers Chair: Transcendental Tourists

The Bat Tower

Nashville, TN

IT'S FUCKING HOT!

- My first thought arriving to Nashville the summer of '97

- My first thought arriving to Nashville the summer of '18

It's been 16 years since I moved back to Colorado from Nashville; a freshly minted college graduate armed with a degree in University Studies from Middle Tennessee State University and a desire to do nothing else than snowboard and play music. Not much has changed in that regard. Add a heaping spoon full of wanderlust and a dash of responsibility and you've a Damon casserole -- or a Damon hot dish as they say in Minnesota, DON CHA KNOW?! Speaking on Minnesota, we were just there following an exceptionally bland drive through North Dakota, following a slightly less bland drive through eastern Montana, following a beer and a turn-of-events-conversation in middle Montana, following a very "People Of Walmart" supply run at Walmart in Butte, Montana, following a not-so-surprising text message received as we screamed around that last dirt road turn and headed North on MT 287.

*Sigh*

My Dad is ill. He has been for a while. If hospitals stays were In-N-Out Burger, Dad's been In crushing double doubles and fries with a large milkshake to boot. Sarah (henceforth, I shall refer to "The Roommate" as Sarah) and I knew there was a possibility that we'd need to make a pit stop in the pit-of-hell-hot Deep South at some point during the summer but we never anticipated the driving 1,700 miles/entering a meat raffle in Fargo/day drinking in Minneapolis/sleeping at a rest stop in Wisconsin/eating Thai in Southern Illinois/ending up in the ICU at St. Thomas West in Nashville portion of the road trip. But that's why road trips are the best, eh?*

*I'd adopted "eh" into my lexicon prior to our no-holds-barred road trip to Canada were to commence. Isn't that Ironic?**

**It's Ironic because I used lyrics from Canadian born singer/songwriter Alanis Morissette's song, "Isin't It Ironic" to point our the irony that I adopted the widely used and sometimes mocked invariant tag, "eh" in anticipation of spending the summer in Canada. Instead, we're in Nashville, y'all!

Eh... (less Canadian, more Chris Berman). Forehead smack... Inner dialog, "This is my dream road trip! I'm finally back in Montana! With my Thelma and Louise like bandita wife! WE'RE ADVENTURING!"

Double forehead smack... Inner dialog, "You're an asshole Damon, go see your Dad."

Pondering over a pint at The Murray Bar whilst watching Croatia score the game winning PK against Russia, we lifted our glasses, motioned for a quick clink-clink and looked each-other in the eyes knowingly and exasperated. We're driving to Nashville.

The Murray Bar

Livingston, Montana

To get to Nashville from Livingston requires a not-so-scenic traverse of the American heartland from northwest to southeast. As we peruse our road atlas, we see that we can take I-90 East through South Dakota, then head south on I-29 through Nebraska and Iowa. That sounds terrible. Like, drive off a cliff Thelma and Louise style terrible; without the convertible, bandannas and Brad Pitt. I grab my phone and plug in coordinates to the navicomputer, "looks like we can head slightly north and drive through Minnesota before heading southeast through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Kentucky." We agree, "Alright! Let's do this!" (Cue the preparing for battle montage) Route saved, beers finished, pay the beer tender, high-five, sync watches, click seat belts, back out carefully, use turn signal, merge on to highway, set cruise control, drive straight for 13 hours, reassess the cliff jumping idea...

via GIPHY

I have traveled this path before, the I-94 corridor. Fargo, St. Cloud, Twin Cities... I scavenge my memory banks while flashes of landscape scream by at 79 miles-per-hour. "Where is Brained?" I think to myself, my inner dialogue now in full control... The Paul Bunyan statue, formative performances at the now-defunct Eclectic Cafe, manicured greener-than-green lawns. The lovely, welcoming and oh-so humble people. Northern lights, cigarettes and humid nights. The visceral recollections are as thick as the summer air, the images come flooding back and I can't get enough. I am at ease in perpetual motion. The travels of yesteryear align with the present-tense and there is a momentary, lightning-quick flash of clarity and purpose. It's palpable yet just beyond my reach.

It's getting dark. We have worked our way east into another time-zone. We are hungry and tired but manage to find a decent hotel a few miles north of downtown Minneapolis. It has the pool that we require and never use and the continental breakfast that we require and never eat. The provolone, turkey, pickle and spicy mustard wraps are consumed with little enjoyment but they satiate nonetheless. We settle in for the night and Sarah tells me she needs a break. I put up some resistance but I know she's right. We pass out to cable TV and cold air conditioning. Our limbs uncoil, taking advantage of every square inch of the king bed. Sarah steals all the pillows.

It's barely 11 and it's 90 degrees and humid. We fight about stupid things while on rent-a-bikes looking for something to do in a city we don't know. She suggests we go to the Irish Pub to figure it out. I don't listen to her and try to figure it out pedaling up a hill, in traffic whilst staring the navicomputer in my right hand and shifting with my left. We are sweating profusely, yelling profanely and I'm starting to lose my shit. Remember all that aforementioned clarity stuff? Not today, buddy... We dock our bikes a little too aggressively, stand with hands on hips and stare off in different directions mad as hell.

Man Smart, Woman Smarter.

15 minutes and an Uber ride later, we're at Keegan's Pub enjoying a black & tan and receiving a laundry-list of awesome things to do from an enthusiastic and informative bar tender.

Man Smart, Woman Smarter.

What transpires is a lovely day of bike riding and bar hopping. A perfect, non-muddled Old Fashioned at The Sonder Shaker, a impeccably adorned Chicago dog and fall-off-the-bone pork shanks at the not quite divey enough, Whitie's World Famous Saloon. A not-cold-enough Budweiser at the totally divey enough Terminal Bar (Est. 1932) served by an appropriately surly 3rd generation owner/shit talker/name unknown bartendress. "That'll be, hm... $3.50 each. Oh, let's just call it $7!"
Our day was full of twists and turns, biking across bridges and back again. A beer here, a cocktail there. Small bites to sustain but not exhaust. It was suggested that we go get a Jucy Lucy at at Matt's Bar but that would require another cab ride and we we're content with pedal power to and fro. As day turned to dusk, I received another text message from a forgotten friend, "Dude, that picture you took on Instagram was literally in front of my house. What are you doing tonight? I'm playing a show in a half hour" Live music in Minneapolis? Yes please! Maybe I can even elbow my way on to stage to earn a free beer and a shot of adrenaline.

Seth Doud is one of the ghosts from yesteryear that I was daydreaming about when driving through western Minnesota. A fiercely passionate musician with raw talent in droves, he performs on the edge of a cliff with no safety net below - few can be so bold. I met Seth while touring with Angie Stevens through the mid-west in the 20aughts. We'd shared the stage and a brew or three, having more conversations in music than English. He is one of those humble and endearing types that this part of the country so famously produces. The impromptu reunion at The Aster Cafe is quickly met with an offer for a beer - not yet earned - and an invitation to stay in the guest bedroom of the apartment Seth shares with his girlfriend. We are kicking ourselves as we politely decline, having already booked the hotel from the previous night. Alas, we join new friends and chat over too-smart cocktails and $5 Old Style drafts. The exposed brick, flat bread pizzas and bartenders con suspenders y bowties lend an air of uptight hipster-ness to the night. Our group is loose and a little loud for the melancholy yet pretty sounds emanating from the She and Him type duo harmonizing brilliantly from the small stage but we are enjoying ourselves among the sparsely populated patrons on this warm night.

It's Seth's turn to perform. He blazes through a few originals and the invites me to accompany him on cajon. He says a few complementary words about me and about how we came to be together at this moment in time. A few smiles and nods and we are off on a runaway train as I follow his strumming pattern intently, I close my eyes and listen hard for changes, for movement in tempo, vocal inflection and emotion, carefully matching his intensity and backing off when necessary. We play another and Seth gives me some space to embellish rhythms and pull off a few 'licks'. The few left in the audience clap appreciatively and give a few hoots and hollers.

I thank Seth for the chance to play and exit stage left. The adrenaline is now coursing through my veins as I sit to catch my breath and down a once thought undrinkable IPA. Seth closes out his set with a apropos cover of The Purple One's rain song:

Everyone is giddy and a little sideways by the time Seth finished his set. There is nefarious talk of a Monday night strip club adventure, or, at the least grabbing a sixer and hanging at the apartment. The plan is to meet up at The Red Cow just across the Mississippi for a late night snack. This is very close to the apartment and has a great happy hour. We are hungry. We oblige willingly. In the car, we make a rash decision to cancel our hotel room and take Seth up on the offer of accommodations for the night. We'll simply let them know when we meet up in the mere 5 minutes it takes to get to the next destination. We arrive, order late night, local cheese curds recommended by our delightfully gay waiter and are on the lookout for our friends. Our curds arrive. Our new friends don't. Curdely-doodle-darn-doo-diggity and a Mother....Fucker.... for good measure. Phone calls go unanswered, texts as well.** Four handed slap to the noggin(s) as we realize our plight. Spend an ungodly amount of money for a fancy pants downtown hotel - probably with a pool and continental breakfast - or ration our limited budget by sleeping in the overly cramped Subaru Impreza at a trucker rest stop on the Minnesota/Wisconsin border, cheese curd farts and all.

**No one was injured or harmed in the case of Red Cow disease.

CONTENT! Sarah suggests. CURD FARTS! I counter. Saving $300 for sweaty and uncompromisingly uncomfortable night of sleep is worth it, we decide. Our initial decent into the pit-of-hell-hot south has begun...