Native | July 2013 | Nashville, TN by Native

the anniversary issue

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Tell us you saw us in Native and receive 15% off any service!

@purenashville # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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dinner.

chef waggoner始s obsession.

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507 12th ave s. 615 254 2000 watermark-restaurant.com

MESSENGERS LEGAL DOCUMENTS LUNCH BANK DEPOSITS THOUSANDS OF MAGAZINES BICYCLES GROCERIES PRESCRIPTIONS COURT FILINGS

Y O U N A M E I T, W E ’ L L D E L I V E R I T

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JULY 2013

THE GOODS 13

BEER FROM HERE

Meet Ruby Red—Fat Bottom’s bodacious brew. If she were president, she’d be Baberaham Lincoln

Cocktail of the Month

Check out this treat all the way from the old country—Rosé Perez

MASTER PLATERS : BOOZY POPSCICLES

The Bang Candy Company’s Boozy Popsicle recipe will leave you ice cold...and inebriated

Hey Good Lookin’

Get back to your American roots—let that beehive fly high

113

YOU OUGHTA KNOW

Lightning 100 thinks you oughta know about The Wild Feathers

114

Overheard @ NATIVE

So outrageous we had to remind ourselves that yes, those things did come out of our mouths

116

PRAISE THE ROOF

Anderson Design Group brings you the Nashville skyline

FEATURES 14

One Man Show

On the corner of Church and Printer’s Alley lives Nashville’s own “sushi nazi”—Sam Katakura

The Brazilbilly Ballad

If someone told you the owner of Robert’s Western World was a Brazilian cowboy, would you believe it?

The Life and Times of Music City’s Big Kahuna

CONTENTS

Producing the Impossible

Filmmaker Matthew Parker enjoys a good cocktail on the French Riviera. But he doesn’t mind alligators, children in water, and things on fire, either

The Art of Bra Removal

Burlesque is pretty much like any other sport, just with more titties

102 Bienvenido Escondido

Tyler James and Jessica Maros are wine-drinking burrito fanatics. They also do this music thing, too

You can take Chip Cathey out of Hawaii, but you can’t take the Hawaii out of Chip—the founder of Stand Up Paddleboard Music City

The Mind Behind the Mount Ain’t no mountain high enough to keep Parnassus co-owner Karen Hayes away from books

Bound for Bohemia

There’s no time or cable where artistmusician Aaron Martin lives. But you might find a Colombian Red-Tailed Boa

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OBSERVATORY

Nashville street style

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Native Animal of the Month

It’s about time you meet the office pooch—JJ

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DEAR NATIVES, Happy Birthday to us. Feliz cumpleaños a mi. Da da-da daaa da da da. It’s our one-year anniversary. We may not have a million home videos documenting our firsts, but we have over 50,000 of you (readers). This might be your first time picking this up or it could be your thirteenth. Whichever it is, thank you. Chances are, you personally know someone that has been featured within these pages. Or you may have been featured yourself. You write, you sing, you play. You cook, you paint, you make. So what is it that connects us? It’s hard to pinpoint in just a few words, but it’s there—that energy—the force that’s pushing this city. You have it. We have it. Your neighbor has it. And everyone in this special issue has it, too. Nashville wouldn’t be the same without you. NATIVE was founded to unite and grow the creative community. We believe in supporting local businesses, social responsibility, the arts, music, leaving the planet better than we found it, and a good party...to name a few. It’s our mission for you to get to know the people who are your city. Next time you go to the neighborhood pub, your favorite restaurant, record store, coffee shop, or boutique—say hello. Make a point to introduce yourself to your fellow Nashvillians. They are artists, entrepreneurs, craft beer drinkers, and music lovers just like you—like blood brothers (and sisters). Together, let’s make Nashville awesomer. Sincerely,

president:

editor-in-chief:

creative director:

ELISE LASKO CHARLIE HICKERSON

art director:

HANNAH LOVELL

sales director:

KATRINA HARTWIG CAYLA MACKEY JOSHUA SIRCHIO COLIN PIGOTT JOE CLEMONS ALEX TAPPER

web editor:

TAYLOR RABOIN

account executives:

writers: photographers:

interns:

WAYNE BLAKE POLLARD KRISTIN RINNER

To celebrate our one-year anniversary, we brought Caitlin Rose into Moonbase and threw confetti all over her. Her sister, Hayley Rose, was kind enough to contribute her expertise in hair and makeup.

brand director:

brand manager:

RALPH NOYES S.L. ALLIGOOD JUSTIN BARISICH RICK JERVIS J. ROBERT WILLIAMS CASEY SMITH JESSICA JONES WELLS ADAMS DAVE PITTMAN RYAN GREEN DANIELLE ATKINS JESS WILLIAMS ADAM LIVINGSTON ANDREA BEHRENDS JESSIE HOLLOWAY WILL HOLLAND ELI MCFADDEN HEATHER JOHNS SARAH BARLOW KATIE WILEY MIRIAM SANTOS

COURTNEY MAULDIN COURTNEY SPENCER MARY-BETH BLANKENSHIP ANGELA CONNERS

music supervisor:

BEHIND THE COVER:

SARAH SHARP MACKENZIE MOORE

assistant editors:

videographers:

P.S. We are launching our new kickass website! Visit native.is.

managing editor:

The NATIVE Team

ANGELIQUE PITTMAN JON PITTMAN

publisher:

JOE CLEMONS DAVE PITTMAN

to advertise, contact:

CAYLA MACKEY

for all other enquiries:

SALES@NATIVE.IS HELLO@NATIVE.IS

*CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, WE’RE NOT PERFECT— TURNS OUT WE MADE A BOO BOO IN THE JUNE ISSUE. THE TORRES ARTICLE WAS CUT SHORT. TO READ THE FULL VERSION, VISIT NATIVE.IS.

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Same location. Brand new space. Coming this August. Monday - Friday : 6am-7pm Saturday and Sunday : 7am-7pm

3431 Murphy Road dosecoffeeandtea.com

Congratulations to NATIVE on their first year of making Nashville awesomer! 12 / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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What better way to celebrate our victory over the Redcoats than with a swig of the all-American Ruby Red? Fat Bottom Brewery’s signature ale will have you saluting Uncle Sam and phoning your favorite pinup before you finish your first glass. But Ruby isn’t your ordinary girl next door. You might catch her on the sidelines rockin’ pom-poms and bloomers, but her boyfriend is waiting in the parking lot on his Harley. She’s got a small waist, cute face, and a big behind—a certifiable dime, if you will. With the rye that brings them good ole boys to the levy in their Chevys, you can call Ruby your sweet American pie. Don’t let her strawberry blonde locks fool you though—she’s got hops. A smooth, malty top gives way to a full-bodied aftertaste, and the combination makes for a brew that’s drinkable with an edge. Let’s just say, she goes down real easy and leaves you begging for more.

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by ralph noyes | photography by ryan green

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ONE MAN SHOW The owner of Sam’s Sushi is known for his fussy demeanor and specialty rolls. But there’s more to Sam Katakura than barking orders and pissing people off

Sam Katakura ignored me the first time I walked into his restaurant. “What you want?” he barked, after I’d waited for several minutes at a table. Embarrassed by the attention, I approached the counter and attempted to order two specialty rolls. “No, only one,” he cut in, flat and final. “You go sit down, and I bring to you.” It wasn’t busy. He wasn’t distracted. I just wasn’t following the rules. Seven months later, I went back.

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MUDDY R.

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It’s 2:30 p.m. on a particularly humid Wednesday afternoon in Printer’s Alley. All the tourists are gone, and the doors to the karaoke bars, strip clubs, tattoo parlors, and private businesses are shut. The scent of spilled beer, bile, and bratwurst hangs in the air, mixing with the odor of last night’s trash. Sam has given me the go-ahead to come during his break, but I linger in the alley reading the words on the white, cracked wooden walls—any excuse to put off talking to him. I turn the corner from the busy sidewalk on Church Street and into the entrance nook of the restaurant. There’s a hand-written sign pasted to the inside of the door that reads, “This is Slow Food Place, Not Fast Food.” To my left, is a green sign that says, “Only Good Customers.” Staring at the black capital letters, I feel like an intruder. Sam unlocks the door and waves me in silently, the click of the deadbolt sounding behind me as he immediately locks it. The place is small. Three tables, one row of chairs at the counter, and three more for waiting. Half the interior space is stacked with juices, sodas, and restaurant supplies. A small TV sits on top of a soda cooler, nestled snugly in between boxes. The newscaster is covering a natural disas-

ter in China, the volume high enough for the entire restaurant to hear. Sam steers me to the counter, stepping through a side curtain to return to a to go order. “You want something to drink?” he mutters in a deep wheeze. Taken off guard by his hospitality, I accept a Sprite and settle into a low wooden chair. A glass case in front of me houses ingredients, and an old white refrigerator faces me with a large Obama magnet posted on its door. Sam stares down at me from behind the counter, surrounded by Titans wallpaper and strung-up fish netting. His head is wrapped in a black bandana, and a sweat-stained white tshirt clings to his thick shoulders, bulging around his hard potbelly. I unpack my notebook and unknowingly place my recorder into an open to go box. “I put sushi here,” he warns. I scramble to move it somewhere out of the way, and set it on the only open space near the register. Sam deflects a lot of questions and half-answers the rest. He doesn’t make any attempt to talk into the recorder, instead talking into the five huge boxes of sushi he’s preparing. I gather that he’s originally from a small town outside Tokyo, moved here alone from New York sometime in the early ’90s, and has been running Sam’s for thirteen years. Soon he tires of my fact gathering and takes control of the conversation. “I’m not interested in hiring new

people. I’ve been working thirteen years just by myself, seven days a week, never close. I open literally 365 days, every holiday. Only two times I close when I got sick.” He recites the month and year of both incidents, then begins to add together the total hours he works each week, arriving at an absurd number—105 to 110. “Seventy to eighty is normal for small business owner, just like somebody normal works forty,” he says dismissively, breaking into slow laughter that builds in volume. Now that Sam’s laughing, I feel comfortable joking with him, asking if he keeps a bed in the kitchen and whether it’s the coffee or the sake that keeps him going all day. “I never drink in store,” he states flatly, becoming serious and returning to his sushi order. As I sit in silence imagining his disapproval, there’s a knock on the door behind me. His head snaps up from the boxes, and he scowls with malevolence at the woman behind the glass. She knocks again and waves at us, and just when I think he’s going to start shouting, he slowly moves to his right, out of her line of sight. He continues, unfazed. “People in other business, customer wait half an hour and never say anything,” he waves

″I’M NOT A CAPITALIST. I’M NOT GOOD AT IT.″

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SAM’S SUSHI:

his hands. “I don’t like it that way. Don’t want them to waste their time,” he barks confrontationally. His English worsens as he becomes more passionate. “People come here in the middle of lunchtime, they expect ten minutes,” the pitch of his voice rising high with righteousness as he spits the number out. Sam mutters on about tourists and fast food culture, and I wonder how he ever acquires new customers. “Do you get into a lot of arguments here?” I ask, scratching at what must be a treasure trove of stories. “’Cause I’m busy, I cannot be nice bright all the time. Just ’cause they dressed up or make good money, they expect good treatment. I don’t care. I treat everybody same,” he breaks into another laugh, the delight obvious on his face. “I’m not businessman. I never accept tip. I’m not really try to make fortune here. I just pay my bill.” He pauses for a moment and continues, “I’m not a capitalist. I’m not good at it.” When Sam gets overwhelmed with customers on weekends, he has another line of defense. Wearing a devious grin, he slides three more handmade signs to me one by one that read, “Regulars Only,” “No New Customers,” and “Only Good Customers.” “You never seen this kind of sign any place, right?” he laughs as I shake my head. another customer taps on the window. I look ner-

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RIVERSIDE

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vously at Sam. This time, his face brightens with recognition, “Oh, wait. It’s my customer here for to go order,” he says on his way out from behind the counter. “Dude, long time coming here,” a man’s voice booms behind me. I decide not to look back, hoping that Sam will send him off quickly with his food, but the small talk continues. “Don’t be giving me shit about wanting your squid. Stop makin’ it so damn good!” he complains with a Southern accent. Sam returns to his work on the other side of the counter, while the man sits behind me, yelling over my shoulder about his family. Sam is asking him about his two daughters, then his wife, and suddenly, my stomach constricts. “Sam, you don’t know? My wife’s got cancer, dude. She just had surgery. Her breasts are gone. Doesn’t that suck?” he forces the words out with bravado. Sam is speechless. He recovers the conversation slowly, his voice low and compassionate. He asks about which stage it’s in, how they found it, whether her family has a history of it, and her exercise habits. “It’s your sushi!” the man replies. “What’d you put in it? I’ll blame you. No, I’m kiddin’,” the stranger trails off with a cough, pain and exhaustion clear in his voice. “In-laws came down, Mom and Dad loaded us up with food, but she doesn’t want it. She’s like ‘Gimme Sam’s.’ She wants your sushi, dude.” There’s a moment of silence before Sam says, “Forty dollars even,” as he ties three enormous bags and passes them over the counter. The man shakes Sam’s hand firmly and walks out. After re-locking the door, Sam drifts into stories about some of his other customers. He tells me about a twenty-sixyear-old man in the special forces who had a heart attack while preparing to ship out. Then suddenly, he falls silent. The CNN jingle plays on the TV while he wipes down the counter, gathering breath for a new tirade. “I have a number of customers—military—they die twenty, twenty-three, thirty years old. They don’t even have life yet. Like myself, I have no life. Last thirteen years, I work like dog, go home,

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sleep,” he plainly states. “It’s not happy life, but I always remind myself I did right things because I enjoy when I was young. My twenties, thirties, I had good time. Went everywhere.” Sam continues, “When you are about to die, all those experiences, you cannot use. When you’re young, all those experiences really create you—much more impact on your progress,” he says, turn-

ing his back to me. He reaches to a shelf, pulls down a plastic container and opens it, taking out a black-and-white photograph. A man with long dark hair and a mustache stands in front of a house, his arm around an attractive Hispanic woman. Her dark hair matches his, and their button-down shirts are tucked into high-waisted bell-bottoms. They look

young, wearing effortless smiles. “That’s you!” I exclaim, recognizing his face. Holding the photograph closer, I continue, “You look like you’re from East Nashville. Who’s the girl?” He mutters, “Girl I met in Chile. I’m from baby boomer generation—smoke pot, hippie time. That’s 1974.” I hand him the picture carefully, and he puts it back, returning this time with

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7.13 - Composting 7.27 - Indoor Plant Lighting/Basic

a crumpled sheet that he unfolds with practiced ease. It’s a world map. I learn that Sam has been to more than 120 countries. “Every one in American continents, not including the islands. Africa twice. First time from here,” he puts his fingertip on South Africa and moves it north to the Mediterranean, “and all the way across. Second time, Sahara Desert. Europe and Siberia all the way to Moscow.” Sam’s travel strategy is a lot like his business strategy—a single-minded, solo pursuit. He was based in New York in the ’70s and ’80s, and worked in restaurants for two-year stints, meanwhile traveling until he spent all his money. Sam lays the map on the counter and points to the TV behind me. “You see all the fighting in Syria? Been there, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, all those countries. If you never been there, it’s not real. When I see the news, I really know what it’s like,” he explains. “My passion is politics. I’m a political

junkie,” he continues, pronouncing the last two words with slow pride. He brags about a famous senator who comes in regularly to argue about health care and immigration, admitting why his Obama magnet is so strategically displayed. “It’s my intention to instigate conversation. If you don’t get involved, somebody run your life,” he finishes gravely. “So, are you going to stay in Nashville? No more traveling?” I ask. “My original plan was to stay here, save money, and make one last big trip. But I’m going back to Japan in two years. I like here ’cause I can be free. I don’t have social pressure.” He goes on, “Japan has long history, certain way of social expectation. I’m a little bit out of ordinary,” he says, building into a full-bellied laugh. “Here, nobody cares I dress like this. In Japan, I have to be kind of respectable.” It’s 5:30 p.m. now, well past when the restaurant is supposed to re-open, and more customers are knocking on the

glass. This time, Sam doesn’t get mad or complain. He walks resolutely to the door and greets them as they come in. “I’m having conversation. You sit down over there.” Sam is in total control of what goes on in his restaurant, and that realization is calming. I stare at the crowd of businessmen and backpackers funneling down Printer’s Alley. He’s made it clear that his aim is to teach others, and as I watch Sam pull ingredients and prepare sushi, I realize there’s a lot to learn from him. During his two remaining years in Nashville, I’m sure he’ll offend many more people, further solidifying his reputation as Nashville’s “sushi nazi.” And now, after a cumulative six-hour interview, three parking tickets, and four sushi dinners, I feel like I’ve accomplished something—I learned to break the rules with Sam Katakura.

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COCKTAIL OF THE MONTH by No. 308

Rosé Perez Not to be confused with the loud-mouthed New

York

actress

and

choreographer,

Rosie Perez, this boozy concoction is a treat from the old country that’s bitterer than your nonna after you turn down a third serving of veal piccata. Rosé Perez is like that sweet Italian gal your ma would approve of, but don’t stand her up or she’ll knock you on your ass quicker than Vito Corleone can make an unrefusable offer. It’s dry, it’s light, and it’ll give you a fight if you down a pitcher with too much delight.

THE GOODS: 1 oz. Fords Gin 2 oz. Cocchi Americano Rosa seltzer water grapefruit slice

Fill a highball glass with ice. Build drink in glass—liquors first, top with seltzer, and garnish with slice of grapefruit. -Ben Clemons, No. 308

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photo by danielle atkins

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MASTER PLATERS

BOOZY POPSCICLES Put down the sparklers and step away from the grill. You’re already sunburned. You can take a dip in the pool, pop open a cold brewski, and put the fan on full blast, but nothing’s going to cure those embarrassing pit stains like an ice-cold popsicle. Sarah Souther at The Bang Candy Company is taking these frozen treats beyond those shitty neon freeze pops your mom kept in the garage. True to their name, these boozy popsicles aren’t for the youngins, so don’t let junior have too many of these before playing with the Roman Candles. The Pimm’s and the Feisty Pineapple won’t just cool you down. They’ll leave you with a cool buzz, too.

PIMM’S POPSICLE INGREDIENTS: ½ cup Pimm’s No. 1 ½ cup Corsair Artisan Gin ½ cup Strawberry Rhubarb Syrup from The Bang Candy Company 10 oz. strawberries 8 oz. English cucumber, peeled handful fresh mint leaves DIRECTIONS: Whip ingredients in a blender, fill your popsicle molds, and insert sticks. Sip on the leftovers. Freeze for at least four hours. Makes ten. Share or indulge. One is never enough. FEISTY PINEAPPLE POPSICLE INGREDIENTS: ½ cup tequila 1½ cups Pineapple Jalapeño Cilantro Syrup from The Bang Candy Company 1 lime, squeezed 1 jalapeño DIRECTIONS: Fill popsicle molds with ingredients and place a couple of razor-thin jalapeno slivers in each. Insert sticks and freeze for at least four hours. -photo by danielle atkins

RECIPE BY SARAH SOUTHER OF THE BANG CANDY COMPANY

*POPSICLES NOT FOR SALE. SYRUPS AVAILABLE AT THE BANG CANDY COMPANY. CHECK OUT NEW SUMMER SYRUPS—PEACH BASIL, STRAWBERRY RHUBARB, AND LAVENDER MINT # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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The Brazilbilly

Ballad

JESSE LEE JONES, OWNER OF ROBERT’S WESTERN WORLD, HAS SPENT HIS LIFE PERFORMING COUNTRY MUSIC. BUT HE DOESN’T JUST PLAY IT—HE LIVES IT by s.l. alligood | photography by jess williams # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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Jesse Lee Jones shades his eyes and peers into the front door of his establishment, the iconic honky-tonk Robert’s Western World, a former warehouse turned tourist destination. Lower Broadway is wet and benign on this drizzly spring morning. It’s too early to guzzle beer, and the street’s ubiquitous guitar-toting wannabes who play for tips haven’t manned their corners—yet. Jesse taps on the glass again. He’s middle-aged, without a fleck of gray in his coiffed ball of coal black hair. Tiny water droplets hold fast to wispy strands. He explains, with a sheepish grin, that he misplaced his keys. Thus he’s been reduced to calling for someone to let him in. After a minute, the door opens, and Jesse enters the place that has been his musical home and livelihood since moving to Nashville nearly twenty years ago. Robert’s is a place where lovers of country and western come to swill beer, tap their toes, and sing along with musicians who play songs the crowd knows because, at Robert’s, classic country is king. Only the revered storytelling styles of Hank and George, Conway and Loretta, and Marty and Patsy, are allowed. As Jesse puts it, “I’m such a traditionalist, and I don’t care for this new garbage they call country music.” Then he adds with a smile, “You know, of course, I submit to you respectfully that that’s my take on it.” The place has the smell of a musty attic with a trace of French fry grease and, of course, the aroma of hops and malted barley. Jesse sits at a small table near the front door, his back against the wall, a position that offers a 180 degree view of the place, from the stage on his left to the lengthy bar on his right. It’s a Friday morning. The crowds won’t be coming for hours. “Let us talk,” he says. He was born in Sao Paulo, Brazil. He would not become Jesse Lee Jones, the keeper of genuine country music at Robert’s Western World, for many years. The union of his parents, first cousins, produced a tempestuous marriage. His dad was rarely around. His mom worked two jobs to keep Jesse and his two sisters fed, clothed, and sheltered,

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RUBY AMANFU: For more info, visit rubyamanfu.com or follow on Twitter @RubyAmanfu

ROBERT’S WESTERN WORLD: Robertswesternworld.com Follow on Twitter @RobertsWWorld

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but wasn’t always successful at providing all three. He recalls a time when he was nine and hungry. His sisters were hungry, too. A survey of the cupboards produced only one bag of rice, but there was no fresh water in the house. “There was some water that was left in a mop sink, and it was soapy. It wasn’t exactly clean, but I cooked rice for my sisters with it. I remember the three of us sitting around the table gratefully eating that soapy rice and having conversations as if we were adults eating in a fancy restaurant,” he says. Then he adds, “That’s the beauty and innocence of childhood.” When Jesse is asked a question, he’s off with a breath. His speech has the directed energy of a CSX diesel locomotive, but this engine darts at will from point to point like a pinball. Sometimes he waxes poetic; sometimes he raises his index finger to make a point. His speech is peppered with tired declaratives such as “Come on,” “Give me a break,” and “My goodness.” But from his mouth, they’re

endearing. Jesse’s deprived childhood was followed by years of teenage angst, of experiencing the dehumanizing nature of poverty. There were times, he says, when he considered the efficacy of permanent absence—one less mouth to feed, one less burden to his mother. Here, the narrative of Jesse Lee Jones took a fortuitous turn. In high school, he was sent to live with an aunt and uncle with a stable home life and a refrigerator filled with food. But Jesse just couldn’t bring himself to open it. He was too shy and embarrassed about the circumstances surrounding the move from his mother’s home. “I went to school with a hole in the bottom of my shoe for months until they found out. They were so upset with me, because I didn’t want to bother anybody. In many ways, I’m still that person.” “You know what I mean,” he says with a tone that crafts the question into more of a statement than an inquiry. Complementing his new home life was his uncle’s collection of LPs. Jesse had

developed an interest in music, and his uncle told him to indulge. He listened to Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, and Elvis Presley over and over and began playing guitar and singing along. Raised Mormon, Jesse says fellow church members often asked him to sing at celebrations and parties. Friends encouraged him to take his talent to America, but that was a pipe dream, he told them. However, at twenty-two, according to his oft-told narrative, friends pooled enough money to buy him a ticket to Miami. “A group of people got together, and they had this vision,” he begins. “They said, ‘You have this mission. You’re going to America. You’re going to do great things.’” He arrived in South Florida with little money and a guitar. “I couldn’t speak English,” he adds. In short order, he was robbed of his few possessions, even his guitar. Through a church group, Jesse was eventually connected with a host family in Peoria, Illinois, whom he lived with for nine years. While in Peoria, he learned to speak

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English and became Jesse Lee Jones, performing anywhere that would have him—taverns, VFW posts (military veteran hangouts), or schools. At the same time, he enrolled in Illinois Central College, majoring in criminal justice. “I was studying to become a police officer,” he says. But his American family and friends kept telling him he was too good for Peoria. Nashville was the place for him. It wasn’t until one of his professors, a Marty Robbins aficionado, gave Jesse a boxed set of Robbins cassette tapes that he realized the validity in their kind words. Moved by the tapes, Jesse recalls,

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″I WALKED RIGHT UP TO HIM—I CALLED HIM MR. ROBERT BECAUSE I DIDN’T KNOW HIS LAST NAME. AND I SAID, ‘WHAT WOULD I HAVE TO DO TO PERFORM HERE?′"

“I fell in love with the music. I couldn’t listen to it without crying my eyes out.” Inspired by his newfound love of Robbins, he uprooted once again, moving to the capital of country music—where he knew no one and had no job offers. At least now he could speak the language. He worked odd jobs, including swabbing the deck of the General Jackson, until he could get the lay of the land.

It didn’t take him long to find Lower Broadway and the honky-tonks. “It was a very different place back then. Come on, back in the early ’90s, there was lawlessness here—prostitution and peep shows. It wasn’t a place where most people wanted to be. But it was charming,” he says. It was the spring of ’95, and Jesse had visited Robert’s a couple of times. Eventually, he mustered up enough courage

to approach the owner, Robert Moore, a longtime honkytonk owner and self-appointed judge of musical talent. “I remember walking in and feeling shy. Mr. Robert Moore was in the middle of the room, looking like an old hillbilly. His glasses were crooked on his face, and his hat looked like he had sat on it and put it back on his head. There was ketchup and mustard all over his shirt.” He continues, “I’d never seen anything like it before— rough-looking people smoking cigarettes. I walked right up to him—I called him Mr. Robert because I didn’t know his last name. And I said, ‘What would I have to do to perform here?’” At this point in telling his story, Jesse affects a Southern accent with a Latin twang to imitate Moore. “You play count-tree moo-sic?” “Yes sir, I reckon I do,” Jesse replied. “Whur ya from, boy?” The young Brazilian immigrant said he was lately from Peoria. “Whul, git up there on that stage with that band over there and sing me a song.” And Jesse remembers doing just that. He sang two Marty Robbins tunes, “Don’t Worry About Me” and “Devil Woman.” He hadn’t gotten through a verse before Moore hustled out the door, returning momentarily with another honky-tonk owner from down the street. Then Moore crossed Broadway to fetch another. Jesse thought he was in trouble. Instead, when he came off the stage, Moore and the others shook his hand. “They said, ‘Welcome to Lower Broad.’” The rest of Jesse Lee Jones’ story could be fodder for a country song—an immigrant’s rise from obscurity to Cadillac wealth in a town where the half-life of dreams (and sometimes stardom as well) is often very short. “I still have to pinch myself. I’ve worked so hard all of these years,” he says. After that first audition for Moore, the music veteran began making plans for this young man who had crossed over Robert’s threshold, unannounced as a gift from the honky-tonk gods. At the time, the group BR5-49 was the venue’s featured act, but their growing fame was propelling them toward a record deal and tour. Moore was going to need a replacement, and Jesse seemed to have the talent. One night as Jesse finished his set, the members of BR5-49 came on stage. He remembers one of them saying, “‘Give the Brazilian hillbilly a nice round of applause.’ And then one of the guys said, ‘Brazilian hillbilly. Yeah, you know, Brazilbilly.’ Boom, there it was.” The band had a name. Brazilbilly has been the house band ever since, with Jesse as frontman. He and Moore became good friends, and in August of ’99, the Brazilian immigrant who sang “America the Beautiful” at his citizenship ceremony purchased Robert’s Western World.

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Success followed as Lower Broad became a tourist haven. “I haven’t changed it a lot. It’s pretty much the same, but what I’ve done is cleaned the heck out of it. It’s very clean—clean and organized,” he says. Jesse says his workdays are still long, but he’s changed his management style as he’s aged. “I believe they call it delegate,” he says, laughing. “I’ve been hearing that for so many years. Other bar owners who happened to be friends—good people—they would say, ‘Why are you doing this? Why don’t you get someone to do that for you?’” Despite his success with Robert’s Western World, the hardships continue for Jesse. About seven years ago, Jesse was diagnosed with Ménière’s disease, an inner ear disorder that produces spontaneous bouts of vertigo and ringing—conditions not conducive to performing. But he’s as tough as a good pair of leather cowboy boots. “I’ve done it many, many times. This is how I’ve handled my life since I’ve been in the U.S.” Although the Brazilbilly has made successful recordings, stardom (as in a chart-topping hit) is not his goal. What is most satisfying for Jesse is being on stage. “I’m here doing this thing that I love to do. I came here for this. I’m not busting rocks on the side of the road. I’m living my dream, I’m living my dream.”

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THE LIFE AND TIMES OF MUSIC CITY’S BIG KAHUNA FROM CENTER HILL TO HONOLULU: HOW A FORMER FRAT BOY AND FOOTBALL STAR IS BRINGING A HAWAIIAN MINDSET TO MIDDLE TENNESSEE

by charlie hickerson | photography by adam livingston

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It’s an overcast day downtown, and I’m leaning against the hood of my Volvo waiting for Chip Cathey, the self-proclaimed Big Kahuna of Stand Up Paddleboard Music City (SUPMC), a local surf company that focuses on wellness, conservation, and water sports awareness. There’s a deserted bag of Lays floating across parking lot R of LP Field, and a sign above me reads “Report Unruly Fans! Text ‘LP’ to 69050.” It’s hardly the ideal day or environment for surfing, and after ten minutes, I start to worry that Chip won’t show due to the inclement conditions. Fortunately, my doubts are alleviated as a BMW hybrid sporting SUPMC stickers and carrying two fourteen-foot YOLO surfboards cuts through the desolation of the abandoned parking lot. Needless to say, the Big Kahuna has arrived. He pulls up next to me, inquiring through his rolled-down window, “Char-

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lie from NATIVE?” I timidly respond, “Yea—Chip from Stand Up Paddleboard Music City?” He gives me an affirmative hang loose sign and hands me an orange as soon as I get in the car. Before we even make proper introductions, we’re off to the banks of the Cumberland, one of the many sites where Chip is establishing a new wave of Nashville water sports. Even from the passenger seat of the BMW, I can tell that the Big Kahuna lives up to his moniker—he stands a little over six feet, has a James Dean jawline, and describes his physique as that of a “miniature linebacker.” Today, he dons Hurley board shorts, a black surf shirt which reads “Lokahi Canoe Club,” and a SUPMC baseball hat. Gray-tinged, jet black hair pokes out of the cap, his appearance echoing Mad Men more than Maui, but any resemblance between Chip and corporate America is quickly dispelled once he begins to talk shop. “You gonna get out in the water with

me today? It’s a little windy, but we might be able to make it work—you look like you’re dressed for it,” he quips. I cast an embarrassed glance down at my faded cords and Gap button-down and realize that I’m wearing the uniform of what Chip likes to call a “malahini,” or mainlander. And though his current demeanor and attire beg to differ, the Big Kahuna was once more malahini than kama’aina (Hawaiian-born). Born and “half-raised” in Cookeville, Tennessee, Chip grew up as a military brat, living in Virginia, coastal North Carolina, and Florida. During family visits to Tennessee, his grandfather, who was the Natural Resource Manager of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers at Center Hill Lake, inspired Chip’s passion for conservation and water sports. “My grandfather would take me to his office or out to the dam—we were always out and about,” Chip explains. “Growing up as a Marine Corps brat, we were on

the river constantly. I mean, entertainment on the weekends was going down to the river, catching fish, and paddling whatever you could find that would float. It was life on the river—no shirt, no shoes, no problem.” But problems did arise at the University of Virginia (UVA), where Chip began his undergraduate career as an ROTC scholarship recipient. He quickly realized that the military life wasn’t for him, and as a result, he decided to receive financial aid through football instead. “I didn’t like people yelling at me about my haircut,” Chip recalls with a chuckle. “I said, ‘Dad, I’ve got this ROTC scholarship, but they offered me a full ride to play football.’ And he said, ‘Son, I’ve been in the company of psychopaths for twenty-two years—if you can find another way to pay for college, you take it!’” After playing in two bowl games, the linebacker put down his pads and became a park ranger in Washington, D.C., before the job market of ’91 prompted him to strike a deal with his fraternity brother. The duo decided that if they didn’t have the jobs they wanted by May 1, they would uproot to Australia by the end of the year. Chip admits that the oath was possibly inspired by a little liquid courage, explaining, “There might have been some drinking involved—it might have been a late night watching Crocodile Dundee at two in the morning. But we made the deal, earned the money, and decided to do it.” Once in Melbourne, the two lived like aquatic Jack Kerouacs, enjoying the best beer, topless beaches, and world-class surfing that the Land Down Under had to offer. Visa expirations eventually forced them to relocate, and as Chip says, they ‘picked Manila, insanely enough,’ as their new destination. Compared to the brews and beaches of Australia, Manila (the capital of the Philippines) was a “real head-spin” for the former frat boys. “I was the jolly white giant over there,” Chip laughs. “It makes L.A. look like a

sleepy country town. We would take a bus, and old women would try to sell us little white chickens. It was way different than anything I had ever experienced.” After a month of Manila’s merchants and mopeds, they decided to travel yet again— this time to Honolulu. Upon returning to U.S. soil, the frat brothers shacked up in a youth hostel until fate—which had not been particularly kind in the Philippines—finally worked in their favor. They coincidentally met a couple of old cronies from UVA and lived with them for the rest of the summer. “It was just lucky,” Chip maintains. “Life smiles upon us rural Tennessee boys.” And it indeed continued to smile upon the boys for the vast majority of the summer. They spent nearly all their time on the water, planting the roots of what would become a deep-seated passion for island culture. Chip fondly remembers this majestic time, stating, “I learned how to surf—it’s one of the meccas of water sports. The water’s clear eighty feet down, and it’s just the perfect temperature. We were in no rush to get back.” But the mainland called the college grad back by the following fall, and he would eventually take a job at Quantico, a Marine Corps base in Washington, D.C. During his stint at the base, Chip worked in the Ground Weapons System Command unit, where his primary responsibility was “helping the Marines buy automatic weapons.” This new career in the artillery industry provided a steady source of income, but the capital’s climate and Quantico’s stern corporate environment took a toll on Chip. “I hated it. It was the winter, I was wearing a tie, and I said, ‘This sucks. I’m moving back to Hawaii.’” However, he would spend ten more years on the mainland before reuniting with the shores of Honolulu. During this period, Chip moved to Aspen, Colorado, where he “studied” skiing and golf. Shortly after, he headed to the

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University of Colorado at Boulder, earning an MBA and a masters degree in engineering. Following grad school, Chip climbed the corporate ladder, rising to financial director at MobiPCS, a startup cell phone carrier. The job would eventually bring him back to Hawaii, but this time, he entered the Aloha State as a thirtysomething business professional instead of a vagabond frat boy. Chip was busy playing lacrosse, surfing, and generally enjoying life as a Hawaiian working-stiff when he met Kelly, who would change the course of his life. “That lightning bolt, it happened,” he says, making a single clap for emphasis. The romance blossomed, and the couple decided they wanted to get married and raise a family. But there was one major issue blocking the newlyweds from enjoying suburban bliss—money. In Honolulu, the average cost of a home is about $700,000. “That gets you a shed for your mower. So, if you really wanna do it, you need $1.5 million,” Chip says as he nonchalantly peels an orange. Because of the island’s steep cost of living, the Catheys planned to find a permanent home on the mainland. The two living options on the chopping block were Tennessee, Chip’s native state, and Cleveland, Ohio, Kelly’s former home. Given Nashville’s temperate climate and booming economy, it was the obvious choice. The Catheys arrived in Music City during the summer of 2011, and they instantly experienced this sense of growth firsthand. As Chip points out, “It’s fun to do stuff here that we can afford while having a nice house, raising our kids, and being close to our families.” Among this “stuff ” is the food scene. “We’re sort of hippies, and we love the whole organic ‘farm to fork’ thing,” he adds. Although Nashville’s economy, cuisine, and location were all ideal, the city lacked a pillar stone of Chip’s identity—water sports.

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"WHEN YOU’RE OUT

“Stand up paddleboard is in Utah, Colorado, and Austin. Here, we’re kind of behind because we don’t have a lot of water access,” Chip asserts. Fortunately, this lack of waterways didn’t stop the ever-resourceful Big Kahuna from creating his own surf movement in Middle Tennessee. A lacrosse and surfing buddy of his knew someone in Nashville who had two stand up paddleboards. Chip eventually met this friend of a friend, and they began paddling in locations like the Cumberland River and Percy Priest Lake. “I wasn’t really stoked about it at first,” he says, “but the flat water was a much better paddle than I expected.” Given the inviting water conditions, the serious lack of SUP in Nashville, and Chip’s inherent enthusiasm for all things adventurous, he decided to start SUPMC last summer. The company offers individual lessons, rentals, and even corporate team building. He’s also proud to say that SUPMC is Middle Tennessee’s only YOLO Boards vendor. But the company isn’t merely about getting Nashvillians paddling. Conservation and physical wellness are at the core of SUPMC. “I think the waterways here are really underuti-

THERE, YOU GO INTO A STATE OF

JUST BEING."

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lized. When I tell people that I paddle in the Cumberland River, they act like I have a third eye or something,” Chip jokes. In order to combat these preconceived notions about the river, SUPMC stresses water conservation at all times. “When I see cans or plastic out on the water, I set an example by picking them up. And the folks who take lessons with us have started doing it too,” he explains. “We’re the kind of people you want on the Cumberland, instead of the ones that litter. We leave it cleaner than we found it, all the while exercising.” Beyond conservation, Chip also aims to spread the word about an experience he finds truly therapeutic. While he admits that SUP isn’t quite as exhilarating as surfing, he argues that there’s a certain meditative freedom and flexibility on the flat water. “Regular surfing’s in my blood, and there’s nothing quite like it—I’m hopefully gonna catch a wave behind the General Jackson one of these days,” he kids. “In a lot of other water sports like canoeing, rowing, and kayaking, your whole body’s confined, but with SUP, you have full mobility.” Chip’s preference for a more flexible brand of water sports perfectly suits the Big Kahuna’s lease on life, which is anything but rigid. As he aptly states, “SUP’s really about the freedom to move about, and I think that sums up my lifestyle—I take a little more of a free-form, Zen-like approach to water sports.” Perhaps this is why he’s so adamant about getting Nashville involved in future events, like an SUP race that will take place on the Cumberland in September. Chip firmly believes that there’s a greater ideal behind life on the water, and he wants to share this notion with his newfound home. “I gain energy, happiness, and meditation from SUP,” he says. “We have a lot going on in our cluttered minds. But when you get out on the water, your mind’s a blank slate.” He pauses to look at the river. Suddenly, rays of light cut through the overcast sky and illuminate the water. Chip’s hat swivels back toward me, and like a riverbed Buddha, he calmly elaborates, “When you’re out there, you go into a state of just being.” I study his sun-kissed face, and for the first time during our interview, I detect a hint of age behind the Big Kahuna’s clean-shaven skin. Or maybe it’s wisdom, gained from a life of “just being.”

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Chris Durai

loves storytelling. Ask him to tell you about being on a salmonfishing boat in Alaska or driving across the continent as a professional trucker and be prepared to sit long enough for a refill. Those experiences and more led him to his latest storytelling outlet: filmmaking. Chris writes, shoots, directs and edits all of his original films, which so far include shorts and artistic company bios. He just completed his first screenplay “Tennessee and in Love” and is completing his first film "Brood XIX." The film was staged and filmed during last summer’s cicada infestation and was shot with miniatures and living cicadas. “It’s a story about family alienation, child soldiers and an energy company run amok,” he says. He also tells his story in coffee. Chris is the Production Manager at Bongo Java Roasting Co. Check out Chris’ film work at ChrisDurai.com.

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CAITLIN ROSE WAS ALWAYS THE KIND OF GIRL WHO WOULD RATHER TELL JOKES THAN SING IN A COFFEE SHOP. NOW, SHE FINDS HERSELF CENTER STAGE OF NASHVILLE’S COUNTRY MUSIC RENAISSANCE

by sarah sharp | photography by jess williams 48 48 / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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I get up from the chair, legs numb and tingly. It’s been almost four hours, and I’ve had three bourbons and a beer. I think Caitlin Rose got me drunk. --

DRINK 1 I pull up to Edgefield Sports Bar & Grill— one of East’s most beloved dives. As the door nudges open, smoke rolls off the low ceiling and out the door. The late-afternoon sun burns through the dark cave in one long, blinding ray, revealing an almost empty bar, except for a few regulars that have already had a few.

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I spot Caitlin immediately—she stands out among the regular crowd of beer-bellied men hunched over pool tables, with her soft brown curls and petite frame. We make eye contact as she turns her head, and I notice that her large hazel eyes look somewhat preoccupied, telling me she’s just not feeling it today. It’s Sunday, so I can’t really blame her. And neither am I— it’s just one of those days. I give her a hug, hoping that breaking the barrier of space will make us both feel more at home. Following her lead, I order a Four Roses and soda. Caitlin takes hers with a lime. We find a seat at a table facing the kitchen, and she selects a cigarette from her pack of yellow American Spirits. Chik, chik, the lighter sounds as she begins, giggling, “The other day, I almost took scissors to my hair. Sometimes, it seems like the only thing that will calm me down, you know?” She pauses for a moment, taking a breath. “I hate change.” But a lot has been changing for Caitlin since releasing her critically acclaimed, second full-length album, The Stand-In, in late February. The newly twenty-sixyear-old country singer-songwriter goes on tour for two and half weeks at a time, returns home to her East Nashville abode (currently without AC, she informs me) and then takes off again. In the meantime, she’s been trying to enjoy the little moments like lazy Sundays, instead of spending her time wrapped up in interviews and photo shoots. But sometimes, things don’t always go as planned—like today. “I was gonna go see a movie by myself. Then I walked outside, and my tire was flat,” she laughs. Instead of taking her black Volvo, she manned a fifteen-passenger tour van to the bar. Not too shabby of a bargain considering that among her moments of inspiration, driving happens to be one of them. We look at each other for a moment before she breaks the ice and jokes, “We are so dark today!” She hesitates, “If you’re in a transitional period, you don’t know how to talk about it. I mean, everybody knows there’s a reason they’re doing something. I just don’t know what it is yet. And today the thought was, ‘Somebody tell me what is my weirdo destiny?’” she laughs, inter-

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rupted by, “Ladies, y’all doin’ okay?”

DRINK 2 She might not know—this is why Caitlin writes songs. It’s her way of investigating the bigger questions in life, the uncertainties, the feelings that she can’t quite verbalize, admitting, “Conversation, I’m shitty at. But in songs, I think I do alright.” She lights another cigarette. “That’s artistry—not being afraid of taking that leap into truth.” So she puts it all in a song, a very pretty song. In “Pink Champagne,” she invites her love to toast, the melody and lyrics bringing to mind the highs of love, like Deana Carter’s “Strawberry Wine.” And just like Carter’s song remains a karaoke favorite, I predict that many of Caitlin’s songs will be heard for years to come. She continues to position herself, perhaps unknowingly, as one of Nashville’s frontrunners of the music scene. I could sit here and preach that she is bringing back real country music and putting a good name on it, but I don’t really have to. Her music is self-explanatory. It’s real, because she’s real—there’s no image to uphold. What Caitlin is, Caitlin does. But making pretty music doesn’t come as naturally as it sounds. “When nothing pretty is coming out,” she says, ”I read a book, turn on the TV (which is broken, thank god), or I pick up some poetry. “Right now, I’m reading Fernando Pessoa. It’s pretty dismal, so maybe I need to find something else,” she jokes. Dismal is something Caitlin can identify with. She was born in Dallas, and grew up in Franklin, Tennessee—a mid-sized town about twenty minutes south of Nashville—in the land of rolling hills, Civil War history, and raging conservatism. “It’s kind of a boring little place. So you do drugs or do really well in school, or you find something else to do,” she remembers. In a place where she felt like she never really fit

in, she admits, “Music was my something else to find some kind of purpose.” “I think it’s all about having one thing that you’re good at and knowing how to hone it on your own. I’m not much of a seeker of help. I have always been very self-contained.” It would seem ironic that she would find comfort in performing in front of people, but Caitlin admits, “The stage was where I really figured out how to interact with people.” Up until this point, interestingly enough, Caitlin wasn’t much of a singer. Instead, she preferred drawing. But you could say expressing herself through music was in her blood. Her parents are longtime country-music-industry insiders—her dad, Johnny B. Rose, songwriter and exec; her mom, Liz Rose, Grammyaward winning songwriter (with T. Swift). But when Caitlin started dabbling in music, it wasn’t with country. In fact, she went as far away from country as you could get—punk. Maybe it had something to do with teenage angst and feeling out of place in Franklin. But at sixteen, something inside her wanted out. “It was sort of compulsive—it was never the singing into the hairbrush, born to be a superstar thing. It was a way to tell secrets, or it was some form of self-deprecation. She continues, “I wasn’t that great at expressing myself or talking through things. But I got pretty good at explaining how I felt in songs.” I imagine Caitlin rocking pink hair, a black cut-off concert tee, and a f*ck-theworld attitude, but I’m still finding it a bit difficult to hear her soft vocals and sweet demeanor fronting a punk band. Noticing my perplexity, she interrupts, “I liked how many words they could put in a song, and I was really into the anti-folk thing.” As an awkward seventeen year old, she remembers never wanting to play at coffee shops or be taken seriously—she

"THE OTHER DAY, I

ALMOST

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SCISSORS

TO MY

HAIR."

CAITLIN ROSE: thecaitlinrose.com Follow on Twitter @TheCaitlinRose

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preferred making people laugh. For her, telling jokes and playing songs really, really fast was a way of hiding behind something, so she didn’t feel so vulnerable in front of people. “I just wanted to get up in a punk club where everything was irreverent and not get yelled at. Or if I did get yelled at, not care.” She looks up with a smirk, “Like some drunk guy in the back yelling—,” she then deepens her voice with a musty Southern accent, ‘Show us your legs again!’” At the time, Caitlin was opening for local acts like Cowboy Dynamite and The Pink Spiders. When I ask her what she plays, she answers, “Guitar.” Then she laughs, “Not very well. I wrote before I sang. I enjoy rhyming.” But even though she loves poetry, she admits, “It was always really hard for me to write it because I’m so literal. It’s hard to write anything honest. I’ve never had confidence in something I wrote.” Eventually, making everything out to be a joke got old, boring, and stale. And Caitlin was getting older and becoming more comfortable in her skin—marking the beginning stages of her first full-length album, Own Side Now. She had a realization—“It’s not that I wanted people to take me seriously. I wanted to take something seriously.” The bartender magically appears. “Y’all ’bout ready for another round?”

DRINK 3 It’s obvious that she has been heavily influenced by her parents, especially in the way of taste. So I ask her what it was like growing up in her home. “We used to listen to the radio station Old-

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"THE STAGE WAS WHERE I REALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO INTERACT WITH PEOPLE."

ies 96.3,” she jingles the tune. Among the classics was a lot of country, ’70s pop, Michael Jackson, and Linda Ronstadt. Caitlin remembers digging through her mom’s record collection when she was sixteen, “There were some of the strangest records in there. But I also listened to J-pop in middle school, so you never really knew what was going to come next. Thankfully, my parents’ eclectic tastes rubbed off on me.” My next question follows, “Do you write with your parents?” She replies, “I have. Well, I don’t think I’ve ever written with my dad.” She describes him as “The type of guy that can write eight songs in one day. He’s so confident about what he does, whereas I’m sitting here wringing my hands wondering what I’m going to write about.” Caitlin admits, “I know you’re supposed to write every day, but I have so much trouble doing that sometimes. Then again, I’ll write a record for a month straight.” When it comes to writing, Caitlin sides more with her mom, who is one of Nashville’s most successful country songwriters, with sixteen songs for Taylor Swift and a 2010 Grammy award. She remembers late nights with her mom. “All of her female writer friends would come over, drink wine, and bitch,” she laughs. Not before long, Caitlin would join the party, soon turning into one-on-one writing sessions. “We wrote a song a couple years ago called “Letters from Prison,” about some old boyfriend who wrote my mom letters while he was in prison.” She takes in some air and goes into the song under her breath, though the sound of clinking beers and boisterous laughter crowd her voice. “Are you still wearing those rings that I gave to you / So many promises / Never could see them through.” Her eyes light up as she goes back to this moment. “I would say a line, then she would say a line, finishing each other’s rhymes.” Since this experience, they’ve collaborated a few times, always coming out with a good song, Caitlin says, because they are honest with each other. “If she says something I don’t like, I tell her. And vice versa,” she explains. “We really should do it more.” “Were you ever scared to show your music to your

TRIM

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parents, for fear of them judging it?” “The only thing I’m ever scared of is whether or not my mom can see through something, because she always can.” So being honest in her songwriting is high on Caitlin’s list. To feel contrived, as she explains it, “feels like kicking and screaming.” She continues, “If you’re doing something creative, you might as well be honest. I don’t want to fake people out. I think as an artist, people are scrambling to have an image. But that’s not me.” The bartender interrupts us on her way back to the kitchen. I return to my train of thought, “How do you keep that honesty?” She laughs, “By having really complex emotions.”

DRINK 4 All of a sudden, Caitlin looks down at her phone, smiling as it lights up. “It’s Tristen. We were supposed to work

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on a song today that we wrote a few months ago.” Now, I feel like a total jerk for interrupting this musical baby making of sorts. But this spurs a passionate response from Caitlin about the role of females in music. “I think women bust through the gates every once in a while.” She speaks with equal parts grace and ferocity about some of her biggest influences, like Loretta and Patsy and Linda. “They come in, and you can’t keep them out,” she continues. Noticeably frustrated, her voice rises over the Golden Girls’ theme song playing in the background. “I read somewhere that only nine percent of artists playing festivals are female. It’s

still that low? I don’t understand it— right now, women are at the forefront of music.” Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s the drunken crew of pool sharks behind us, or maybe it’s the fact that two very outward feminists are egging each other on, but we’re practically yelling (in the friendliest of ways) as we swoon about Music City’s impressive cast of leading females. We go on about Tristen, Odessa Rose, Nikki Lane, Natalie Prass, Ruby Amanfu, and Karen Elson. Caitlin sighs, “I’m not in this alone. I feel uplifted once I realize how many women are here pursuing their dreams. It’s always been a man’s game, but mu-

"MUSIC

NEEDS A

WOMAN’S PERSPEC-

TIVE."

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sic needs that perspective.” She stops for a moment, frozen in thought. “Music needs a woman’s perspective.” Perhaps she doesn’t give herself enough credit, but it’s her perspective that continues to push her beyond Nashville and right along with the rest of the city’s leading ladies. She’s about to embark on another tour—this month, she’ll be performing in Chicago before returning home to take on The Ryman with Jason Isbell on August 17. Then, she’ll play at UK’s End of the Road and No. 6 Festivals in September, as well as Nashville’s Americana Music Showcase the same month. Needless to say, she’ll be on the road for nearly the rest of the year, though she won’t begin working on a new album until 2014. It’s been almost four hours, and it’s about time for us to say our goodbyes. As I get up from my seat, my ass plastered to the vinyl, we look at each other. Before, we weren’t feeling it—now, we’re definitely feeling something.

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THE MIND BEHIND THE MOUNT

WITH OVER THIRTY YEARS OF PUBLISHING EXPERTISE,PARNASSUS BOOKS CO-OWNER KAREN HAYES IS QUIETLY REVIVING THE DYING ART OF THE INDEPENDENT BOOKSTORE

by justin barisich | photography by andrea behrends # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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In a functional relationship, there’s always a balance. The computer geek pairs up with the athlete. The health nut takes in the human vacuum. The outgoing and the reserved find peace in each other. It’s this same sort of symbiosis that defines the success of Ann Patchett and Karen Hayes. They each operate in their own arenas, using their distinct talents and connections to hold up Parnassus Books—the mountain of literature they call their bookstore.

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Many literary devotees already know about Ann. As an award-winning novelist, she’s more or less the spokeswoman who handles interactions with the public and press—including The New York Times, NPR, BBC, and even The Colbert Report. But not everyone is familiar with the subtler half of the Parnassus duo—Karen, the mind behind the mount. I’m not much of an impulse buyer, but I’ve always had a soft spot for picking up a sleek new book. Such was the case the first time I visited Parnassus in January 2012, less than two months after the bookstore opened its doors. I wanted to inspect this little haven of wisdom nestled within a huge commercial center. As I stood with John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars in my hands—hemming and hawing—an employee came over to chat about the book. After few minutes of friendly conversation, I realized this wasn’t just another chain bookstore with a built-in Starbucks. It took me a year to finally extract John Green’s masterpiece from my dusty stack of uncracked novels and nearly as long to return to Parnassus. I was lucky enough to grab a seat at the store’s World Book Night—a chat and book signing with James Patterson and Ann. That’s when I first met Karen, at least in person. I had unknowingly encountered a large part of her presence from my first visit—most of the design, feel, and stock of the bookstore reflect her personality and decades of experience in publishing.

The next day, I open the glass door, giving way to a cool, mid-morning breeze, and am welcomed by a hesitant, yet vibrant Karen. “Welcome to Parnassus. Sorry, the AC’s broken,” she apologizes. She’s dressed simply and comfortably, wearing a floral blouse, navy pants, and a pair of closed-toed shoes. Her grey hair is pulled back in a ponytail. We are promptly joined by Niki Castle, Parnassus’ Events and Marketing Manager. I get the sense that Karen is a bit shy, but Niki’s presence makes her feel at home. We sink into a trio of loveseats next to a rich brown piano that Karen tells me was a donation. Although she admits she doesn’t know how to play, securing the instrument was high on her priority list when furnishing the store. She begins, “I’m pretty basic—I love nature, I love

"IT’S THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU WHO INFLUENCE YOUR READING."

to travel, and I love music,” so it comes as no surprise that Parnassus hosts local musicians to accompany live readings. Throughout our conversation, Karen repeatedly stresses that Parnassus couldn’t and wouldn’t exist without her dedicated staff. But with a little prompting, she eventually crafts the narrative of her own life up to this point. Karen’s mother comes from Minnesota, her father from Connecticut, and they met in Alaska, where Karen was born. The family moved to seven different states across the U.S. because of her father’s job before finally ending up in Nashville when Karen was twelve. “We just loved it so much here that we decided to stay,” she explains. Understanding that reading habits usually develop during childhood, Karen shares her introduction to reading. “My parents weren’t big readers, but my older sister read all the time. I don’t know how she ever got turned on to it, but she was voracious.” She continues, “It’s the people around you who influence your reading, and I inherited all the books she ever finished.” She goes on to describe some of her favorite reads. “I started with science fiction—especially anything by Ray Bradbury. He just made me fall in love with

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"I DON’T THINK I WOULD HAVE SUCCEEDED ON MY OWN. I WAS LUCKY IN A LOT OF WAYS."

PARNASSUS BOOKS: Parnassusbooks.net. Follow on Twitter @ParnassusBooks1

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reading, particularly with his collection of short stories, The October Country. It was a hardcover that I had for many years, but I lived in a place that caught on fire, and it got completely waterlogged.” Judging from the reverence and adoration she feels for the loss of her first hardback breakup, it’s clear that Karen’s passion for books runs deep. Karen gives me the abbreviated version of her thirty-three-year (and counting) love affair with books, Karen narrates, “I fell into the book business by accident in ’78. I got a position in telephone

sales at Ingram Book Company, the largest distributor in the U.S., and I was there for twelve years.” But after spending her twenties learning the ropes at Ingram, Karen longed for a change of pace. At thirty-two, Karen packed up her things and moved to Italy. She stayed for a year and a half working as an au pair for a family who had homes in Milan, Rome, and the island of Elba. Karen tells me, “Just finding out how other people live is an eye-opener. It definitely broadens your horizons and makes you realize just how lucky we are here.” Karen, however, always knew her Italian life wouldn’t last forever. Nashville was always calling her back home. After taking a step away to clear her mind, Karen was glad to find that Nashville’s publishing industry welcomed her with open arms. “I started working for a publisher—HarperCollins first, and Random House shortly after. I was a sales rep to Southeastern independent bookstores for seventeen years.” Niki interjects, telling me about the time Karen met Barack Obama shortly after Random House published his Dreams of My Father.

Karen smiles at Niki, picking up where she left off. “Calling on the quirky lot of independent bookstores was a wonderful job, but I had to expand my territory because the remaining booksellers were getting older, and more stores were dying out.” When Davis-Kidd Booksellers announced its closing at the end of 2010, the Nashville Public Library hosted community meetings to spearhead another independent bookstore to take its place. It was attending these meetings that gave Karen the idea to open her own store. “But I realized it would be hard to survive without a salary to support me during the time it would take to launch a bookstore,” she admits. When Random House gave all employees over fifty the option of early retirement in 2011, she recalls thinking, “That’s my sign. I’ve got my salary through the first year.” She took the offer, and soon after, began discussing the now feasible idea with everyone she could, including Mary Grey James, who just so happened to be close friends with Ann Patchett. Karen describes how they met. “We sat down to lunch with Mary Grey, and I laid out my business plan. I told Ann that I wanted to run a co-op, and I was looking for people to help me raise funds.” She continues, “Ann said, ‘You know, I really like your plan, except for the co-op idea. Why don’t we just do it ourselves?’” So they became partners. Karen gratefully reminisces, “I don’t think I would have succeeded on my own. I was lucky in a lot of ways.” Especially lucky to find a famous author during a time when print was considered a dying breed. Even though an award-winning author like Ann attracts mainstream audiences, Karen emphasizes Parnassus’ mission as an independent, small business. “We’re not making a huge store that will be everything to everybody. It just has to be something to somebody. The people who work here really love books. They could be making more money doing something else, but they choose to work here.” The local literary community has since rallied behind Karen’s dream as well. In its short eighteen-month existence, Parnassus has already teamed up with Salon@615, Nashville Public Library, Public Library Foundation, Humanities Tennessee, BookPage, Southern Festival of Books, Belmont University, and multiple schools. Through these collabora-

CALL US TO FIND OUT ABOUT BOOKING A PRIVATE EVENT

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books

nashville

This month, come see: James Rollins, Neil Gaiman, John Hunter, Susan Crandall & Karen White, Alex Bledsoe, J. Courtney Sullivan, Michael Harvey, JD DuPuy & Mary Laura Philpott, and Kevin West.

"WE’RE NOT MAKING A HUGE STORE THAT WILL BE EVERYTHING TO EVERYBODY. IT JUST HAS TO BE SOMETHING TO SOMEBODY." tions, Karen eagerly notes, “This last year has been the best as far as the caliber of writers that have come to town. I don’t think Nashville’s ever seen anything like it”— including David Sedaris, Al Gore, Michael Chabon, Barbara Kingsolver, and Colin Powell. Reflecting on nearly two years of Parnassus, Karen shares how she’s come full circle in her journey. “I’ve gone through several stages in my career, and Parnassus is the culmination of all my decades of experience.” So as Ann acts as the face of the mountain for the press, Karen willingly remains reserved in its shadow. All the while, she’s quietly building community support that will sustain its growth and prosperity for ages to come, letting it stand strong long after the limelight has faded. Like the spine of a hardback, Karen Hayes keeps the pages of Parnassus Books intact.

Stop by for Authors at Cheekwood, Parnassus Book Club, and Jazz by the Book! ParnassusBooks.net 3900 Hillsboro Pike Nashville, TN 37215 615.953.2243 66 / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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B O U N D F O R BOHEMIA ARTIST-MUSICIAN AARON MARTIN GREW UP IN A PLACE WITH MORE CONFEDERATE FLAGS THAN CREATIVE OUTLETS. NOW HE DIVIDES HIS TIME IN NASHVILLE BETWEEN PRECISE PENWORK AND JUNGLE-GROOVE ROCK

by rick jervis | photography by jessie holloway

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“This is Little Brother,” Aaron Martin tells me, as a Colombian Red-Tailed Boa wraps itself around his neck. Sprawled on

in the world he has created, one where weird animal appendages. I thought clocks hands don't move—serving as that was payback. She ended up secretly ornaments rather than indicators of the collecting them.” This early sense of creativity exact hour, minute, and second. There’s manifested itself into rebellion. There his bed, he invites me to join him for a no time here, or cable. But Aaron hasn’t always lived in was friction between Aaron and his dad, spliff. I slip off my shoes and take in the captivating atmosphere of his 12South Bohemia. He grew up in Monterey, a an ex-Navy disciplinarian, who wasn’t attic apartment. The walls are covered small Bible Belt town right outside of keen on the idea of his son partying in sketches, framed artwork, and graffiti. Cookeville. “There’s not even a hospital and coming home late. Aaron found Christmas lights glow overhead, and there, but that’s where we got our roots,” his authoritative parenting style a bit unwarranted, considering Mr. Martin Tame Impala’s Innerspeaker resonates in he says. He’s been drawing since he could was always traveling for business and the background, forming the psychedelic world that the twenty-three-year-old hold a pencil. But even as a child, art was often not home for weeks at a time. was more of a creative outlet than an “I didn’t want him to argue with me about artist-musician inhabits. Smoke spirals upward, and while lying act of youthful boredom. He tells me his shit when I hadn’t seen him in a month,” on our backs, we study the tapestries first memory of drawing was something he explains. Needless to say, Aaron wanted out of pinned to the ceiling. With his long, called “mommy monsters.” He explains, disheveled hair and slightly unkempt “I just started drawing them to get back at Monterey. In high school, he would often appearance, Aaron is perfectly at home my mom—beaks and hooves and wings, steal his parents’ car in the middle of

OPPOSITE PAGE: Aaron contributed this original pen and ink self portrait for this feature. It can be purchased by contacting him at thealtaredstates@gmail.com

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the night and sneak away to Nashville. homework. It was also during this time that his Eventually, he moved to the closest hub of civilization—Cookeville—to live with his dad got sick with cancer. Aaron recalls, girlfriend before graduating high school. “When I found out he was sick, I didn’t Quickly, he found a group of friends really go home for three months. It that embraced his creative tendencies. wasn’t really something I could accept “We had our own little counterculture yet. Tech wasn’t working out, so he said if I got into art school, he’d pay for it.” movement,” he remembers. The move Two weeks later, Aaron did just also improved Aaron’s relationship with his father. “As soon as I moved out when that. He was accepted at Watkins on a I was seventeen, everything changed. We non-merit scholarship and moved to Nashville four months after his father became best friends.” He would stay in Cookeville for died. But Aaron and school don’t jive. another three years, pursuing a degree in Even art school. He couldn’t adhere to engineering at Tennessee Tech—a path the deadlines, so he was put on academic strongly pushed by his father. But Aaron, probation and never returned. true to his rebellious nature, wasn’t the best student. Art weighed higher on his list of priorities than engineering

Aaron has remained in Nashville ever since, working feverishly with pen and ink. As we walk through his apartment, he shows me some of his archetypical black ink drawings. “I don’t think color is necessary in making good art,” he explains. “I want people to be affected by patterns and line composition. Aesthetics evoke a lot of emotion, and I try to create a certain kind of movement in my work, relying mostly on lines. There are enough artists using color, and I’m okay avoiding it.” Aside from penwork, he also paints and does digital collage and street art. He’s done two murals for East Nashville Underground and is currently working on finding locations for this type of outlet. He begins, “It’s hard to

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Aaron Martin: altarstatedaily.tumblr.com

find people who want giant, psychedelic artwork on their buildings, especially in Tennessee. Here, that’s hard to do without a positive message or tie-in with Nashville’s history.” Clearly, Aaron’s not the type of artist that you would find in a gallery proclaiming an artist statement. “My artist statement is actually a picture of me and my best friend taking a shit. ’Cause I don’t give two shits about artist statements. Talking about it perverts the whole thing.” As of late, his main gig is album art. “I like seeing if a band or musician has accurately represented something— that’s what I try to do. If I hear something calm, I might draw wavy lines. If it’s choppy, that’s when I’m working with really harsh contrast.” The night he moved to Nashville, Aaron’s only friend in his new city invited him to a party where he met the group of friends that he still runs with today. From there, he started doing house party flyers

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and eventually moved to band posters. He’s even joined an art collective with several local artists called The Creek Orthodox Indians for Christ. It’s been a non-stop party ever since. He started doing party promotion, threw a fundraiser at his house (where TORRES played), and a girl in India who had cancer. The party had twenty different artists bring prints and he also contributed a piece. “It was a three-eyed leopard,” Aaron interjects. Jaan and Ryan from local jungle-groove-rock outfit Sol Cat saw the print and wanted Aaron to do art for the band. “So I did the album

and t-shirts.” And when they needed a bassist, they were in luck. Aaron had been playing guitar since he was fourteen, so the transition to bass was an easy one. He’s been playing with Sol Cat ever since. Along with playing music, he has done everything from drum heads and poster design to album covers for numerous local bands including Night Beds, Gunther Doug, The Inscape, The Weeks, Vitek, Alanna Royale, The Kingston Springs, TORRES, Ranch Ghost, Birdcloud, Hellbender, and various others. Between performing with Sol Cat and creating art for other local acts, Aaron

"MY ARTIST STATEMENT IS ACTUALLY A PICTURE OF ME AND MY BEST FRIEND TAKING A SHIT."

stays busy, which can be attributed to his strong sense of motivation. “I’ve always seen motivation as the dead bird—the albatross hung around my neck—and it’s beginning to smell and rot. I’m just trying to appease the powers inside me, so I can get it off.” This is inspired by death— particularly the death of his dad. “I like to think that I’ll probably die when I’m fifty. I’m 23, so I’m almost halfway there. My grandpa was this epic ass dude and so was my dad. I feel like if I don’t keep busting my ass, my dad would be really pissed off at me. And then I’ll be really pissed off at me.” In the next room, the music stops playing. Aaron flips the record and gently drops the needle, almost reverently. I join him in the lounge—a small room with a record player, speakers, three couches, and a wooden coffee table (most likely a Goodwill find). He lies down on the floor, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head. There is a maroon streak of paint extending from one wall to the next, the ceiling bare except for that single line of color. “I started to paint, obviously, but never finished,” he laughs. “When I was painting, I stopped and looked up, and that line seemed like a crack opening into space, so I kept it. I don’t know where it will go next.” He sits up and proceeds to roll another spliff that we share. Aaron’s workspace is situated in the main room of his home. There are two desks lined against the wall, both covered in sketches in various stages of development. There are rulers, hundreds of pens and Sharpies, and a light table for tracing and fine detail work. He invites me to browse his work, and after spending only a few minutes exploring, I see an artist who has steadily and markedly improved, his technique further and further refined. There is sometimes painstaking detail in his pieces which is undoubtedly the product

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of hours spent hunched over tables at coffee shops. I ask Aaron about the meaning behind his work. This line of thought sparks a passionate response. “Art shouldn’t say

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"AS SOON AS YOU HAVE INTENT, YOU LOSE HONESTY." anything intentionally,” he begins in an animated fashion. “I think it should be a free-flowing personal commentary on the subconscious. As soon as you have intent, you lose honesty.” I scribble down a few notes as several minutes pass, silently. Abruptly, Aaron picks up the thread. “You ask me, ‘Why do I make art?’ Because I have to.” We talk for a while longer, listen to records, and have another smoke. It’s time for me to go, and as I make my way down the exterior staircase, I look back through the window to see the Christmas lights shining from the ceiling. There is a lone tree in the front yard, a light breeze, and a Mac DeMarco record plays in the background. It’s back into the real world, where Colombian Red-Tailed Boas don’t scale arms, smoke doesn’t spiral alongside conversations, and clocks aren’t frozen in time. I’m already missing Bohemia.

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3. SHELBY STREET BRIDGE:

10. SHERIFF’S OFFICE:

One of the longest pedestrian bridges in the world

Two-time Olympian Shaun White made a visit here after drunkenly pulling the fire alarm at Loews last September

5. AT&T (BATMAN) BUILDING:

The tallest building in the state

13. FORMER REGIONS CENTER:

In 1971, the remains of a saber-toothed tiger were discovered during the property’s excavation (Go Preds!)

7. STAHLMAN BUILDING:

Built in 1907 by newspaper publisher Edward Stahlman. It was the first in Nashville to have modern elevators

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1. THE ENCORE: Has a new coffee shop that becomes a bar at night

11. L&C BUILDING:

Nashville’s first skyscraper. Its sign used to serve as a weather beacon and changed color with the forecast

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2. THE PINNACLE BUILDING:

Features a one-acre “green roof” terrace on top of its parking garage

12. HOTEL INDIGO:

Comprised of two historic buildings— American Trust and Nashville Trust

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4. BAKER DONELSON:

Donelson’s relative was the founder of Fort Nashborough (aka Nashville)

14. SUNTRUST:

Home to the historic Maxwell House Hotel until it was destroyed by a fire on Christmas Day in 1961

6. AA BIRCH JUSTICE COMPLEX:

Named for the first African American Chief Justice of the Tennessee Supreme Court

15. FIFTH THIRD CENTER:

Formerly a Masonic Hall and served as a hospital supply store during the Civil War

8. ONE NASHVILLE PLACE (AKA R2D2):

Regions Bank's sign is the skyline's newest addition

16. BANK OF AMERICA PLAZA:

Changed its window tint from red to blue in 2002, costing $5 million

9. METRO COURTHOUSE:

Nashville has the third largest city council after NYC and Chicago

17. DOUBLETREE HOTEL: Gladly gives away awesome cookies by Otis Spunkmeyer

21. THE ANDREW JACKSON STATE OFFICE BUILDING:

Head architect Crabtree wrote an architectural column for the nowdefunct Nashville Banner newspaper

27. DAVY CROCKETT TOWER:

Crockett attended school for four days. After kicking the class bullyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ass, he ran away and began wandering as an aspiring woodsman

22. NASHVILLE MUNICIPAL AUDITORIUM:

Only Nashville venue to ever host Michael Jackson

24. NEUHOFF BUILDING:

When the building was renovated in 1998, owners discovered an acupuncturist, a marijuana farmer, and homeless people living there

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NASHVILLE SKYLINE ILLUSTRATION COURTESY OF ANDERSON DESIGN GROUP

18. CITIZENS PLAZA:

Once upon a time, two reputable state employees were caught fornicating here

19. RENAISSANCE HOTEL:

Thinnest skyscraper in the skyline, and tallest hotel in the state

20. JAMES K. POLK BUILDING:

Totally Tennessee: home to the TN State Museum and TPAC

23. SHERATON:

Originally topped by a rotating rooftop restaurant, now just looks like a spaceship (if you're drunk)

25. TENNESSEE STATE CAPITOL:

Senator Dold Morgan is entombed here

26. WILLIAM R. SNODGRASS TENNESSEE TOWER:

Snodgrass served a total of 22 terms in office as TN's Comptroller of the Treasury

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PRODUCING THE IMPOSSIBLE by j. robert williams | photography by will holland

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MATTHEW PARKER WENT FROM PLAYING WITH HIS DAD’S VHS CAMCORDER TO WALKING THE RED CARPET AT CANNES

Matthew Parker doesn’t shy away from a challenge. With his new film production company, Loveless, he and production partner Carly Hugo take on impossible projects—stories no one has seen before—and transform them into successes. “A lot of the really important stories unfortunately aren’t the ones that translate into big dollars,” Matthew says. “We’re trying to do smart, sustainable independent film.” Lately, this hasn’t been an either-or scenario for the producer, who hopes to keep last year’s momentum going. In a crumpled button-up, cowboy boots, and a two-day-old beard, he sports the uniform of the Nashville man. We’re at his parents’ home in Green Hills where he grew up—formerly the home of Ann Patchett—when I learn that he just returned from Cannes. Though I know he’s a renowned film producer, it’s hard to imagine this guy swigging cocktails with international film glitterati in the Riviera. “The first time I went to Cannes, I was with these French financiers,” he begins, “and they just shook their heads because I kept wearing my suit with these ratty cowboy boots. But I’m from Nashville, so I’m allowed to.” He’s now a veteran of the French festival, lining up more than thirty meetings with filmmakers between screenings. But leaning back in a wicker chair on the screened porch, Matthew is more interested in talking about Nashville than the Riviera. He recently flew in to speak at

the eigth grade graduation of his alma mater— Harding Academy. “I gave a speech about dreaming big and working hard, and the school gave me this plaque thing,” Matthew chuckles. “The kids were probably bored out of their minds.” He speaks in a low, gravelly murmur, implying that his words shouldn’t receive too much attention. But occasionally, he is aware that his words are worth something, and his eyes widen before he lifts his voice and barrels ahead. “Everything’s attainable,” he says. “It’s how bad you want it and how hard you want to work for it.” And he certainly knows something about hard work. Matthew had always been interested in film. As a kid, he remembers playing with his dad’s giant VHS camcorder and waiting in line to see E.T. As precocious fourth graders, he and a friend wrote to The Tennessean, proposing that the paper make them junior film critics. “Unsurprisingly, we never heard back,” he remembers. Though film was on Matthew’s mind, it took the backseat during his young adulthood. In 2000, Matthew and a friend were sharing a flat near Printer’s Alley, spending many nights at Bobby’s Idle Hour, and hitting up the drivethrough at Krystal. He briefly attended college in both Montana and Georgia, but found that “something always got in the way.” He returned to Nashville and worked a landscaping gig while planning his next move. “I had a dream, but I didn’t know how to get there,” he recalls.

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“Finally, my girlfriend at the time said, started working for free and eventually ‘You’re interested in film. You should get got hired. But I was still like, ‘Holy shit, there’s Robert Redford.’” your shit together.’” Following this experience, Matthew So he signed up for a summer film program in New York City to learn the ba- was certain about his career path. “Once sics. When he returned to Nashville, he I realized that the guy behind the curtain discovered that The Last Castle, a movie in The Wizard of Oz was just a tiny man, starring Robert Redford and James Gan- I was like, ‘I can do this.’” He rented a dolfini, was being filmed at a nearby pris- U-Haul and moved back to New York. on. “I called one of my teachers and got “There was no turning back,” he finishes. He deployed his earnest charm and him to fax some bullshit letter saying I was getting school credit as an intern. I reached out to everyone he knew in his

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new city. In a few months, he was supporting himself as a production assistant while interning with producer Gill Holland. “I would show up steaming hungover to read scripts for him.” Despite Matthew’s partying habits, Holland partnered up with the aspiring filmmaker for his new production company, The Group Entertainment. Matthew lived up to Holland’s expectations when the two found themselves stranded on the highway during a massive blizzard

“ONCE I REALIZED THAT THE GUY BEHIND THE CURTAIN IN THE WIZARD OF OZ WAS JUST A TINY MAN, I WAS LIKE, ‘I CAN DO THIS.’” in 2004. While people turned off their cars and went to sleep on the highway, Matthew weaved between the parked cars, driving through the night to get back to work. He continued producing films with The Group Entertainment through 2012, until he started his own production company with long-time colleague Carly Hugo. Matthew and Carly had been working together at The Group for almost ten years before deciding it was time to do things “their way.” So far, their independent venture has been a remarkable success, with both Beasts of the Southern Wild and Bachelorette garnering serious attention in 2012. Matthew’s willingness to take on a challenge seems to have played a pivotal role in the success of Beasts of a Southern Wild. Director Benh Zeitlin had been working on the film for three years but needed someone to put his concept into motion. This is where Matthew came in. “They were trying to do these exceptional things with no money. After I flew down to Louisiana to meet these guys, I made a list of pros and cons—and the cons were alligators, children in water, and things on fire.” Ultimately, Matthew followed his instincts and joined the project. “It was thrilling. I just had to be a part of it.”

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The film struck a chord with its story of self-sufficiency and resilience in the Bathtub (an imaginary bayou town). And soon enough, the movie—which cost $1.8 million—grossed over $12.7 million in the box office. It also took home the Grand Jury Prize for Drama at Sundance, the Camera d’Or at Cannes, and was nominated for four Academy Awards. “It was all pretty surreal and exhausting,” Matthew says. He fondly recalls the night he and his colleagues screened Oprah Winfrey interviewing Zeitlin, lead child actress Quvenzhane Wallis, and supporting actor Dwight Henry. “Apparently, Obama had called Oprah, and said, ‘You’ve got to see this film,’” he narrates. “The

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President of the United States called Oprah about our movie.” Also released in 2012, Bachelorette is a biting comedy about three troubled women who reunite for an old friend’s wedding. Writer and Director Leslye Headland’s script finds humor in the women’s many vices— including drug use, eating disorders, alcoholism, and anonymous sex. Matthew says it was necessary to produce the film through independent means to avoid whitewashing the controversial material. “If they had gone through the big studios, they would have ended up with another Bridesmaids.” Matthew defends tackling taboo subjects, saying, “Cocaine and bulimia—that stuff hap-

pens. And if you can’t acknowledge it, you should probably relax a bit.” The producers negotiated with A-list cast members—Kirsten Dunst, Adam Scott, and Rebel Wilson, convincing them to work for less money upfront in exchange for a chance at a high return. As anticipated, the film was a hit, earning revenue through Video on Demand (VOD) and online streaming services, despite modest returns at the box office. He further explains his role in these projects by using an analogy. “It’s like being the contractor for a house,” he begins. “You find a script, and that’s your basic blueprint. The director is like the architect. The producer has to find some-

“THE PRESIDENT ... CALLED OPRAH ABOUT OUR MOVIE.”

one to pay for the house, oversee the construction, and then try to sell it for more money once it’s finished.” But it took Matthew more than cinematic “contracting” to get to the Academy Awards. He doesn’t just have taste or talent—he has a way with people, too. His partner Carly says it plainly, “When Matt meets someone, he will not give up until he finds a way to personally connect with them. He has this ‘Yes, ma’am’ Southern quality. He sort of wiggles his way into your heart.” She continues, “In an industry where people always try to promote themselves for the money, Matt really only cares about making the movie.” Although Matthew’s production company is based in New York, he prefers to call Nashville home. He recently returned for a tribute to the legendary producer Cowboy Jack Clement at the War Memorial and has also arranged an advanced screening of his latest release, Mother of George (which premiered at Sundance this year) at the Belcourt. “That place is one of the premier cinema houses in the country—they’re showing the best of new independent film.” We begin discussing the future of film, and Matthew predicts, “I think we’re going to see a return to director-driven films—movies with a story, instead of bullshit concept stuff, like Eddie Murphy in space with a talking bear.” Matthew’s near future consists of working with Graydon Carter, the revered editor of Vanity Fair, to produce the HBO documentary about late writer Nora Ephron. He also hopes to make movies in Nashville again. “I’ve always wanted to start a film fund for Tennessee-based movies,” he comments. Matthew is a study in human versatility: he can swoon at a cocktail reception at Cannes, navigate through a blizzard, and stage a flooded village in the Louisiana bayou. There’s nothing that Matthew can’t do—just don’t ask him to take off his cowboy boots.

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by casey smith | photography by heather johns 90 / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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THE ART OF BRA REMOVAL Freya West wears many hats. But on stage with the ladies of Music City Burlesque, you might not see her in much more

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MUSIC CITY BURLESQUE: musiccityburlesque.com Follow on Twitter @musiccityburlesque

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I walk through the backstage doors of Marathon Music Works. But tonight’s scene isn’t full of roadies or security guards—this is my first burlesque show. And I realize I’m in for a wild night. The smell of hairspray and perfume weaves through the air, and I’m greeted by a man who looks like someone’s creepy uncle, complete with a handlebar mustache, skin-tight gym shorts, and tube socks. He introduces himself as King Dado Deluxe, the MC for the show, who will pepper comedic relief between numbers. “Burlesque is pretty much like any other sport, just with more titties,” he chuckles, sipping his drink through a cocktail straw. He stuffs bubble gum in his cheeks, achieving his ’70s baseball coach transformation. There’s nothing quite like being backstage at a burlesque show. Breasts are everywhere, and glitter-adorned ladies welcome me wearing nothing but tiny underwear. This could have been awkward, but I felt an odd sense of comfort among the cleavage—as if I was a sponge on the ocean floor, slowly soaking in my new habitat. Freya West introduces herself wearing nothing but a pair of purple panties. Flaming red hair spirals from her head, and a hand-drawn mustache frames her lips like a curtain. She is already one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. Her milky white skin is sprinkled with intricate tattoo work, and her hourglass frame holds her curves with confidence and poise. To me, she looks like the perfect modern rendition of a classic pinup girl, class and glamour paired with ris-

que short-shorts. Half-naked girls bustle about, sewing on sequins, painting their lips with gloss, and practicing shimmies and thrusts in the hallway. While Freya sloppily decorates a white unitard with black splatter paint, she explains that the mustache she’s wearing is in preparation for a Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas-inspired number she’s performing with Kinetic Kristen. “I like to say that burlesque is lowbrow art for highbrow people,” she tells me. Because it’s the spring showcase, the girls’ numbers include themes like picnics, baseball, and naughty apple pie. Behind the curtain, the girls meticulously put the finishing touches on their acts before taking the stage. Freya appears with an apple pie—the star of her solo number—and tells me she’ll slowly peel off her clothes, take the pie out of the oven, and sit on it. “I’ve just always wanted to do something like this,” she giggles mischievously. She spent the day painting the oven pink and covering it in glitter. As she shows me her elaborate handmade lingerie, I realize the amount of time and passion she puts into her performance. Freya creates her own world each time she takes the stage, and everything from the props to the costumes plays a role in the fantasy.

"BURLESQUE IS PRETTY MUCH LIKE ANY OTHER SPORT, JUST WITH MORE TITTIES."

Regardless of the type of act, there is something incredibly empowering about Freya and her fellow burlesquers. I can only imagine what courage it takes to stand in front of hundreds of people and shake your tatas in a graceful, artistic manner. But as each number transpires before me, I am more and more impressed by each girl’s individuality and passion for expressing her sexuality–as Freya explains, “I’m making a political statement with my body. Being a woman of size means owning your identity, your sexuality, and your self-expression.” She has certainly shared diverse aspects of her sexuality. Her acts range from a science fiction-inspired space girl (complete with ray gun), to a green swamp queen, to a living doll who takes control over her oppressive master and makes him undress. As the show draws to a close, a fire burns in my stomach. Maybe it was the vodka Red Bulls; maybe it was the rush of discovering something new. But all of a sudden, I felt as if I could conquer the world. I mill around, trying to say goodbye, but all the ladies are surrounded by friends, family, and fans. After congratulating Freya on her performance, I leave wanting to know more about this natural-born burlesque diva. Well, obviously she wasn’t always a burlesque dancer, so I’m curious about her transition from average citizen to goddess of seduction. Finally, I get my chance to hear the enchanting tale of Miss Freya West. And as a bonus, she brings fellow temptress and roommate Shanden, aka Shan de Leers.

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HERB WILLIAMS: Visit herbwilliamsart.com and therymergallery.com Watch The Call of the Wild, a short documentary about Herb, at http://vimeo.com/60426348 94 / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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Freya begins, “I have more of a theater background, but I also danced. I was always the fattest girl in the class, but never the worst. Eventually, I got tired of always being put in the back because I didn’t have the right look.” She continues, “As women, we need a safe place to express our sexuality without being vilified for it. These girls tell me that people call them sluts or whores, but burlesque is a perfectly natural human experience.” Its appeal lies in the fact that it is so realistic. We’re conditioned to think that beautiful people are thin, tan, and flawless. But burlesque is about celebrating women’s curves and using them to enhance the drama of motion. Shan de Leers recalls how burlesque helped her reclaim her power and create a better body image. After seeing a performance when she was living in D.C., she realized how approachable it was. “I was like, ‘Those girls look like my friends. Those girls look like me!’” Changing someone’s perception of female sexuality is what Shan de Leers finds most rewarding. “I’m not looking for validation, but it’s nice to be able to get up there and say, ‘This is my body, and I own it. I’m throwing it in your face, and you’re gonna like it.’” While living in Chicago, Freya got her first taste of burlesque— even though she wasn’t expecting it. She was working a desk job and exercised at a traditional gym, but soon she realized this monotonous routine just wasn’t enough. The then-underage Freya went to Chicago’s Belmont Burlesque Revue, hoping to sneak a drink, and ended up falling in love with the show. She quickly began seeking out dance classes to replace her normal gym routine, unknowingly signing up for a class with one of the most famous burlesque dancers in the world, Michelle L’amour. “It was a workout class where C

CMY

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shaking my jiggly bits was a good thing,” Freya explains. After a year at Studio L’amour, she graduated from the burlesque program. At this time, she and her fiancé were planning to travel to Japan. So in 2009, they returned to Nashville to escape the frigid Midwest for warmer climates and sweeter iced tea, and to save money for the trip. This was when Freya contacted Music City Burlesque. Initially, Freya assumed she would be more of a comedic performer, but after

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her first time dancing with the girls at the “Boolesque” show at the Belcourt, she knew that she was on to something a little more serious. It goes without saying that Freya and her now-husband never went to Japan, and she continued with MCB, progressing from performer to producer and even to burlesque instructor. “When I first joined the troupe, there were sixteen of us, and everyone was in charge of everything, and no one was in charge of anything. So it

was kind of messy,” she recalls. Now there are eight core members: Freya West, Shan de Leers, Lux-O-Matic, Rose Hips, Truvy Trollop, Bebe McQueen, Kinetic Kristen, and Bettie B. Cupp. “Lux, Rose, and I are the three producers of the troupe,” she adds. Freya tells me that each producer uses her particular strengths to her advantage. For example, Lux is really great at batting her eyelashes and fostering audience participation,

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and Rose Hips takes care of production while keeping the ladies looking legit. Meanwhile, Freya handles performer relations and contracts. More than just an astonishing dancer and producer, Freya is also a certified yoga instructor, fire breather, fan dancer, and somehow manages to work full time as a copywriter.

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And to top it off, three years ago, she added entrepreneur and dance instructor to the list—opening her own studio with local burlesque star and MCB regular guest Bianca 13. They named it Delinquent Debutantes. Freya elaborates, “Ladies kept coming up to us after performances saying, ‘I wanna dance like that.’

MCB IS: (left to right) Back Row: Bettie B. Cupp, Truvy Trollop, Lux-OMatic, Shan de Leers, Bebe McQueen, Front Row: Rose Hips, Freya West, Kinetic Kristen

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And there was no outlet here.” Melding her experience as a yoga instructor with Bianca’s years of classical dance, the pair wanted to bring something new to Nashville. This year, Delinquent Debutantes celebrated its third anniversary and now offers a variety of classes where ladies can learn everything from basic burlesque history to proper pasty usage. Some of the girls who started classes with Freya years ago are now dancing with Music City Burlesque, including Shan de Leers and Bettie B. Cupp. I knew these classes were something I had to experience. So a few weeks later, I find myself at the Delinquent Debutantes studio on the corner of Gallatin and Eastland. The only instructions Freya gave me were to bring a pair of high heels and a bra “to practice removals.” Entering the class, I’m impressed with the range of women who have dedicated their Tuesday evening to the study of bump and grind. There are a couple of brunettes with matching Southern accents, and I assume they are mother and daughter. A girl with short, fire truck red hair and colorful tattoos stands in front of me, and a blonde who looks like a member of my mother’s sewing circle is to my right. Freya leads the burlesque equivalent of warm-ups, and as I take my place in the back of the class, she explains the proper technique of boob shaking and hip isolations. Wearing a pair of black-and-white striped booty shorts, she expertly swerves her core without breaking a sweat. I mimic her to the best of my ability, rediscovering muscles that I forgot even existed. This is the final class in a six-week series where the students learn one choreographed dance, including proper glove and bra removal. Towards the end, the class performs in groups of three, and Freya points out how each dancer brings her own flair to the choreography. Watching her students, she says, “Fake it ’til ya make it. If you mess up on one of your moves, but have a smile on your face, most likely, no one will notice.” Freya dims the lights as the class ends, and I change out of my heels and back into my crusty tennis shoes. Leaving the studio, I feel at least seventy-five percent more confident. Not only do I have a new appreciation for my body, but I’ve also perfected the art of one-handed bra removal.

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##NNATATIVE IVENNASH ASHVILLE VILLE

BIENVENIDO ESCONDIDO How a kid from the heartland and a Canadian child actor are fulfilling their desert dreams

by jessica jones | photography by sarah barlow # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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H How do you get Conan O’Brien to wear a giant white sombrero? Ask

Tyler James and Jessica Maros of Escondido. “I just love him,” Jessica beams. It was actually her idea to make the hat as a gift for having them on the show back in late April. Across the front, it spells out, “Escondido <3 Conan”—you can see the talk show host donning the hat on the duo’s Facebook page. I meet the two at Jessica’s home in East Nashville on a sunny Thursday morning. The brown-eyed brunette in a red gingham blouse and high-waisted blue jeans opens the door, juggling a bowl of Cheerios and a cluster of bananas. She flashes a wide smile and welcomes me in. “Tyler’s picking up some coffee and will be here soon,” she says. Her ranch style home is the embodiment of Escondido’s dreamy desert sound. I walk through the hallway, and I’m unconsciously halted by a beautiful display of light. I stand there and stare as it pours in from the windows lining the entire back wall

of the living room. This striking view has only one blemish—a cow skull hanging from the windowsill. Groups of cacti rest on the wooden coffee table in front of sandy white couches decorated with Aztecprinted pillows. Worn maps and paintings of bucking horses adorn the walls. It’s a predictable and charming touch. Tyler arrives, disrupting my view, but not marring it. He fits right in with his suedefringed jacket, dark jeans, and boots. His wavy, long brown hair is nothing I haven’t seen before in Nashville, but his baby face makes me do a double take. He greets me with a handshake and apologizes for his late arrival. “Do people call you Jess?” she asks me. “Not really,” I reply, asking her the same, even though I already know the answer. It’s easy to pick out a Jess when you’re a Jessica. “You can call me Jessica, as well,” Tyler jokes, cutting back into the conversation. Escondido has spent almost half of the

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year in California—touring, playing poolside parties, shooting music videos, performing on Conan, and eating burritos. Lots of burritos. Tyler elaborates, “You eat twice a day, and it’s at a Mexican restaurant at least once. I was like, ‘Of course, I’ll have another burrito.’ Then after the show, the band says, ‘Let’s go to this burrito place.’ Then it’s 3 a.m., and you’re having another one.” Both are relieved to be back in Nashville, and not just because they’re consuming less burritos. “We both have a front yard, backyard, and porch. It’s so much more peaceful here,” Tyler says. I look past him and focus on Jess’s green backyard. It’s clear they’re not in California anymore. Regardless of which place they prefer, their music is a perfect combination of the two. The band is named after a small city in California, but you can hear their Southern roots layered in the music. They released their first full-length album, The Ghost of Escondido, in late February of this year. It was written in two months and recorded in a single day. “Bad Without You” sounds like Dwight Yoakam tripped peyote in the desert, while Jess’s sweeping vocals add a sadness to each track, calling to mind ’90s postpunk band Mazzy Star. It’s funny that these two are making Southwesterninfluenced roots music, considering they both started out nowhere near either region. Tyler grew up in Iowa and biked to school past rows of cornfields— “You know the movie Field of Dreams? That’s exactly what it’s like,” Tyler says. His grandparents were corn farmers, and their town was a total of two miles wide. “It was almost like Friday Night Lights, except with

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basketball,” he says, offering up another cinematic comparison. While Tyler biked through Midwestern cornfields, Jess was skiing in the snowy mountains of Canada. Her parents emigrated from Slovakia to Vancouver— if you can believe it, they came at different times and met by chance. Her mom would pack her school lunches of “Schnitzel and mashed potatoes,” she says, that would make her come home crying, feeling like an outcast. She may have been shy at school, but that didn’t deter her from expressing herself outside the classroom. “I was a child actor,” Jess admits. She spent her free time appearing in commercials, TV shows, and theater. She also sang jazz. So how did these completely different people become Escondido? In Nashville, recording a song, of course. Jess went over to Tyler’s house to record a group vocal for a mutual friend’s Christmas song. A friend kept urging Jess to connect with Tyler, convinced the two would make a good musical fit. “My friend was saying, ‘Play him ‘Rodeo Queen!’ Play him ‘Rodeo Queen!’’ So I started singing,” she shrugs. An impressed Tyler demoed it with her right away, and they left that night with plans to work on more tracks together. As Tyler produced the songs, he discovered he was more dedicated to the project than he was originally. “What I wanted to do for my next solo record fit so well with what she was doing. I was like, ‘Let’s just make this a band,’” he says. It was their similar taste in music that helped Tyler and Jessica bond initially, particularly their love of Spaghetti Western soundtracks. “My dad was a big Clint Eastwood fan. When I’d come home, AFTER he’d always have AMC or Turner Classic on,” Tyler WRITING FOR says. A big inspiration to both is Italian composer, A WHILE, Ennio Morricone, who composed music for THEY’D CLIMB such classics as The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and THROUGH A Quentin Tarantino’s latest, Django Unchained. WINDOW, SIT “That style of music is badass and ballsy in its O N T H E R O O F, simplicity. It captures a certain visual, usually AND DRINK with epic, wide-angle shots,” he illustrates WINE. with his hands.

AEG

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ESCONDIDO: Thebandescondido.com Follow on Twitter and Instagram @ escondidoband 108 / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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July 12 • Harry Connick Jr. July 13 • Barenaked Ladies with Ben Folds Five & Guster

Common interests may have brought them together, but timing helped them form a band. Both were going through transitional periods, and it seemed their paths were destined to cross. Jess’s path has been particularly long and winding. She remembers a pivotal point when she booked an acting gig on a TV show in L.A. She describes her first day, “I walked onto an empty set—the show had gone bankrupt. That’s when I realized my whole life, I was being pushed to sing. So I went back home and started singing in jazz clubs.” She scored her first record deal in college after her vocal teacher submitted one of her tapes to a label. “Two months later, I was signed, and they were flying me out to L.A. and New York. I had no idea what the f*ck I was doing,” her eyes widening. The label eventually flew her to Nashville, where she fell in love with a songwriter. She got married, stopped pursuing music, and tried fashion instead—and she succeeded, dressing stars for the Oscars and CMAs. Prince even wore some of her jewelry. Her relationship with fashion ended five years later, along with her marriage. It was time for music again. This time she found herself among the Music Row crowd, where she felt a little lost.

July 19 • The Black Crowes with Tedeschi Trucks Band August 3 • Old Crow Medicine Show August 18 • OneRepublic September 21 • Alabama Shakes September 27 • Sigur Rós

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"THERE WAS SOMETHING THERE THAT I COULD NEVER EXPLAIN. TYLER GOT IT R I G H T AWAY. I DIDN’T EVEN H AV E T O S AY ANYTHING.”

“I was just bogged down with the Nashville music industry. I didn’t feel like I belonged in that songwriter world.” But little did she know, she would meet Tyler soon. Tyler’s path was more of a straight shot. He came to Nashville right out of high school to study at Belmont. Ten years later, he has emerged as a prominent solo artist. He’s a founding member of Ten Out of Tenn, a touring collective of Nashville artists, and he went on the road with Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros. Tyler’s also worked with artists such as Mat Kearney, Paper Route, Pico vs. Island Trees, and Denison Witmer. In addition, his songs have been heard on MTV’s The Hills and ABC’s Nashville. After ten years as a solo artist, Tyler was looking for a new creative outlet. “When you’re performing alone, people are connected to you personally—they feel like they know you. I’m just so over that. I like the idea of a project that can be whatever I want it to be.” The two found it refreshing to work on something new. They fondly remember the two months they spent writing the album.

Jess would go over to Tyler’s house every day around 10 a.m. After writing for a while, they’d climb through a window, sit on the roof, and drink wine, reflecting on what they’d just written. Jess sits beside me and pauses for a moment as she stares down into her dark, black coffee. Grimacing, she says, “This coffee’s weird. I don’t really like it.” “Well, it was on sale,” he rebuttals. “It’s gross,” she shakes her head. These two bicker. “We’re like an old married couple,” Tyler admits. But don’t get it twisted; they’re not “together.” It feels like they grew up on the same block. And this chemistry is something that Jess felt instantly. She elaborates, “I haven’t really worked with anyone that could bring out what was in my head. There was something there that I could never explain. Tyler got it right away. I didn’t even have to say anything.” They both bring different things to the partnership that make them work as a pair. For example, Jess sucks at Twitter, but Tyler is a natural—though he thinks there’s a point where it can go too far. “If Neil

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AND BOBBY BARE PRODUCER 110 / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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Young ever joins, I’ll probably throw my phone into a lake.” Well, I hate to break it to you, Tyler, so I’ll just tweet it—@neilyoung. Twitter can be cool, though. Like David Lynch cool. Like David Lynch tweeting about you cool. The Twin Peaks mastermind wrote, “Dear Twitter friends, I heard a song I really love called ‘Black Roses’ by the band Escondido. Check it out, and let me know what you think.” Instead of replying, Jess sent him a CD and

a thank you note in the mail. The mention was a little odd, considering they had just shot the video for “Black Roses,” which happened to be inspired by the filmmaker. In the video, Jess sways in front of the Salton Sea (an area surrounded by California desert), singing about the loss of a love. But now, we’re far from the desert and sea—we’re at The Basement, and Jess and Tyler are tuning their instruments. Tyler’s wearing a custom-made Mariachi suit, and Jess

is sporting a matching white-fringed jumpsuit (sewn by Dolly Parton’s seamstress). He teases her about having to wear the same suit every time they perform, threatening to spill red wine on it so he can wear something else. “This is embarrassing. I told her to wear blue,” Tyler jokes. Jess smiles, seemingly unfazed, and moves to the front of the stage. You can tell they’re happy to be home. Bienvenido Escondido.

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lightning strikes

YOU OUGHTA KNOW: THE WILD FEATHERS

FUNFAC T:

KENN Y F* CKIN (AKA ' PO WERS DANN Y MC IS A BRID E) BIG F*CK FAN, IN' SO M A YBE YOU SHOU LD B E, TOO. ..

by wells adams, lightning 100 photo by miriam santos

What’s the old adage? “You’re only as good as the company you keep.” Well, if that’s true, The Wild Feathers might as well be musical royalty. This past year, they opened for Bob Dylan, wrapped up a tour with Ryan Bingham, and they’re about to hit the road with Willie Nelson. Currently, they’re in heavy rotation on Lightning 100, which means they’re spinning as much as Vampire Weekend, The Lone Bellow, Fitz and the Tantrums, Of Monsters and Men, and Jack White. I know, I know. Al Pacino once said never to name drop. But I’ve got one more for you— Warner Bros. Records. As in, this local band is signed to Warner Bros. Records. In other words, they are the next big thing. If you’ve been be-bopping around

the local music scene as long as I have, you’ve undoubtedly come across Ricky Young. His 2008 record, Learn To Steal, is jam-packed full of awesome, and I still spin a grip of tunes from that record on my show. At some point in 2010, Ricky decided not to start a band per se, but more of a four-headed harmonic hydra– The Wild Feathers. I don’t know what kind of ridiculous Nintendo cheat code was used to bring all these musicians together (Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start) but Contra(this is not a typo) to popular belief, you can bring together four lead singers willing to leave their egos at the door all for the sake of musical excellence. Legend has it that Ricky was writing tunes with Joel King just for funzies. They had thrown around the idea of putting a

band together with four big voices—so sonically, the band was only as good as its weakest vocal chord. Ricky brings that smooth folk tone, Joel nails the rock ‘n’ roll rasp, Preston Wimberly fills in that missing country twang with the pedal steel, and lastly, there’s Taylor Burns. Well, Taylor is like Rick FREAKING Danko from The Band. In other words, he sings with every molecule in his body. It’s not just his lungs, diaphragm, vocal chords, and lips singing. Every single particle comes together to form a bluesy growl. You oughta know that The Wild Feathers’ self-titled record will drop on August 6, but you can find a couple free downloads at thewildfeathers.com. And another thing, you oughta see them play Live On The Green this September 12. # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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Overheard @ N A T I V E

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JOE CLEMONS

Music Supervisor / Account Executive

SARAH SHARP Editor-in-Chief

JOSHUA SIRCHIO

Account Executive, Founding Team

KATRINA HARTWIG

Head of Sales / Sponsorships

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ALEX TAPPER

Account Executive

CAYLA MACKEY DAVE PITTMAN Brand Manager, Founder

Brand Director, Founder

ANGELIQUE PITTMAN President, Founder

JON PITTMAN Publisher, Founder

MACKENZIE MOORE

Creative Director, Founding Team

COLIN PIGOTT

Account Executive

HANNAH LOVELL

Art Director

TAYLOR RABOIN

Web Editor, Founding Team

Funny, how musicians always line; you are making Nashville say “thank you” after a show, awesomer and encouraging the when they are the ones that rest of us to do the same. provided us with an awesome Thank you. experience. Well, a musician’s OUR DISTRIBUTION TEAM: You dream come true: the audience are an extension of our core, is naked and we’re the ones and you have really nice core muscles. You deliver our giving thanks. NATIVE is free (we are too, issues by bike—through rain, later tonight), and always tornados & muggy heat. Thank will be. This means, we have you to Dave and RUSH Bicycle Messengers. a lot of people to thank: OUR DISTRIBUTORS: You welcome TO OUR ADVERTISERS: You the sweaty RUSH men with open are truly the patrons of arms and allow us to take over the creative community in a part of your space, for free, Nashville. You believe in us, in the name of giving your the people we write about, customers access to the great and our readers. You focus on people, places, and things so much more than the bottom that are making Nashville a

ELISE LASKO

Managing Editor

better place. OUR CONTRIBUTORS: You make us look really, really ridiculously good looking, and you’re pretty great at putting up with some bossy beezies. You are our eyes and ears of the city, and we are so grateful to have you. YOU! In the words of cofounder Dave Pittman, from our third issue, “We hope you enjoy the stories we’ve found for you, and we hope NATIVE is something you can be proud of. It’s because of people like you (and the people whose stories are printed in these pages) that this is a great place to be.” # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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observatory by Katie Wiley

local fashion/DIY blogger: LeMinimalist le-minimalist.blogspot.com Twitter: @le_minimalist Instagram: @leminimalist

ALEX, 19: I find inspiration on Tumblr. I dress how I feel and try to rock a different style everyday.

BRYANT, 20: Kanye West music videos. He has great style.

KENDRA, 32 DARRON, 28: Feelings inspire how I dress. I’m also a seasonal person, so I tend to dress in colors according to the time of year.

I’m really into Motley Cru. I love flea markets, and I’m always looking for new pins for my jacket.

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animal of the month by Dave Pittman

An interview with Dr. Yoshiro Nakamatsu aka “JJ,” NATIVE office mystery dog.

Bitches love him. Boy dogs want to be him. Half beagle, half lab, 100% handsome. He’s popular around the water cooler and was twice voted “Most Eligible Bachelor of the Week” by the ladies of NATIVE. Aside from his mild substance abuse issues, manic scavenging, and embarrassing sneezing fits, he is the perfect dog—thirty-four pounds of raw, unstoppable charm. He begged his way into our hearts in late December 2012, after hosting a nightly cocktail hour for parasites at a Memphis truck stop. The world was supposed to end that day. It didn’t, and he’s never looked back. Over the past six months, JJ has established himself as a mainstay of the NATIVE office—like the copier. He’s the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave. Though he officially doesn’t have a title (not after what happened with the Nigerian “investors”), no decision is made without his explicit approval. His reputation precedes him, but the details of his life remain a mystery. Who is Dr. Yoshiro Nakamatsu aka JJ really? Where did he come from? What’s he running away from? We dig deeper in this exclusive interview with our dog.

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N: Favorite Motown artist? JJ: The Originals. N: Which ones? JJ: No, that’s what the group was called—The Originals. They did “Down to Love Town.” I sampled it on my first mixtape. N: What’s your favorite color and why? JJ: Gray. What do you mean, color? N: Pepsi or Coke? JJ: Can you snort Pepsi? N: Don’t think so. JJ: Coke. Next question. N: If you were a fruit or vegetable, what would you be? JJ: Bacon. N: That’s not a vegetable. JJ: Fine. Sausage. N: No, that’s not...nevermind. If you had to describe yourself using only three words, what would they be? JJ: Cat. Bacon. Eater. N: Favorite Woody Allen movie? JJ: ALF N: That wasn’t a Woody Allen movie. That wasn’t even a movie. It was a TV show. JJ: He eats cats, right? N: Uhhh...yep. JJ: Yeah, that’s my favorite.

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Voted “Best Pizza” in Nashville!

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