From This Valley

By Pete Steiner

When life gives lemons

Long story short, massive winter storm Landon had stranded Jeanne and me in Nashville. Ice to the north of us, a foot of snow to the west. Life-threatening to drive in such conditions.

Thus getting back to Minnesota, the state renowned for cold and snow, was put on hold. The weather gods had given us lemons.

It was still 58 degrees in Nashville that evening, so we decided to walk several blocks from our downtown hotel to Broadway to hear live music. On our way, we encountered lots of fans heading for the Predators home hockey game at Bridgestone Arena.

We commented how, since our last prolonged stay in Nashville 40 years ago, the city has transformed to rival Las Vegas for All-American tourist status. Broadway, too, has metastasized as an entertainment scene; its pawn shops and used furniture stores gone, the avenue now is lined with venues owned by the likes of Kid Rock, Jason Aldean and Luke Bryan. Scores of young musicians hoping to “make it” play nearly ‘round the clock on multiple floors of these venues.

Mankato actually has a connection here: Nudie’s Honky Tonk, named after Ukrainian-born Nudie Cohn, who somehow ended up in Mankato in the 1930s, where he married Bobbie Kruger. They eventually ended up in Hollywood, where they crafted the elaborate “Nudie suits” for Elvis and many country stars (average cost: $15,000).

Nudie and Bobbie would occasionally return to Mankato to visit her family. My brother, Billy, fondly recalls the day he accompanied Dad to his Jackson Street office. Out of the window, Billy saw, coming down the street, a big-finned Cadillac with splashy decorations and the rack of a longhorn steer mounted on the grille. Billy exclaimed something, and Dad looked out and said, “Why that’s Nudie Cohn!”

But as I often do, I digress.

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The tourists along Nashville’s Broadway are a pleasing mix of young and old, gawkers and funseekers. Jeanne and I strolled past the venerable Ernest Tubb’s Record Shop, although at 7 p.m., it was closed. (The building and business sold for nearly $5 million two years ago, and no longer hosts the Midnight Jamboree featuring up-and-coming stars.)

We listened to the sounds of bands wafting from open windows; I noted many of the venues still feature the same southern rock and country rock we heard at the Caledonia Live Radio Show I hosted for nine years, back in the ‘80s from Madison East Center — you know, songs like “Long-haired Country Boy” or Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll.”

Great songs, but I’ve heard ‘em a thousand times.

We finally settled on the historic and still vibrant Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, where revered icons such as Hank Williams would come to have a drink after — or even during — a Grand Ol’ Opry performance at the legendary Ryman, just across the alley. (These days, the Ryman, the “Mother Church of Country Music,” hosts mostly special concerts; the Opry in 1974 moved to a Disney-style theme park on the edge of town.)

Tootsie’s walls are still lined with the old signed black-and-white photos of the stars. I searched out a couple of favorites: Don Williams and Willie Nelson on the second level. Then I bought a $10 bottled beer and left Kristal in her pink leggings a $2 tip.

We settled in with the other tourists as well as some locals to listen to The Crystal Rose Band. Featuring a female lead singer, a super lead guitarist, a fiddler, bass and drums, they played some Elvis, some Conway and Loretta, some southern rock. The crowd applauded heartily.

I enjoyed it but couldn’t stop thinking about how cruel the music biz is: These guys are excellent, and yet they have about a 1 in 10,000 chance of making it. The competition in Music City is so extreme that talent alone won’t do it; you need luck, you need a lightning strike, the right person has to hear you on the right night.

As we left, I dropped a five-spot in the tip jar, landing it beside a couple of ones. Not gonna pay the rent that way.

It was 8:30 p.m., close to my bedtime. Next day, in the rain, as Landon still raged to the north and west — we spent three hours at the Country Music Hall of Fame, looking at legendary Gibson and Martin guitars, and yes, Nudie suits worn by the stars.

We were surprised to find nearby the National Museum of African American Music. As lovers of gospel and blues, we logged three more hours there. Yet we had barely scratched the surface of what the city offers.

Nevertheless, I concluded as we dared to hit the road the next day, we really had mixed up some tasty lemonade.

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