Native | August 2013 | Nashville, TN by Native

august

BLACKBIRDS:

GENTLEMEN’S MOTORBIKE ASSEMBLY

2013

COMING SOON TO

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- COMING SOON THE NEW DEMONBREUN Social Sophistication

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WITH MAESTRO GIANCARLO GUERRERO

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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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AUG 2013

THE GOODS

FEATURES

You don’t have to be an Einstein to understand why everyone’s guzzling Blackstone Brewery’s highgravity beer, Adam Bomb

Tealixir’s Dan and Olivia McCarthy want you to get your buzz on the natural way

BEER FROM HERE

Cocktail of the Month

The Booch Brewmaster

The Apportunist

Ditch the Mai Tais and go for something way mo’ betta— No. 308’s South Pacific

Steven Buhrman, founder and CEO of Wannado, is pouring all of his experiences into one grand idea— right into the palm of your hand

MASTER PLATERS

The Grilled Cheeserie gives you a Pimento Mac and Cheese Melt

All Eyes On Her

Zoe Schlacter conquers the art world one googly-eyed masterpiece at a time

Hey Good Lookin’

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Most people know Joshua Black Wilkins for his photographs. But his perspective goes far beyond a picture

Lightning 100 thinks you oughta know about k.s. Rhoads

Just because you’re not near the beach doesn’t mean you can’t ride some waves

YOU OUGHTA KNOW

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Overheard @ NATIVE

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

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OBSERVATORY

Nashville street style

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Native Animal of the Month

The firefly is Tennessee’s beloved state insect, but do you know how he gets his glow?

CONTENTS

A Dark Storm Rises in Fair Weather

Red Bull Without a Cause

To some, a cherub means a chubby flying infant with a whole lotta blush on. To Nashville, it means electro-poppers Jordan Kelley and Jason Huber

Don’t Call Him Ishmael

In an age when a real mentor is harder to find than a white whale, novelist John Minichillo is reviving the art of inspiration

88 Life Lessons from the Butterfat Boss

There are many ingredients that make up the longstanding success of Bobbie’s Dairy Dip. The most important, owner Sam Huh says, goes beyond burgers and ice cream

54 Blackbirds Fly Local motorbikers the Blackbirds love the open road, but they enjoy helping others more than raising hell

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DEAR NATIVES, To be cool...what does it mean? Is it wearing a deep v and skinny jeans? Is it getting ironic tattoos or the latest First World gadget that you really don’t need? Or is it free sample day at Costco? Though the origins of the word date all the way back to Beowulf, “cool”—like bad, sick, gnarly, righteous—has been part of our daily vernacular for more than sixty years. That’s a lot of time to master the meaning. Each of us has a different idea of what cool is, but there are some things that you just can’t argue with. This issue of NATIVE is devoted to cool in every sense of the word. On the cover, we bring you the Blackbirds: Gentlemen’s Motorbike Assembly, one of Nashville’s most prominent motorcycle “gangs.” But before you bring all those preconceived notions from watching too much Sons of Anarchy, these guys aren’t bad like jailbird bad, they’re bad like Michael Jackson “Bad.” The Blackbirds custom build vintage motorbikes, have been known to partake in some serious off-roading, and welcome everyone to ride with them on Wednesday nights. These gentlemen (and lady) are more like rebels with a cause than hell raisers—too cool for school, if you will. But even they wouldn’t promote such a statement...because nothing’s cooler than kids in school. And that’s not all, folks. The people within these pages possess a quality that you just can’t put your finger on. It’s photographer-musician Joshua Black Wilkins and partyrockin’ electro-pop duo Cherub. It’s Wannado’s big-picture thinker Steven Buhrman and bizartist-blogger Zoe Schlacter. It’s satirical Moby Dick reimaginer John Minichillo all the way down to the science of kombucha brewing and the philosophy behind burgers and ice cream. Pay close attention, because we can all learn a thing or two from these curators of cool. Stay cool, Nashville,

Sarah Sharp Editor-in-Chief

P.S. Our website is live, and it’s pretty cool, too. Visit native.is.

president:

ANGELIQUE PITTMAN JON PITTMAN

publisher: editor-in-chief:

creative director:

SARAH SHARP MACKENZIE MOORE

managing editor: assistant editor:

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:

videographers:

RYAN GREEN ANDREA BEHRENDS DANIELLE ATKINS ABIGAIL BOBO ALLISTER ANN YVE ASSAD JESSIE HOLLOWAY REBECCA ADLER ROTENBERG PIPER RASTELLO ELI MCFADDEN JON KARR KATIE WILEY

interns:

ALEXANDER SUPERTRAMP LILY C. HANSEN JUSTIN BARISICH KATIE WILEY HENRY PILE ANN RAVANOS JULIAN CIANY S.W. LATTA WELLS ADAMS

WAYNE BLAKE POLLARD KRISTIN RINNER

COURTNEY MAULDIN COURTNEY SPENCER MARY-BETH BLANKENSHIP ANGELA CONNERS

music supervisor:

JOE CLEMONS

film supervisor:

CASEY FULLER

brand director:

DAVE PITTMAN

brand manager:

to advertise, contact:

CAYLA MACKEY

for all other enquiries:

BEHIND THE COVER: For the cover this month, photographer and Blackbirds member Yve Assad set off down some dirt roads (gravel and concrete ones, too) to give us a look into what it's like to fly with the 'Birds.

SALES@NATIVE.IS HELLO@NATIVE.IS

*CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, WE’RE NOT PERFECT— TURNS OUT WE MADE BOO BOOS IN THE JULY ISSUE. JESSE MATHISON SHOULD HAVE BEEN CREDITED AS A CO-WRITER FOR THE FEATURE ABOUT AARON MARTIN. AMY SMITH SHOULD HAVE BEEN CREDITED FOR HAIR AND MAKEUP FOR CAITLIN ROSE AND JESSE LEE JONES IN THEIR INTERIOR SPREADS.

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BROUGHT TO YOU BY

ALEXANDER SUPERTRAMP

This beer is explosive—it’s claimed numerous awards around the U.S. and has held its own in blind tests against incumbent national favorites. Without a doubt, Adam Bomb has helped propel Blackstone Brewery to its position as the fastest-growing microbrewery—at a rate of 1,190%. And no, that is not a typo. 1,190%. Pour this amber-orange beauty in a frosty glass and watch the frothy head radiate into a mushroom cloud. Initially, you’ll recognize the bold

citrus flavors common in most IPAs, but the aftertaste has a rugged, piney finish. To push this bitter brew to the limits of the human palette, Blackstone crafted a two-week dry hopping schedule, adding multiple varieties for a sharp but complex flavor. Despite boasting a monster number of eighty-three IBUs (International Bitterness Units), the finish is surprisingly balanced and fruity— you could even say a little sticky. The combination threatens rapid

consumption. While you won’t need to drink this explosive IPA from the comfort of an underground bunker, you will need to head to your local liquor store to pick up a six-pack (thanks to Tennessee and its convenient liquor laws). But careful now, Adam Bomb clocks in at 7.3% ABV (alcohol by volume). If the late summer heat makes you down that whole sixer too quickly, you might proclaim bellicose nonsense: “I am become death; destroyer of worlds!” ₁

1 This is a (weird) quote from scientist Robert Oppenheimer after the first nuclear test, which in turn is a fragment of a line from the ancient Hindu text, The Bhagavad Gita. He was worried that humankind would destroy the world with nuclear bombs. # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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THE BOOCH

BREWMASTER

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Once upon a time, the beer-loving Dan McCarthy thought he wanted to start his own microbrewery. When he and his wife Olivia came to Nashville, they ditched the beer and discovered their knack for the natural buzz

by lily c. hansen | photography by ryan green # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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Dan McCarthy is a beer guy at heartâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a kombucha brewer by trade. The fast-talking Boston native who once aspired to start his own microbrewery is now putting his hops and barley to use in a holistic way. Earlier this year, he and his wife Olivia launched their very own kombucha brewery, Tealixir. Dan is competitive and curiousâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a favorable combination that has both health nuts and happy hour crowds craving his centuries-old recipe. He began dabbling in kombucha when Olivia (not so subtly) encouraged him to find a pastime that would alleviate hangovers rather than induce

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them. “I got really upset having beer around the house all of the time,” says Olivia, rolling her eyes. “I was like, you have got to get another hobby!” “Honestly, all the beer around the house became a little counterproductive,” Dan agrees. “I was introduced to kombucha a couple years ago when my father-in-law bought it on tap at Whole Foods. I thought it was absolutely putrid,” Dan says, shuddering at the volatile taste. “But I researched it and thought, Okay, this brews just like beer. I can come up with something better.” A carbonated, fermented tea chockfull of enzymes, B vitamins, and probiotic flora, kombucha has long been regarded as a miracle beverage. While it remains a fairly new addition to the Western health market, it originated centuries ago in Southeast Asia, later sprawling throughout Russia and Europe. Little research has been done on its medicinal benefits, but regular imbibers cite improved digestion, brain function, and energy as only a handful of reasons they regularly indulge. I’m only a fair-weather kombucha fan, but I’m still interested to learn how this fizzy, squiggly-filled beverage is made. As I park my bike outside the brewery one steamy afternoon, the charismatic and closely-knit Tealixir trio—Dan, Olivia, and twenty-fiveyear-old “MacGyver,” or Director of Operations, Christian St. Holmes— meet me at the door. Any preconceptions of Birkenstock and hemp-wearing hippies are immediately squashed upon arrival—the gang closely resembles models more than granola munchers. Perhaps it’s my many late nights spent carousing at The 5 Spot, but the McCarthys and Christian certainly look healthier than average, their glowing skin and sparkling eyes putting my dark circles and dull complexion to shame. Listening to Dan rattle off statistics and sales pitches, I think, Why not slap these three on a billboard instead of the standard nutritional facts? The couple’s natural gift of gab is

Specialty coffee, tea, and chocolate

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a surefire hint to why their clientele is hooked on Tealixir like a natural dose of heroin. Hanging with the McCarthys is as comfortable as chatting with old friends—except the coffee cups are replaced by kombucha growlers, and we spend our time studying a fermentation tank instead of flipping through old photo albums. Waiting until I’ve downed a Mason jar of Dr. Marigold (a delightful blend of marigold petals, orange peels, and cinnamon), Dan mischievously beckons me over to the 100-gallon brewing tank to view the freaky sci-fi action that births this “life-enhancing juice.” “Come here, I want to show you something. But you might not want to drink anymore afterwards,” Dan jokes. “Have you ever seen a SCOBY? It’s a Symbiotic Community Of Bacteria and Yeast. That jellyfish-looking thing is really nothing but a carrier, and the yeast particles help the fermentation. It’s basically the same concept as beer.” Clearly, this guy has no idea how many

gallons of green sludge I’ve downed in my day. The daughter of a certified herbalist who was always way ahead of the curve, I was already familiar with kombucha. My mother brewed the booch long before you could find it in a variety of tropical flavors in your local grocery store. Bonding over parallel childhoods, where terms like “organic” and “macrobiotic” were dinner-table talk, Olivia explains, “My parents were farm-to-fork way before it was cool, so I’ve always been health conscious and into eating organic.” She continues, “A lot of people aren’t into health because it’s hard, and a lot of the food tastes bland. We really wanted to focus on making our kombucha taste good—something you’d actually want to drink.” Bringing up the skepticism and lack of scientific proof surrounding the brew, the normally soft-spoken Christian St. Holmes chimes in. “It turned my life around. I was always struggling with energy, and once I started drinking it, my

life started getting smoother—from waking up in the morning to getting stuff accomplished. It’s really wild.” The McCarthys met in California while working in the film industry and, despite being incredibly down-to-earth, they certainly have a camera-ready charisma about them. Which makes sense, considering Olivia starred in the Sundance Channel series Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys (an over-the-top drama series about four Nashville women and their gay best friends). And Dan is an IMDBlisted screenwriter and director of Vendetta: No Conscience, No Mercy, starring Daniel Baldwin. Shortly after getting hitched, the couple decided that the dog-eat-dog city wasn’t the best place to raise children, so they relocated to Nashville to be closer to Olivia’s family. Ready for a career change, the couple got their first taste of the natural health industry with global, on-thego food franchise Freshii. The owners of two Nashville Freshii

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(left to right) Christian St. Holmes, Olivia McCarthy, Dan McCarthy

locations, the McCarthys quickly became dissatisfied with the fast-food chain’s subpar quality and shut the doors to open their own place in 2011. Olivia’s Good News Café, located in the former Cool Springs Freshii location, featured an entirely organic, farm-to-table menu. Introducing superfoods like bee pol-

len, wheatgrass, and amino acids, Olivia set out with the intention of schooling Southerners on simple ways to upgrade their health. Shortly after, she put two and two together and called upon Dan’s homebrewing hobby. Tealixir would make for the perfect complement to healthy cuisine. After Olivia added it to

the menu, it became one of her restaurant’s hottest commodities. “They flocked to the restaurant once they knew what it was, but there was a lot of education involved. There were so many people like, kom-buch-a-what?” Dan laughs. “On the flip side, people who’d already had kombucha would say, ‘I don’t

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Working together to get the results you want.

615.500.2748 615.373.4347 ext 22 BT@LiveInNashville.com LiveInNashville.com

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like it. It’s really vinegary.’ And I’d be like, ‘Ours isn’t. Here, try some,’” Dan recalls, thrusting an imaginary glass toward my hand. Strolling into Olivia’s restaurant one serendipitous afternoon, recent college graduate Christian was immediately hired as a line cook. Soon after, he began apprenticing with the brewmaster and would spend countless hours taste testing and participating in Willy Wonka-esque trial-and-error experiments. Christian explains, “We started out doing test batches in five-gallon kegs with flavors like chocolate, blueberry, and apple. There’s definitely something therapeutic about brewing.” In spite of Olivia’s successful yearlong run, the restaurateurs decided to close at the end of 2012 to spend more time with their daughters and streamline their business. With all of the brewing equipment already at their fingertips, the McCarthys decided to give wholesale a shot by opening their first auxiliary outlet, Berry Hill’s Sunflower Cafe. The cafeteria-style restaurant

was scarcely able to keep the draft in stock, proving Tealixir’s success to be more than a one-time fluke. Moving ahead full steam, the couple relocated their business to their current facility this past March, and since then, Tealixir has been snatched up by local favorites such as Frothy Monkey, The Perch, Craft Brewed, Mitchell Deli, and The Filling Station, thanks to Olivia’s publicitysavvy skills. As a former meat and potatoes eater, Dan understands what it’s like to baby step aboard the health bandwagon. The couple uses beer bottles as a packaging model, and the tagline, “Pour Yourself a Healthy Draft,” is intended to minimize Tealixir’s intimidation factor and appeal to a mainstream market. “Craft beer is starting to get a little played out,” explains Olivia. “We’re trying to pioneer craft tea as opposed to some hippie, crunchy alternative drink.” But Tealixir isn’t the only game in town, and the McCarthys understand they have to separate themselves from the masses. By flavoring the organic tea with herbs, spices, and dried fruits (as opposed to other brands which often add sugary fruit juice for flavor), Dan strives to make his kombucha tastier than an IPA or even a soda. The self-described research junkie creates flavors based on ancient herbal traditions. For instance, their Dr. Marigold brew is derived from traditional American folk medicine, and their Amrita Chai is inspired by Indian ayurvedic medicine. Dan and Olivia are determined to keep up their small operation, and they feel it’s important not to oversaturate the market. So, Tealixir currently keeps it simple with only two flavors. But the pair has plans

to release two new flavors, an Asian herbal medicine concoction of ginger, ginseng, and jasmine, and a Native American brew inspired by Christian’s Cherokee background. “You have to be first, best, or different in any industry with your product,” explains Olivia. “We’re not first, but we’re different. Each flavor is derived from a different school of medicine, so we put medicinal herbs into each brew. And it doesn’t have that kick-your-ass kombucha taste.” But the McCarthys are certainly kicking ass. They’ve recently received offers from Whole Foods to carry Tealixir in the Greater Nashville area, and Dan hopes to follow the path of fellow brand, GT’s Synergy and High Country, who have grown from grassroots to mainstays in the kombucha market. A party man at heart with an ad man’s mind, Dan affirms that the notorious hangover cure isn’t only for morning-after benders; it’s also a delicious mixer. He envisions his kombucha as the healthier alternative to a Red Bull and vodka, and he plans to partner with local distilleries and mixologists to create spiked Tealixir cocktails. He elaborates, “When we had the restaurant, one of the guys who had been working for me said, ‘My twenty-two-year-old daughter says vodka and kombucha is all the rage now, and chai is delicious with Captain Morgan or Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka.’” Dan’s spiked Tealixir could be the next cocktail that prevents hangovers—a brilliant oxymoron, and an even more brilliant business strategy. I wrap up our conversation by asking the couple why they continue to guzzle gallons of the brew. Olivia laughs, “I notice mostly digestion. It definitely keeps you regular.” Dan comically adds, “I used to be short and bald, now I have a full head of hair, and I’m tall.” Whether it’s their marketing wizardry, infectious personalities, or good taste in booch, I’m convinced that these two are destined for success. At the very least, I know what I’ll be drinking in the morning.

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WISHING NATIVE A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AND MANY MORE TO COME

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by justin barisich | photography by andrea behrends

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The Apportunist He used to be a linebacker, middle school teacher, political organizer, and philosopher. Now, Steven Buhrman, the founder and CEO of Wannado, is pouring all of his experiences into one grand ideaâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;right

The week I graduated from college was the first time my family came to Nashville. Our motley crew of seven ranged from the underaged to the geriatric and included both a partier and a lounger. Everyone wanted to do something different, and as their host, it suddenly became my job to show them a good time. I quickly realized I was grossly underprepared. I called and texted my friends for advice, and I browsed far too many websites only to throw together a short, last-minute list that was subpar at

into the palm of your hand

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Steven Buhrman, CEO (top left) Tasha Ross, CMO (top right) Katherine Richardson, Community Manager (bottom left) Shawn Chapman, CTO (bottom right) 26 / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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best. Having resorted to keeping the family’s attention by watching DVDs on the sofa of my small apartment, I was disappointed in my failure to find something better to do in such a vibrant city. Two weeks later, I discovered Wannado’s website, and I’ve been keeping my eye (or thumb) on the company ever since. Simply put, Wannado’s new swanky smartphone app helps us all answer that same question posed in its genius name: “What do you wanna do?” In order to accomplish this, the Wannado team has immersed itself in local events and organized all of the information, thus empowering us to access it quickly. I’ve known the big, floating brains behind the app’s design for over a year now, but with the hustle and grind of spawning a new business into existence, I haven’t had a chance to kick back and reflect with Steven Buhrman, Wannado’s busy founder and CEO. And now, with the 2.0 version of the app out the door, he’s able to wax philosophical again. As I enter Steven’s office in Wannado’s headquarters, I’m greeted with a handshake and a smile. Steven’s wearing a turquoise v-neck, slim black jeans, and white canvas shoes—more or less his working entrepreneur “uniform.” He unabashedly shares, “I tend to keep life simple. All of my possessions fit in my car, and I basically wear some combination of the same t-shirt and jeans every day.” The thirty-two year old is a big-picture guy originally from Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. He begins, “I’m the youngest of three brothers—the oldest is an artist-musician in Austin, Texas, and the middle one is an investment director at the University of Notre Dame.” Steven admits, “I probably fall somewhere in between the two.” Knowing this, I take note of the scattered paper scraps with scribbled marketing jargon all over them. Whiteboards affixed to every possible wall are covered in multi-colored lists of local music venues, famous personalities around town, tech lingo, and mock-ups of potential layouts for the next iteration of the eponymous app. Throughout our discussion, it becomes apparent that Steven fits the archetype

of the scattered entrepreneur. He’s always pondering, always observing, and he chooses his words cautiously, as if perpetually searching for some new meaning or connection. Yet, he exudes this strange confidence and can convince anyone of nearly anything. He coolly runs his hands through his coarse, black hair whenever he has to contemplate an answer. His maintained build shows traces of his days at Dartmouth when he was forty pounds heavier and known as a linebacker named “Meat.” After graduating in 2003 with a degree in religious studies, Steven proceeded to take a very circuitous journey, all the while trying on various “shoes” to find the pair that best fit his stride. He first returned home to Florida and taught middle school for two years. He then spent three years earning his Master of Theology from the University of Oxford, writing his dissertation on transformative leadership in American cultural and political movements. He focused mostly on leaders such as John Lennon, Barack Obama, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Steven can’t contain his overflowing respect and appreciation for Dr. King. “His rhetoric and teachings are the most important works to me,” he begins. “I spent a large portion of my time in grad school studying his life and leadership while trying to understand the inner workings and dispositions of a good leader.” Years later, he walked away from his time as Dr. King’s distant understudy with a strong framework for motivating, moving, and improving communities. While finishing up his degree in the fall of 2008, Steven worked as a teaching assistant in the Vanderbilt Philosophy department for a year. This is where he got his first taste of the Nashville vibe, and it left him craving a second helping. After his philosophy stint at Vandy, he felt called into the political ecosystem, where he helped with the Obama campaign. But Steven’s political appetite wasn’t satisfied with only one run—he then spent two years as a campaign organizer and policy director for a U.S. Congress race in Sacramento, California. During this time, he witnessed technology’s ability to inform

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I WAS REFORMULATING MY LIFE AND CONTEMPLATING THAT BIG QUESTION: WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?

Wannado: wannadolocal.com Follow on Twitter @WannadoLocal and download the app

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and direct masses of people out on the campaign trail. Steven took note and began pondering how that same technology could be used to empower communities from within. When the congressional campaign wrapped up with a close loss in November 2010, Steven took a step back to decide his next move. “I was reformulating my life and contemplating that big question: What do you want to do? So, I ended up taking a few months off and developed the idea that would eventually become Wannado.” He continues, “There’s opportunity all around us, but all too often, it’s not visible. And why can’t we see it? Because we’re lacking awareness and intelligence. But, technology has always had a way of making that undisclosed potential more accessible.” And at its core, Wannado would do just that. While still in California, Steven set up a number of meetings with potential investors in Nashville through his close friend and former Oxford classmate, Matt Grimes, who was completing his PhD at Vanderbilt’s Owen School of Business. He explains, “We chose Nashville as our launching ground because it’s very community-centric, arts-driven, and eventsfocused.” And when Steven flew out here to pitch his business proposal, the investors bought into it immediately. Two weeks later, in February 2011, he packed up and moved back to Nashville. As he reflects on Wannado’s humble beginnings, he says, “The whole idea was that everyone, regardless of birthright or class or happenstance, should be able to take advantage of the opportunities around them. So the guiding question for us has always been, ‘How do we help people find what they want?’” Wannado—initially called Kahootzz—was the answer to that question. Touted as “the world’s premier local opportunity engine,” Steven and his team set out to create sophisticated technology that could churn out vast amounts of event data in ways that could sync up with anyone’s personal interests. In his attempt to pull off such an

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ambitious vision, Steven repeatedly drew upon his leadership studies and philosophical roots. “You can be extremely successful in business by aggressively looking out for other people’s interests, and then working together toward common goals,” he says. So, when assembling his team of investors, partners, and employees, Steven aligned his aspirations with theirs. He shares, “I try my best to live my edge, to be clear on what I’m after, and to stay in a place of discomfort pursuing that. It’s sort of a journey of faith—the doors that are going to open are typically not predictable ones.” Steven also admits, “Running Wannado is the most challenging task for me because this is the first time I’ve had so many other people, in a material way, counting on me to deliver.” Summing it up, he adds, “On one hand, you’re convincing them on the opportunity; on the other, you can’t control all the variables.”

Steven, however, has never walked alone on his journey, and the whole process has been easier with the backing of his family, friends, and mentors. In this vein, he speaks glowingly of Wannado’s technical co-founder and CTO, Shawn Chapman—a veteran technologist, program architect, and visionary in his own right, with two successful startups already under his belt. There’s a warm dynamic of mutual trust and respect between Steven and Shawn, though their personalities and abilities couldn’t vary more. While the idealistic, philosophical Steven just keeps cranking out ideas, additions, and changes to the app’s functionality and design, Shawn is more centered and realistic, often tempering Steven’s concepts. Suddenly, Shawn pops into Steven’s office to ask him a quick question, and I’m lucky to get a few words from him. He shares, “One of the inner characteristics of people is that they eventually

realize they want to do something larger than themselves.” And that’s exactly what Steven and the Wannado team aim to do. Wannado’s community partners, such as Hands On Nashville, The Skillery, Nashville Technology Council, and NATIVE are central to fulfilling that company’s vision as it looks to the city’s leading organizations to cultivate and curate all kinds of events. Gratefully acknowledging the value of these partners and the worth of their contributions, Steven admits, “Everyone involved is taking a big leap of faith because they believe in what’s possible for the community. They believe in themselves and know that, if they’re on board, we’ve got a better shot at pulling it off.” Shawn also chimes in on the uniqueness of the venture, saying, “We’d like to say that Wannado brought the community together, because the all-encompassing goal is a hard and overwhelming

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thing to accomplish. But that’s not an unrealistic vision for us to have, given our technology.” As our conversation wraps up, Steven anticipates my next question. “Our startup community in Nashville has been an immensely formative place for what we hope to bring to other cities.” Challenges come with sailing into

unknown territories, building new local teams, and developing new communities from scratch. Steven, however, remains unfazed, “A lot of life can be a street fight, and I’m a pretty good street fighter. I’m willing to sacrifice myself and scrap till it’s over.” Like a true visionary, Steven is prepared to do whatever it takes to carry

out this great responsibility of connecting us to the world of untapped opportunities—one that few of us seem to notice on our own. And with the aid of modern technology, grit, and a new model for community organizing, Steven and his team plan to share this vision with everyone—all from the palm of your hand.

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by No. 308

When Princess Liliuokalani gave up her throne as Queen of the Hawaiian Kingdom, she probably didn’t expect America to hang ten so hard—luaus, limbo, and gettin’ leid. Active volcanoes, pineapples galore, coconut bras, and grass skirts. No shirt, no shoes, no problem, brah—a real-life “gnar gnarnia.” This month, pull out your straw hat and shell necklace, grab the ukelele, and ditch the Mai Tais and Piña Coladas. Go for something way mo’ betta. Say aloha to No. 308’s South Pacific. Refreshing grapefruit and lime juices combined with lychee flavors will let you escape and forget—just for a sweet moment—the disgusting heat rash you’ve contracted from all that summer-sweat chafing. In other words, a moeuhane come true. You can mahalo me later.

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Put all ingredients in a tin and shake. Pour over ice in a highball glass. Garnish with a lychee nut. -Ben Clemons, No. 308

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MASTER PLATERS I know your meemaw’s been makin’ pimento cheese since the Great Depression, but here’s a recipe to rival her signature spread. Despite what you’ve heard, this “Caviar of the South” isn’t just for crackers at the assisted living bingo night. The Grilled Cheeserie is turning this comfort food on its head, combining it with a match made in artery-clogging heaven—mac and cheese and bacon. Their Pimento Mac and Cheese Melt won’t fit in with the finger foods at your Tupperware social. So forget everything you’ve been told about pimento cheese and nom away on this Davidson County delicacy. And maybe you can bring a few to meemaw’s game night, too.

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cayenne pepper hot sauce paprika black pepper, freshly cracked kosher salt garlic, smashed and chopped mayonnaise smoked cheddar, shredded regular cheddar, shredded elbow macaroni, cooked and cooled small roasted bell pepper, diced tomato Benton’s bacon, cooked and diced white bread, buttered generously

DIRECTIONS: FIn a food processor, blend the cayenne, hot sauce, paprika, black pepper, salt, and garlic. Add the mayonnaise, regular cheddar, 1/2 cup smoked cheddar and pulse until combined. FBoil macaroni noodles until cooked, then strain. FPut the mixture in a large bowl and fold in the cooked macaroni and roasted bell

pepper. FHeat a nonstick griddle to 300˚F. FFor each sandwich, layer 1 cup of the mac and cheese, 2 slices tomato, a quarter of the bacon, and 1/4 cup smoked cheddar, all between 2 slices of bread (buttered side out). FGrill on both sides until golden brown. NATI IVVENAS ENASHV HVI ILLLLEE ##NAT

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ALL EYES ON HER

A LOOK INTO THE CREATIVE LIFE OF ZOE SCHLACTER: BLOGGER, ARTIST, AND ALL AROUND GOOGLY EYE-COVERED BADASS

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BY KATIE WILEY | PHOTOGRAPHY BY ABIGAIL BOBO

# NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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I’m overcome with panic as my car sputters and chokes with each winding turn. You’d think that somewhere along these Brentwood backroads there’d be at least one gas station. I’m wondering where people buy beer late at night, but my inner monologue tells me that these fancy folk probably don’t make late-night beer runs. Twenty minutes later, I find myself even deeper in the recesses of rural Brentwood, and now I’m beginning to think that I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. Finally—past a handful of monstrously large homes with pillar upon pillar supporting their monolithic structures—I spot my destination only a few feet away, or so says my GPS. Patting my car’s dash, I thank her for not stranding me out in the middle of nowhere (assuming I’m not the only crazy person who talks to her car). I pull up to a lovely yellow house with a perfectly manicured yard. Taking in a big whiff of air, it’s clear I’m not in Nashville anymore. It actually smells like Earth out here—what air is supposed to smell like. A girl wearing a flower crown and green lipstick peeks at me from behind the big front door of the big yellow house and shouts, “I’m glad you found it!” Flashing a sweet smile, Zoe Schlacter welcomes me in, wearing a sheer dress she says she altered herself after finding it in the pre-teen section of a thrift store. One of her signature flower crowns towers over her head— this one embellished with mini neon green aliens thoughtfully arranged among the flowers. If this girl has crossed your path, you wouldn’t forget it. She wears her green lipstick and flower crowns with the kind of confidence that most women in their thirties couldn’t claim. But Zoe is only fresh out of high school. As she takes me back to her studio, we pass every room, each as brightly painted as the next. Anyone with a lick of sense would gather that this is a house full of creative-minded individuals. By the time we make it to the last room, I feel like I’ve run through a rainbow. To my surprise, the walls of her studio are painted stark white, though the room is filled to the brim with paintings and other projects. Rays of natural light pour in through the giant windows, making for the perfect workspace. Before we even have a chance to sit down, I ask Zoe about her parents, assuming they must be just as, if not more, creatively charmed as their offspring. “Both my parents are financial advisors. My mom is also an abstract painter and printmaker. My dad is a musician, and he writes for TV and film.” I have to know what other influences might have allowed for her creative genius to shine through, so I pry a little further into how she fell in love with art. It

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# NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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ZOE SCHLACTER: girlwiththeflower.com Follow on Twitter and Instagram @zoe_schlacter

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doesn’t take her long to formulate an answer. “There’s a series of photos of me painting at this little table out on the porch. I was probably three or four, and I had blue paint all over my mouth. My parents think it’s symbolic of how I wear blue lipstick now.” As a kid, Zoe remembers her mother introducing her to crafts. Together, they would make jewelry and Shrinky Dinks, among other hands-on projects. I set down my giant bag of craft supplies that I brought over for later. My purse barely touches the ground when Zoe pipes up, “Want to see my room?” Reminded of my high school years, I light up with a childlike smile. It’s like I’m at a friend’s house for the first time, and we’re just a couple giggly girls ready for a sleepover. I follow her up the stairs and walk into what I can only describe as an alternate reality. Everything that surrounds me is either covered in glitter, googly eyeballs, or a combination of the two. Ornate sketches overlapping one another hang all over the walls. Maybe if we hang out long enough, some of her artistic talents will rub off on me. Her wardrobe matches her brilliant coral-painted room. The clothes are bright and happy and covered in fringe, sequins, or flowers, and her shoe collection rivals mine—chock-full of Jeffrey Campbell platforms and one incredible pair of leather bow sandals that are part of the Agyness Deyn for Doc Martens collection. I ask what her parents think of her outlandish style decisions. “I’m very fortunate that they let me do what I want, at least in terms of expressing myself. They’ve never told me that what I have on is too weird, or ‘Don’t wear that!’” If I had a dollar for every time my parents had told me to go back upstairs and change, I’d be a millionaire. As we move through the grand tour of her room, she shows me a guitar she has glittered and painted herself, along with several collages pasted on the walls—many of which have feminist undertones. There are those who may consider feminism a dirty word, but Zoe not only appreciates the ideology—she understands it far better than people twice her age. While poking through a pile of her plastic toys, googly eyeballs, and flowers like a five year old, I feel a bit intimidated by someone so young and articulate. I wander into her bathroom, hoping to witness her vast collection of colored lipsticks. A thoughtfully constructed mood board sits in the middle of the sink, full of positive messages, random photographs, bright and colorful patterns, and pictures of icons (Frida Kahlo among them). While we study the mood board, she explains, “Frida Kahlo is an inspiration in terms of style. I also admire Yayoi Kusama. She experiences hallucinations, so she sees polka dots.” I try to imagine what it would be like to have this altered sense of sight, and it’s obvious to me that Zoe has a penchant for all things bizarre. She continues to rave about Kusama. “She does large scale sculptures and installations and recently collaborated with

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Louis Vuitton, using flowers and dots.” Trippy. Her eyes widen with enthusiasm, continuing, “I also really like the photographer Cindy Sherman. She does self-portraits, dressing up as different characters.” As she describes how Sherman uses prosthetics, makeup, and strange clothing in her portraits, I now connect the two. In many ways, Zoe does the same. We go back downstairs through the brightly painted rooms, back to the white-walled art sanctuary. An interesting remix of Sleigh Bells’ “Demons” floats through the air as we sit down to get our craft on. We decide to embellish some sunglasses using stars, flowers, confetti, and whatever else is available to play with on Zoe’s well-curated table of craft perfection. Out come the hot glue guns, which I promptly burn myself with. As I struggle with the stringy web of glue entrapping my fingers, I look up to see the oh-sograceful Zoe, who has already finished a jaw-dropping star and flower-infused sunglass masterpiece. You can tell this isn’t her first rodeo. As many of her friends and blog fol-

lowers know, she goes by the moniker “Girl with the Flower”—a blog name that must have stuck after churning out so many flower headbands. Aside from being able to express her ideas about fashion while documenting her artistic evolution, Zoe says that maintaining a successful blog for four years has its perks. For instance, the vast collection of sunglasses staring back at me from the table was a gift. While we craft, an eclectic music selection plays over Spotify, most of which I listen to myself—even the ’90s-era Britney Spears bubblegum pop. Reminiscing on the “golden” days of pop music, I admit with a little embarrassment that my first concert was ’N Sync and SisqÓ. She looks up from the pile of sunglasses, “Who’s SisqÓ?” Now I’m starting to feel really old, so I keep trying, “You know, like “Thong Song!” She stares at me, adorably unaware. Note to self: email “Thong Song” to Zoe. She may not know the deep, subliminal message behind a song about uncomfortable underwear, but she does have great taste in music. “Recently, I’ve been listening to Western swing. It’s that country stuff you want to dance

to. Last week, I went to Station Inn for a show.” But her taste goes beyond Nashville roots. “I really like Crystal Castles and Grimes—a lot. I really wanted to go to this Grimes show, but it was eighteen and up. A friend of mine wrote the record company a letter, and she ended up getting backstage passes and all this crazy stuff.” Lucky for Zoe, she’ll never be turned away from another eighteen and up concert again. Her minor status is now a thing of the past, and she’s already got big plans for the future. She’ll be attending the Rhode Island School of Design in September, a school she spent some time at last summer. Seeing as it’s one of the top institutions for serious artists, she seems to have made the right decision. “I plan on being an artist my whole life,” she brazenly confesses. A bold statement for such a young woman— but when she says this, I immediately know it’s the truth. She lights up as bright as a Christmas tree, divulging all of the artistic outlets she has in mind—painting, drawing, and photography. She also shares, with great excitement, that she’s been styling photo shoots and has jumped into sewing and textile design as well. Before I can even ask her what she has in the works, she pipes up, “One of my next goals is selling and showing my art.” I reply, “I want dibs on one of your paint-

# NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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ings!” I figure it’d be best to buy now before she becomes too famous, because I am very certain she will. People have been taking notice of her for a while, and not just in Nashville— she’s a part of Teen Vogue’s online blogging community, not to mention she was featured in the print edition once, too. Now back to her growing list of goals. “I have an idea for an installation, performance kind of thing. I would recreate a version of my bedroom entirely with things that

"WEARING THEM—IT'S LIKE ME LOOKING BACK AT THE PEOPLE."

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I’ve made.” She continues in detail about an installation she created in the guest room of her house, which incorporated her textile designs draped all over the room, an outfit she’d made from them, and a hat she had embellished with her signature googly eyes and rhinestones. She makes her creative process sound so effortless. I can’t paint, draw, or design my way out of a paper bag. I spot a pair of denim jeans sitting upright, not surprisingly covered from top to bottom in googly eyes. “I’m making a whole googly-eyed outfit. I have the boots, jacket, pants, and a mask, too,” she explains. “I’ve been planning it for three years. I want to make a film of me wearing it in public to everyday places like Walmart, Kroger, or just on the street somewhere.” At this point, I’m dying to know

where the googly eye obsession came from. “Initially, it was just an aesthetic attraction to them,” she begins. “But it’s about how people stare at me a lot. Wearing them—it’s like me looking back at the people.” Zoe considers herself an observer, and she tells me, “I’m well aware when people are staring, taking a picture, or pointing and talking about me.” “How did the obsession with flower crowns start?” I ask. “I’ve been wearing flowers since I was in eighth grade, starting with flower hair clips.” It wasn’t until just a couple years ago that Zoe started making the headbands. It turns out that it was just a way to save money, but she realized the surface was sturdy enough to attach other things, remembering, “I would put big animals and things like that on my headbands.” One little flower clip turned

into a headband full of Martians. I pack up my newly embellished sunglasses and give the bright studio one final look around—I’m kind of sad that Zoe will be heading to Rhode Island soon. But it’s her inquisitive, dedicated spirit that can’t be entirely satisfied by

Nashville, at least not for now. We say our goodbyes, and as I’m walking out the door, praying that my car will start and lead me out of these questionable backroads, it really hits me. Zoe is more than just an artist who crafts, paints, designs, writes, glues, sews, and

makes. She sees. When I walked in, I was the observer, I was the one who stared in awe. But somehow, Zoe—wearing a flower in her hair and green paint on her lips—left me feeling like the observed. Or it could have been all those googly eyes.

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The new Nashville is made for Joshua Black Wilkins. He plays alt-country drinking music, his parlance is a mix of cowboy and biker, and his tattooed swagger and throwback look underscore the resurgence of a bygone era. The tattoos on his hands spell out his compass—“TRUTH” on one hand, “LOYALTY” on the other. And in East Nashville, at least, he’s known for his unfiltered and unabashed opinions. He wears his thoughts on the inked sleeves that crawl up each arm while rings don his fingers, beads and leather wrap his wrists, and necklaces hang over his shirt. Tonight (and almost every night), Joshua wears Imogene + Willie jeans, a black t-shirt, and a dark brown-rimmed hat tipped back just enough that his mop of hair tucked underneath slips out the sides. Then, there are the black leather boots 46 / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

# N AT IVE N AS H VILLE

by henry pile | photography by allister ann

NAT II VV ENAS ENAS HV HV II LL LL EE ## NAT

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JBW

JOSHUA BLACK WILKINS: joshuablackwilkins.com Follow on Twitter @jblackdub or Instagram @thejoshuablackwilkins 48 / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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with cap toes and brogue trim. In many ways, his boots are a metaphor for him—worn in, but not worn out. We sit down at Village Pub to discuss his latest album, Fair Weather, and his new approach to recording. To make it interesting, I tell Joshua that we’ll drink every time we say “record” or “recording.” He laughs, but the truth is, this conversation is a welcome relief for him. Most people know him as a photographer—not as a musician. His portfolio includes album artwork for best friend and local musician Justin Townes Earle, Imogene + Willie’s coffee-table book, Love Fades, portraits of The Black Keys, and shots of his muse, model Salome Steinmann. Joshua’s eye is on the erosion of manifest destiny—his pictures address all that our consumption has laid to waste. His music is no silver lining either. Photography pays the bills, but as he puts it, “My number one priority is music.” Joshua explains, “I’ve earned my career in photography. But if the phone stopped ringing tomorrow, and no one wanted to pay another dime for photographs, I’d be fine.” He pauses here as he tends to do before making a point, “But, I have to play music.” Well, he doesn’t have to play music. When he was fifteen, he picked up a camera. And when he wasn’t playing music, he was taking photographs. Images of friends and local landmarks filled his lens. Over time, his eye matured and the phone was ringing—people wanted to hire him to take their photos. Now, he makes a more-than-decent living through photography. Demand comes from global superstars, local marketing campaigns, and up-and-coming models. Joshua knows he has a reputation for dark, moody images, and he has no intention of changing that aesthetic. “It’s hard to make an honest photograph of someone smiling. I like, and look for, images that burn,” he says with a smolder of his own. He avoids pop-country and knows that it costs him a healthy amount of work, but he’s comfortable staying loyal and true to his

ideals. His dedication to photography has, in the past years, led him back to the early origins of the art. He spends weeks working on tintypes—acidic black and white images painstakingly burned on thin metal plates (dating back to the 1850s). He also jumps forward to the more modern version with Polaroid and Fujiroid cameras, which are typically used to quickly capture an image and to make notes while on a photo shoot. Joshua appreciates the physicality of the photos these devices create. And the look—stark and muted—is right up his alley. When it comes to pure digital photography and the post-editing process, Joshua says, “New technology should only make what I’m doing easier. But it shouldn’t replace what we do as artists.” How much for a shoot? “A lot,” he tells me, taking a sip from his second beer. This hobbyturned-career has become somewhat of a doubleedged sword, though. As most starving musicians know, bar gigs don’t pay bills. Longtime friend Justin Townes Earle knows the struggle that Joshua faces and sums it up well. “It’s impressive that he’s stayed committed to his songwriting, even though he’s had the opportunity to make a ton of money shooting photographs. He recognizes that his main job as a songwriter is to get better and better.” Although his photography is a creative extension of him, Joshua stresses, “Music is the most personal part of me.” From the very beginning, on coffee shop stages, he performed original music. And after nearly ten years, that focus has not changed one bit. As his tattoos remind me, he is loyal to his music and fearless of the truth. Joshua’s life traces something of a zigzag path. His parents, both U.S. Marines, moved around the country during his youth, and the nomadic military life inspired introspection in the young man, uncovering a passion for music and songwriting. At sixteen, when his family settled in Huntsville, Alabama, Joshua was already writing and playing.

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As his sound was developing, he realized he needed to get it down on tape, so he paid $120 for four hours of recording time. “Why would it take more than four hours to record forty-six minutes of material?” he laughs. “My father still asks the same question!” While in school at the University of North Alabama, he honed his sound, playing almost every night, many at one local coffee shop. There, he met Cali DeVaney. As Joshua admits, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight. “I met her when I was nineteen, and she hated me. She was punk rock, and I was folk.” Cali would go to the coffee shop to hang out with friends and, by virtue of proximity, she heard Joshua sing. They would hang out, but that was the extent of it—until a few years later, they reconnected. Together, they moved to Nashville and started working on creative projects—Cali produced Joshua’s album, The Girlfriend Sessions, and Joshua swung a hammer to help build out her hair salon, Parlour & Juke. Earlier this year, after over ten years together, the two decided to go their separate ways but still remain great friends. Back in Huntsville, rent was cheap, work was plenty, but the pond was small. “I moved to Nashville to surround myself with talented and inspiring people,” he says earnestly. But he has no problem admitting his naivety. “I moved here like a baby.” His shows in Huntsville were the minor leagues compared to what he encountered within his first couple gigs in Nashville. As he met newer and better players, a reality check set in. He admits, “Within the first six months, I realized I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t play guitar, I couldn’t write a song, and I couldn’t perform for fours hours...for tips.” For many, this would be the nail in the coffin, but for Joshua, this cold realization was just the wake-up call he needed. It was time for him to step up or be left out. His newest album, Fair Weather, is an exercise in stepping up. First, he took a chance with a new East Nashville studio, Trapdoor Studios. Jared Colby, engineer and owner of Trapdoor, moved the eight-year-old studio from Leicester, Massachusetts, to Nashville. I climb the exterior metal stairs leading to Trapdoor, and Jared invites me in but refuses to shake my hand. He says he’s sick. “I drank a lot of Nyquil,” he squeaks and coughs. While sitting in on Joshua’s session, the track, “We All Bleed,” pours out of the moni-

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tors, almost like a dark march swaying us back and forth as though we’re at the mercy of the sea, and Joshua’s voice is the circling shark. The song fades to black, and Joshua bites through the speakers. “Add a cymbal track. I’m gonna make it sparkle a little bit.” In the other room, he takes a seat at the drums and lays down a faint sizzle. Fair Weather marks Joshua’s eighth studio release. The sound on this album is undeniably earthy, honest, and rich with a darkness that casts long shadows. Imagine Joshua’s gritty photographs put to a soundtrack, and you’ve landed on this album. Joshua describes his songwriting process as “kind of an accident.” As his thriving photography career pulled him further and further away from music, it became clear that he had to steal time for himself and his passions—in other words, time for noodling on his guitar and singing to his cats. His intent was to simply enjoy this alternative creative outlet that relied less on money and more on passion, but as he let go, noodling became chord progressions and mindless words fell into rhyme. Eventually, lyrics spilled onto paper, and an album’s worth of songs were born. I ask him where the songs off this album came from, and he replies flatly, “The green couch in my basement.” And he’s dead serious. After long hours of photography assignments, that’s where he would find himself decompressing. As he remembers, he would drift in and out of sleep, catching a few moments of latenight movies. He fondly recalls, “The original True Grit came on. I’d always wanted to watch the original. So, I took John Wayne and researched what kind of gun he liked and the name of his favorite horse.” Eventually, this fascination with “The Duke” led to

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one of his songs, “Western.” And it’s this approach to songwriting, of exploring foreign subjects, that inspires him. Having a deep personal connection isn’t a must; Joshua just has to envision a landscape and let it unfold through word and sound. As long as he can imagine Louis L’Amour’s Wild West, he can describe it. Today, he steps back in the studio to explore again. This time, he’s improvising and guiding him is his loyalty to his artistic voice and trust in Jared’s ear. When he first moved here, perhaps he wouldn’t have felt so comfortable. But Joshua has taken every element of his music into his own hands as drummer, bassist, guitarist, and vocalist, lording over every note. Much like his photography work, he insists on authenticity and honesty. Between the raw music, dark photographs, and tough-guy outfit, most would write Joshua off to be as dark as his middle name. But as we continue to discuss his album, the growl in his voice becomes brighter and the wild in his eyes wilder. By the time you read this, he will have been on the road for months, and his Instagram feed will have featured desolate cityscapes, empty horizons, and many images of darkness overtaking light. Maybe you’ve seen his photo work, maybe you’ve seen him play, or maybe you just follow his Instagram. Throughout it all, one thing remains the same: Joshua doesn’t have a “look” or a “sound.” Rather, he has a perspective. Our server drops a fresh round at the table, and Joshua raises his beer. “Whether Nashville likes this record or not, it’s still a plastic circle that I’m very proud of.” I pause for a moment and remind him about our deal, “Drink when you say ‘record.’” He stares at me in silence. A moment passes, and he breaks character. We raise our glasses for the thirteenth time.

JUST LIKE BONGO JAVA COFFEE, HANNAH IS ORGANICALLY GROWN. Hannah Dempsey doesn’t let the grass grow around her feet. She’s been WWOOFing and singing from Maryland to Florida to Texas and places in between. That is, working on organic co-opted farms and playing music with her band, the Forlorn Strangers. She’s transplanted to Nashville, rooting herself in her love for creative writing and music. “We wanted to come to the mouth of the lion,” she says. “Music changed my life, and I want to share this gift with other people. Nashville is where we wanted to be.” Hannah sings along with her sister and plays stand-up percussion, including a washtub scrubbed with metal brushes. Her boyfriend picks banjo, and her best friend strums guitar in vocal harmonies. They sound like a cool evening after a long day of work on the farm. Like her favorite Sumatra roast, Hannah keeps life light, spicy, and golden. She drinks her coffee at Hot & Cold black and hot, even in Nashville’s summer heat waves. Listen to Hannah on the Forlorn Strangers’ debut EP, “While the Grass Grows.”

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BLACKBIRDS

Fly INTO THE LIGHT OF A WEDNESDAY NIGHT

BY ANN RAVANOS | PHOTOGRAPHY BY YVE ASSAD

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Local motorbikers the Blackbirds love the open road just as much as the next leather-clad rider, but this two-wheeled collective enjoys helping others more than raising hell When you think motorcycle clubs, I assume the first things that come to mind are leather vests, loaded guns, drug cartels, and a blonde dude that sort of looks like Kurt Cobain and goes by the name Jax, right? No? Well, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what I thought before I was properly introduced to the motorbike lifestyle. A biker gang is defined as a group of motorcycle riders that share a common identity and mythology. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a common misconception that these gangs engage in illegal activities, but in reality, they just got a bad rap in the latter half of the past century.

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Historically, “biker gang” also included chopper and motorcycle hobbyists who traveled in packs, as well as tourists who enjoyed the freedom of exploring the highway on two wheels. Nowadays, the word “gang,” whether it be a street gang or a biker gang, typically refers to a group of individuals who use drug sales, the selling of “personal protection,” extortion, and other crimes to take over a territory in a city. But that’s not exactly it. A gang can be a group of individuals who have positive goals. Enter the Blackbirds: Gentlemen’s Motorbike Assembly. Surprisingly (or not so surprisingly), there aren’t too many independently run motorcycle crews in the Nashville area. Aside from the Blackbirds, we have a few others, which include the 615 Boys and 1

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Wheel Motion. However, there are quite a few assemblies that are chapters of larger organizations—the Outlaws, the Roughnecks, and Buffalo Soldiers, just to name a few. Independent club or not, the spirit of owning a bike and traveling the country with it has never been expressed to me the way Robert Longhurst, JT Daly, and Josh Orr of the Blackbirds describe it. JT recalls how the trio met. “Josh, Robert, and I all lived in the same house—it was called Warfield,” he begins. Robert then chimes in, “When I first found the house, my roommate was a mutual friend of Josh’s, and we needed one more person. So JT joined us because he was friends with the people that lived there. When a spot opened up, he joined.” JT and Robert go back and forth dis-

cussing how they first decided to form the Blackbirds. “Robert had left Nashville for a bit to study welding in Los Angeles, and while out there, he rode with the Venice Vintage Motorcycle Club who got together every Wednesday to ride.” When Robert returned home, he talked with the guys about starting up the same thing in Nashville. JT says, “So, we meet on Wednesdays. It doesn’t matter who comes—we talk bikes and life, and we ride.” Eventually, this ritual would catch on. As three close friends who share a passion for riding, it’s no shock that they all ride similar bikes. It’s not that they wanted to be alike; it’s that they’re all educated enough to know the difference between a good bike and a not-so-good bike. Robert, JT, and Josh all ride vintage,

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British-made motorcycles that they fixed up on their own. Robert rides three different bikes: a Triumph, an Enfield, and a 1957 Matchless. JT rides a Royal Enfield, and Josh rides a Triumph Thruxton. Though they all express that their bikes aren’t the prettiest or the best on the planet, they love the stories that live inside of these bikes. Before starting an “official” assembly, they needed to come up with a name. Josh explains, “The three of us were all texting each other name ideas. JT and I were listening to a lot of Nick Cave and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, and we were trying to come up with ideas related to their songs, ‘Six Barrel Shotgun’ and ‘Red Right Hand.’” He continues, “The list goes on. But we settled on Blackbirds from a Nick Cave song, and it just seemed to fit. It was done,” he says, pausing for emphasis. “We were the Blackbirds.” As a group, they are the Blackbirds—a mix of twelve dudes and one gal who form a very badass dynamic. Sure, they spend a consid-

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erable amount of time building custom bikes and getting their hands greasy, but they also have day jobs. Robert builds furniture and runs the bar at Silo, while JT and Josh both tour with their indie-rock band, Paper Route. Within the group, the list of occupations varies. While leaning back in his chair, Robert tries to remember everyone’s day jobs. “There’s Vijay, who’s a civil engineer, and Paul is a record producer. Then we have Art, who’s a mechanic, Yve is a writer, Cale—a director and cinematographer,” he pauses to take a breath. “I know I’m going to leave some people out.” He continues, “Rick is a school teacher, and Nick is a swim coach. There’s also Patrick, who’s a motorbike technician, Will—a video producer, Caleb—a musician, and David and Todd—I’m not sure about their occupations. The point is, it doesn’t matter what you do or how different you are from one another, riding brings everyone together and creates a sense of brotherhood and family.”

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BLACKBIRDS ARE: (left to right) David Hamby, Vijay Upadhyaya, Rick Foster, Yve Assad, Will Fulford, Nick Georgiou, Art Arcinas, Paul Moak, Robert Longhurst, Cale Glendening, not pictured: Caleb Owens, Patrick Ryan, Todd Stopera (photo by Cale Glendenlong)

Bringing such an eclectic mix of people together to form a solid and united group isn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world, but with the vision and heart the three leaders laid out, it didn’t take much work to establish the Blackbirds’ identity. Robert explains, “I can’t say there’s this deep meaning behind who we are. Our motto is basically that we’re a group of friends who like to ride, love exploring our city on motorbikes, and who all form this inner-connection with the road.” And even though anyone is allowed to join on Wednesday night rides, it takes a little bit more to be patched in (biker slang for inducted, see Caleb's patching ceremony on page 48). As the guy who leads all of the rides, Robert explains that it’s not a members-only weeknight get-together. “We meet in 12South every Wednesday, go for about a thirty-mile ride, then we bar hop. Anyone is welcome to come along if they want. We’re all friendly guys.” Josh adds, “We’re completely open to people joining us, but when it comes down to becoming a patchedin member, we’re a little particular.” He explains that to become a Blackbird, you must ride with the gang for at least a year, but it’s more than just riding. “There has to be a connection with everyone,” he explains. “It’s a fairly natural and organic process, but we are open to anyone who wants to hang out and give it a go.” Rolling with the idea that anyone is able to ride, their one female member, Yve Assad, and her husband, Will, jumped at the chance. “No one makes a big deal out of her being in the club,” says Josh. “She’s a badass.” To Robert, JT, and Josh, she’s one of the guys—gender has never really been a factor. Robert continues, “The only time I brought up the issue of her being a girl was to her husband when we were about to patch them in because the patch says ‘Gentlemen’s’ on it, and I wasn’t sure how she was

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MUDDY going to feel about it.” Sharing their passion is just part of what they give back to Nashville. “I love this city,” Robert says. Although he admits that the scene here is still pretty small, the sense of unity between the different bike gangs is what makes it so unique. “There’s something special about living in a city where there are backroads without any traffic. You’re able to have it all to yourself.” Despite his love for the underground nature of Nashville’s motorcycle community, he adds, “I do hope the scene here grows—I want other people to experience this, too.” Aside from riding, Josh, JT, and Robert tell me that most of the Blackbirds are extremely creative. “We participated in the Art Crawl last year.

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We all ride vintage bikes, so we rode them into this old warehouse and put them on display. It was really cool to see everyone’s reaction,” JT shares. They also brought a giant blank canvas for everyone to paint, and it became something of a community art piece. JT remembers, “People that hadn’t touched paintbrushes in decades were painting and loving it.” When it comes to other community projects, the Blackbirds also like to ride for a cause. He adds, “We did a Toys for Tots ride last year around the holidays.” According to the three, they definitely have plans to continue with community activism, but since Josh and JT have been touring since September, JT admits, “It’s been a slow start.” Whereas shows like Sons of Anarchy depict

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hustling, substance-abusing, violent gangbangers, the Blackbirds are different. Robert sets the matter straight, saying, “Our perspective on things couldn’t be further away from that whole scene, and we try to keep our image away from that.” But apparently, their patches, leather jackets, and overall rugged look get them stares every once in awhile. But he maintains, “We’re a group of guys who roll up on these fifty-year-old bikes. Do we look that intimidating?” Luckily, JT doesn’t pay much attention to what people think. He adds, “Personally, I got into bikes to get away from everything. Get away from the noise and be by myself. There’s something pure about being on a bike alone. It’s an iron horse. You feel incredibly mortal, and you have to be in the moment.” He’s not interested in being part of any hip movement, either, arguing, “I’ve never really gravitated towards stylized things.” Again, he stresses, “Our patch represents a community of riders: a group of different personalities sharing the common denominator of just motorcycles.” With an open road ahead of them (literally), the guys and gal of the Blackbirds have one plan—and that’s to always enjoy the ride. “The connectivity you feel with the road—the smells, the bumps—there’s nothing else like it,” Robert says, satisfied with explaining the joy of riding to someone who has never once mounted one. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t meet JT, Josh, and Robert with the assumption that I may not come out of my interview alive. I’m happy to announce, however, that I was proven wrong and look forward to what the future holds for the Blackbirds: Gentlemen’s Motorbike Assembly. Through their rides, connections within Nashville, and positive outlook on life, I think it’s safe to say that the Blackbirds are golden proof as to why the definition of the word “gang” doesn’t entirely make sense.

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RED BULL WITHOUT A CAUSE CHER·UB - NOUN \ˈ CHER-ƏB, CHE-RƏB\ E

A: A BEAUTIFUL (USUALLY WINGED) CHILD IN PAINTING AND SCULPTURE B: AN INNOCENT-LOOKING (USUALLY CHUBBY AND ROSY) PERSON C: ELECTRO-POP DUO SURVIVING ON RED BULL AND HOT CHICKEN

by sarah sharp | photography by jessie holloway

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According to religious literature, a cherub is a celestial winged being, or “angel,” if you want to get technical. More or less, it’s blessed by the powers of God, immune to the demise of the Devil, and in art, is often depicted as a chubby flying infant with a whole lotta blush on. Cherubs have remained figments of pop culture for centuries. In any case, these little beings are divine, holy, sacred—saved, if you will. So that would explain the superhuman powers of Jordan Kelley and Jason Huber, who make up electropop duo named...I’ll give you a hint: it starts with a “chair” and ends with a “rub.” And no, I’m not talking about your between-the-sheets tactics. Cherub. You’re probably asking yourself, “What’s so superhuman about two guys with a couple guitars, a talk box, a laptop, and a synth pad?” Well, Donna, let me tell you—these guys do not sleep, and they’ve been riding a nonstop swivel of touring, writing, and recording for the past two years. They don’t even need Red Bull. As we’ve already established, they have wings. The story of Jordan Kelley and Ja-

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son Huber is not unlike many duos. Guy meets guy. Guy shows other guy his music. Other guy shows guy his chops. They start a band, and together, they dedicate their lives to doing what they love—making music, playing music, and sharing it with others. Friendship was just an added benefit. And the success? That part came naturally. Guy #1 is Jordan. He’s the frontman, the songwriter, the voice, the party, and the creative behind Cherub. He sports an asymmetrical razor cut, right down the center of his noggin with one side buzzed shorter than the other. This, along with a shiny Chicago Bulls bomber jacket, high tops, blinged fingers, undeniable swagger, and a give-no-f*cks approach to most things, is his signature. When it comes to his musical style, his influences revolve around hip hop, ’90s R&B, and Prince. Just listen to one song, and before you get halfway through it, you’ll hear those sensual “oos,” funky guitar licks, and Chromeo-like talk box antics. “He’s a little hook machine,” Jason says of his bandmate. That brings us to guy #2—Jason. While Jordan is the meat, Jason is

FUNKY UMB

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the potatoes, the goo that binds all the sounds together. Unlike his counterpart, Jason takes on the business side of things—he would rather provide the party for other people. Musically, he’s a self-taught guitarist that started out playing in rock bands (shoutout to Boroughs), but eventually gravitated towards dance music, taking on the DJ moniker Schtompa. This is when the Cherub bromance began. Time: early 2011. Place: Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Jason was studying music production at MTSU; Jordan recently dropped out to pursue music full time as a producer, mostly for local hip hop acts. They met, not because of any extraordinary circumstances, but through MTSU’s tight-knit music community. As we get down to the origins of their bromance in their East Nashville Inglewood home, it’s time to break out the bubbly. There ain’t no party like a Cherub party, ’cause at a Cherub party, the champagne gon’ pop. Sitting across from each other—Jason upright in a recliner, Jordan slouched into the couch with a hash-oil pen dangling from his lips—the only things in between us are two bottles of champagne, three crystal glasses, and a large

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bong. As I get to pouring, Jordan grabs the pen from his mouth and clears his throat, initiating this ceremony of sorts. They’ve probably told this story more times than they can count, but by the looks on their faces, it’s clear that it never gets old. Jordan turns to Jason and laughs, “I met you and your dad at the same time. Papa Huber was at your show!” When Jordan says show, he means one of Jason’s many DJ gigs. His reputation was growing as a dance party master in both Murfreesboro and Nashville, often playing surprise 5 a.m. sets in living rooms or basements, hopping on Coach vs. Kase bills, and regularly contributing to Murfreesboro’s overall reputation of “goin’ hard in the paint.” In other words, he played wherever and whenever he could. Birthdays, frat parties, opening sets, closing sets—you name it, he’d play it. And around this time, Jordan was locked away in his room (for three months straight), writing what would become their first album, Man of the Hour, under the name Cherub. Jason explains, “He sent me some tracks, and immediately, we started practicing the next week.” So they practiced and they wrote and

they worked it—sending emails with a rough cut of the album to friends, family, and musicians alike. Before they even thought about playing a show, they already had a rally of people who knew every word to Man of the Hour. I gotta give it to them, it was smart. And I was one of those people. Can I get a “hell yeah” from all you folks “sweatin’ over there” who were singing “My body up against your body, touchin’ you feels so damn good”? That song, “Minez/Yourz,” was the hit single that ignited it all. And they have continued on that same path with each album. So like all good friends do, with equal parts pride and excitement (because it was finally something new, and it was dance music), like a born-again Christian trying to save a non-believer, us Cherub supporters went on a crusade to convert anyone we knew into fans. Now, three albums down and multiple festivals and tours later, maybe it worked. “Word of mouth is still what makes music stick with people,” Jordan says, taking another sip of champagne. But their success surely can’t be credited simply to you or me, or anyone else that was there in the beginning. It could in fact be that, “We spend eighteen hours a day together,” Jordan blurts, lacking

even the slightest hint of sarcasm. Not only is it true, but it’s a test to how well they balance each other out. Whereas most of the time, Jordan likes to be the talker, this time, Jason takes the reigns. “We work because I feel comfortable taking a step back in the creative department to really let Jordan go,” he says, adding, “When there’s room for contribution, I have a place. But really, he’s the genius.” With almost one bottle of champagne down, the energy is flying, and love is in the air. And they have no problem admitting their serious admiration for one another. “Without Jordan,” Jason grins, “I would still be DJing club nights in Murfreesboro.” Completing this circle jerk, Jordan finishes, “Without Jason, I would be making music in my room and burning CDs for people. And people would say, ‘OMG!!! Can’t wait to see it live!’ But I would never be able to do a live show.” Shy they are not about loving each other. But when you spend that much time with someone you admire, the sparks are bound to fly—in other words, gay jokes are inevitable. These types of jokes tend to present themselves in the most opportune and inappropriate moments. “We’ll look at each other up on stage, and it’ll be in between lyrics like ‘my body up against your body,’” Jordan says. To their credit, their whole schtick has never been “appropriate.” As Jason fires up the bong, Jordan admits with pride, “I’m a public porn watcher. You should just misquote us and print it!” Despite their general “inappropriateness,” they have never been anything but honest. They sing about recreational substance use “to help get me through,” the difficulties of being monogamous, pleading, “I just wanna do as I please,” and they proudly tell the haters to hate because they say, “I hate you too.” Whether you like them or not, all humans, at one time or another, have felt these same things. If you can’t admit it, these guys would probably offend you—a lot. So, what’s a day in the life of Cherub like? If you follow their Instagram, you’d

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(left to right) Jason Huber, Clyde, and Jordan Kelley

think life for Jordan and Jason means in the city. Curious and a bit hungry, I hundreds of bottles of champagne blurt out, “UGH! I’ve never tried it!” Jordan responds, “YOU’RE KID(most likely in celebration of their new release, 100 Bottles), constant record- DING?!” Not even ten seconds go by before he ing sessions, random tattoos, high top kicks, late nights, and sweaty crowds. pulls out his phone. I hear a tiny man’s Well, it is all that. But that’s tour life. voice answer from the phone speaker, When they’re home, Jason says, “Jordan “Pepperfire.” “Yeah, to go please,” Jordan replies. makes music early in the morning. I’ll just hear little beats coming from his “Three AppleFires—one mild, one meroom.” Jordan nods in confirmation. dium, and one extra hot.” As we inhale fried chicken and waffles, “Then,” Jason says while knocking on an invisible door, “he’ll come in and be like, we start discussing their devout follow‘Hey, it’s time to wake up. I’ve been waiting, new album, and some of their most memorable moments. To say this pair ing to ask you all these questions.’” The rest of their day consists of “dan- has been simply playing music together dy business shit,” as Jordan so plainly for a couple years doesn’t quite explain puts it. That would include direct in- their relationship. They have been volvement in their branding, merch, through some shit, and they get away music video production, and of course, with even more. But that’s just the kind recording. But that doesn’t exclude of guys that Jordan and Jason are—they bong rips, whiskey shots, and hot chick- milk the teets of life. Whether you love en. Both guys are strong supporters of them, envy them, or hate them, you can the chicken scene, but Jordan might be learn a thing or three from them. one of the top-ten hot chicken eaters

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HOW TO CONTROL MINDS “It gets hot and heavy at your shows. Is Cherub some kind of mind control cult?” Jordan’s dry wit now in full force, he says, “I actually record behind the track and then reverse it. Then it gets mixed underneath the track, and you don’t realize you’re listening to me say, ‘Do it, do it, do it, uhhh.’ It makes people feel a certain way.” “Certain way?” I instigate. He replies, “Yeah, some girl was getting finger-banged at the show on Saturday night. I didn’t see it, but some dude came up to us after and gave us a whiff of his finger.” This sparks another strange memory from a previous show. “Some guy tweeted at us, ‘Can’t wait to jerk off at the Cherub show!’” Jason laughs. Some of their mind control powers might have something to do with that one single, “Doses and Mimosas,” from their release in 2012, Mom and Dad. Yes, it’s exactly what you think—doses of acid and well, mimosas. Jason says, “I think we’ve gotten people to do some sort of ritualistic dosing.” But with an anthem so blatantly promoting the party lifestyle, Jordan thinks it could backfire. “We’ve set ourselves up to be doomed— we’re just waiting for someone to bring us a bottle of champagne and then halfway through it say, ‘Oh, you guys didn’t want acid in your champagne?’” Jason puts his fist in the air with dramatic emphasis. “Damn that song!” HOW TO GET TATTOOS Now they’re both standing with their asses facing me. They pull down their pants just enough to show me a pair matching tattoos on opposite butt cheeks. In cursive, Jordan’s reads “Mom” and Jason’s, “Dad.” This was in commemoration of their previous album of the

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same name—the album that catapulted a tattoo of a mouse nibbling on a slice of ing for three days. As Jason was driving them into national and even worldwide watermelon, which happens to be next through a blizzard, slipping all over the recognition (Jason tells me, “There’s a to a popping bottle of champagne and a road, Jordan was drinking one energy drink after another. He continues, “My Lego man holding mimosas. Cherub Portugal Facebook page!”). It’s interesting how people’s tattoo arm was going numb, and I just freaked Needless to say, their approach to tattoos is a little unorthodox. They don’t philosophies say a lot about their per- out.” Turns out this heart attack was...“Well, just get any tattoo. They get every tattoo. sonal ones. Jordan offers some closing Jordan’s philosophy: “Get it while you insight, “If you’re someone that regrets we decided what it was,” Jason says. “Sleep deprivation and a caffeine hangcan.” For him, that means anything goes, things, just don’t get them.” over mixed with energy drinks and as long as someone pays for it. He counheartburn from that bag of XXX hot HOW TO CALM DOWN A ters, “Only to a certain extent. I mean, if jerky.” He looks at Jordan, continuing, “I FRIEND WHEN HE’S HAVING A someone wanted me to get some dirty was like, ‘Nah, man. It’s cool, don’t worPANIC ATTACK swastika, there’s no way I would do that.” He continues, “But if someone asked me “Remember when we thought you were ry about it.’ In reality, I had my phone to get a teddy bear tattoo? Yeah, I’ll find dying on the way to Aspen?” Jason re- in my crotch, and I was Yelping the next hospital.” calls. a way to get a teddy bear.” “Have you learned your lesson?” I ask Jordan replies, “I thought I was havJason’s philosophy is a little more calculated, with more of an art-centric ap- ing a heart attack.” They were on their Jordan. “Well, there was no sign that it was for proach. He says his favorite tat is of Shel way to play a show in Aspen, and Jordan Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends, but explains, “Whenever we go to Colorado, sure any of those things. So, I just do he’s also adopted some of Jordan’s “get we have a bunch of friends there that them all separately now.” Jason laughs, “Lesson learned? Don’t it while you can” approach. He pulls his make bad decisions with us.” These bad shirtsleeve up to his shoulder, revealing decisions resulted in Jordan not sleep- eat that hot ass f*ckin’ jerky.”

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As we finish off the last of the they’ll owe us money.” At this point, not only am I stuffed champagne, we finally start talking about their new album, interestingly full of hot chicken, but my head is enough, named 100 Bottles. Staying spinning with X-rated tweets, maritrue to their sound, the process was juana smoke, tattoo ideas—and all like any other album they’ve made, that talk about not sleeping is makbut the songwriting has evolved with ing me tired. But even through my sleepy stupor, bigger and catchier choruses. Despite their strong start in the EDM scene, the Cherub schtick becomes very they believe they’re now somewhere clear. They do what they do honestly. in between a live band and a DJ, with They have loads of fun. And they have big plans to put together a live setup. never compromised who they are in Jason adds, “This would be our tran- the process. They’ve figured out the sition into dropping the word ‘elec- magic formula: how to do what you love and not suck at it. tro’ and just going straight for pop.” “Any last words, advice?” I ask. It might be the champagne. It Jason channels his inner hillbilly, might be the weed. But we keep echoing each other, “Hundred Bot- “Don’t poop on yer pee!” “Yeah! You’ll splash yerself,” Jortles.” “Hun-dred Bott-les.” The way it rolls off the tongue, it’s just so dan adds. “And don’t drink energy damn catchy. “We’re in the process of drinks! He pauses for a quick second, trademarking it,” Jordan says. “Every correcting himself. “Except for Red time a rapper says, ‘Hundred bottles,’ Bull.”

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Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Call Him Ishmael In an age when a real mentor is harder to find than a white whale, novelist John Minichillo is reviving the art of inspiration by julian ciany | photography by rebecca adler rotenberg

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Pulling up to John Minichillo’s quaint West Nashville home, I must admit I’m a little nervous to write about another writer. This is my first time ever taking on such a task. I ring the doorbell, and John’s five-year-old son, Giacomo, whose thick brown hair bears a striking resemblance to his father’s, answers the door. “Daddy! Your friend is here!” he screams. With such a simple gesture, my anxiety settles. I’m welcomed into their home not only as an interviewer, but as a friend. I walk into their kitchen, and I see John cooking pasta for Giacomo. John lives for his son—a sentiment that’s obvious from the moment I enter their home. After he finishes making dinner, he gives me a tour of the house he shares with his wife, Katrina Gray, also a writer and the Editor-in-Chief of the weekly online literature journal, Atticus Review. We stop in the living room where there are stacks upon stacks of DVDs, numerous toys scattered about, and cartoons playing on the TV. Katrina is out for the day working, so the guys have the house to themselves. This looks like what I’d imagine to be a normal Sunday afternoon at the Minichillo house. His two pugs, Switters and Minnie, bark and hustle in my direction as they patrol the corridors protecting him and Giacomo. Never having smelt me before, they automatically pin me as an intruder. “It’s because you’re an unfamiliar male,” John laughs. Despite my relative unfamiliarity, John sets down two cups of coffee, and it’s time to get familiar with this newly published author. He was born in Elkhart, Indiana, a city about 100 miles outside of Chicago. He’s half Italian—an identity marker that is overwhelmingly apparent in his pronounced features, strong brows, and dark, thick curly hair. “Growing up Italian,” he says, “was all-encompassing. There was pride in what you ate, and eventually, that meant ravioli at Thanksgiving.” Aside from being Italian, Catholi-

cism was more or less John’s “second” religion growing up. “My parents are teachers and very Catholic. So as teachers, they are liberal in principle, but conservative in lifestyle and ideology.” When it was time for John to go off to college at Loyola, he says, “They were excited that I was going off to a smallish Catholic institution.” But he admits that as an eighteen year old, “I was just excited to move from a city of 40,000 to Chicago,” he laughs. It was also around this time that he discovered a strong passion for writing. When I ask him what first inspired him to write, he thinks for a moment, carefully flipping back through his memory to days spent in the library. “Well, there are a lot of ways to answer that question,” he replies. “But I think the easiest answer would be Kurt Vonnegut.” “I think a lot of people encounter him when they’re young adults,” he continues. “When you read something that’s entertaining, smart, and that elucidates a lot of the things we take for granted, it can blow your mind.” With this, John has defined effective writing in one simple sentence—the best books are the ones that elegantly put our lives into perspective. This brings us to his debut novel, The Snow Whale, a modern, satirical rendition of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick. My first question, naturally, is why he would reimagine this great American classic. It’s the image of the leviathan (or sea monster) that he finds most intriguing, explaining, “It’s a symbol that everyone recognizes. It is probably the most famous character in literature.” In particular, John was drawn to the mysticism of the creature. He explains that in most parts of the U.S., whaling is illegal, but in Alaska, there are exceptions for certain Native American tribes. He elaborates, “They’re allowed to hunt for subsistence, but they’re also given a quota, too.” For this reason and for its vast and beautiful landscape, Alaska was the perfect setting for his novel.

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The protagonist, John Jacobs, is a white-collar worker who is bored with his mundane life. Upon discovering that he is thirty-seven percent Inuit, he leaves everything and heads to Northern Alaska to join a tribal whale hunt. On this hunt, not only does he face his greatest fears but comes head to head with his new identity. Although the author and his protagonist share the same name, John assures me that John Jacobs is not John Minichillo. “This guy is named John, but he’s not me at all. I’m Italian, but this character possesses a generic whiteness. So when his DNA ancestry test tells him that he’s Inuit, he embraces it and sets off, naively, to do this dangerous thing.” But naivety isn’t the only thing separating the two Johns. According to the author, there’s a “satirical distance” between the two. “We tend to identify less with comic characters. We see them at a distance so that we can laugh at them,” John begins. “Of course, satire holds up a lens to ourselves and our culture. So that laughter tends to boomerang back into laughing at yourself.” His ability to make humor out of some of life’s most uncertain moments makes him so effective in satire, although he prefers not to limit himself to any one particular genre. “All art is limiting,” he begins. “That’s what makes the imagination work.” For something as weighty as Melville’s whale, John wanted to do the exact opposite by forcing his imagination to make light of it. “I know a lot of serious writers who are funny people, but for some reason, when they set out to write, they

JOHN MINICHILLO: thesnowwhale.com Follow on Twitter @thesnowhale

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don’t try.” For John, it’s more the opposite, but he does try. He’s a funny writer, but he’s also a pretty serious guy—at least when it comes to his education. After he graduated from Loyola, he went on to earn an MFA from Western Michigan University, and later, a PhD in creative writing from Southern Mississippi University. With all that schooling, it’s no surprise this expert in the art of language became a professor—the career path that brought him to Nashville. First, he was hired at MTSU, and now he’s teaching at Tennessee Tech. As a writer, a professor, a husband, and a father, John admits that the balancing act wears him out. He takes another sip of coffee before beginning, “I’m teaching four or five classes with 100-plus students and grading papers all the time.” But with a couple days off in between and summers off, he says, “For a writer, that can work.” Still, the most important thing to him is providing for his son. Having a teaching job isn’t enough. With a hint of frustration, he explains, “These tenure-track positions are few and far between. I’m forty-five and still doing these temporary teaching gigs. I may never have a full-time, secure job.” He speaks with a humorous cynicism about the state of his two professions. “Our society doesn’t value what I do,” he asserts. “I should be paid more. I should have fewer students. And there should be more writers and artists who have jobs related to writing and art.” He reiterates his point with a bit more intensity, “The values are skewed in our society, and they are reflected in our higher education.” Luckily for the higher education system, teachers like John still exist. He defies the institutional powers against him and at his core, he remains a mentor—the kind of professor that you remember and thank later. And with a great teacher comes great advice. As I sit across from him, it’s like I’m sitting in one of his classrooms as he recalls lecturing, “Language is light, and the world is heavy. How do you take

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John’s pugs, Switters and Minnie

symbols and letters that are arranged in a line—that can only be received one word at a time—and portray something as simple as a knock on a door? How do you arrange words in a way that will make the reader have a physical experience?” His answer is simple: edit until you can edit no more. Today, as he looks back on the process of getting his work out into the public eye, he credits the web for much of his success. To me, the internet is like second nature, but to John, it was the gold mine of opportunity that led to publishing his novel. “Here in Nashville, the people who are the best musicians are not the ones selling records. I knew that I wrote a really good book, and most people had never heard of me. But getting it out there was the most important thing.” It was online literary communities, like Fictionaut, that not only helped get his name out there, but generated support from a small publishing company for The Snow Whale. Now after a couple cups of coffee, our conversation shifts to Miles Davis and author Jonathan Safran Foer before finally discussing John’s newest project, which he calls a “Google satire.” He outlines the general premise, saying, “The setting is a tech company not unlike Google—a

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playground for geeks that has been set up as the perfect place to work. But, for the female main character, subtle sexism persists.” We start to get off topic and discover that we have pretty similar tastes in music, most notably our love for Phish—a connection that alone could generate hours of discussion. As John aptly puts it, “Being a Phishead is an extension of being a Deadhead. It means knowing that you love something most people—often the people closest to you—will never understand.” His list of favorite albums includes classics such as Paul Simon’s Graceland and The Grateful Dead’s American Beauty. As an avid music lover, John seems to have found the perfect home base in Music City. “It’s a liberal island in a sea of red.” As Giacomo nuzzles his head into his dad’s lap, I start to truly understand John Minichillo. He’s part of a dying breed, and although he says, “I feel like my generation got the shaft, and it’s only going to be worse for the kids coming up,” we can all sleep a little better knowing that he’s inspiring the next generation.

Read an excerpt from John’s novel, The Snow Whale: When the results of his test came back,

Jacobs took the envelope into the bathroom to open alone and undisturbed. His data fit neatly on a two-page printout, with racial and ethnic categories and the probable geographic regions of his ancestors arranged in descending order. There were races he’d never heard of, but a letter accompanied his profile and explained that a detailed document at the website defined all terminology. At the top of Jacobs’s genetic profile, in bold, he saw the word Inuit, with his lineage listed at 37 percent. The word was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it: Inuit. He felt like running from the bathroom down the hall to the computer in his cubicle so he could look it up. He was more than a third, but less than a half Inuit, by far the most prominent category in his profile. Though he wasn’t sure how comfortable he felt with this, whatever Inuit was, there was no denying what shouted out in his genetic code—because there it was at the top of the page. He flushed the toilet, he washed up, and he walked down the hall as casually as he could muster. He looked over the other easily recognizable categories. He was four-tenths of a percent Tuscan, 3 percent Spanish Moor, 7 percent Danish, and one one-hundredth of a percent Egyptian. He had always liked the pyramids and mummy movies, but one one-

hundredth was nothing to get too excited over. It was this Inuit category he needed to find out about. He passed Mike Schmidt on his way to his cubicle and for a moment they made eye contact. He could easily see Mike sitting at his desk wearing animal skins and furs. He thought maybe there was a slant to Mike’s eyes and he imagined him with a thick black beard. Things had changed around the office for the two of them. Though Jacobs hadn’t disclosed his purchase of the DNA test kit, they gave each other a knowing look and Mike slowly nodded. It was as if desk doodles, cubicles, company logos, and cruise missiles had never existed. As if their survival depended on something more basic and Mike and himself were brought together out of a primal bond. Inuit, Inuit, Inuit, Jacobs said to himself, searching his mind for some sense of the word’s familiarity as he double-checked the spelling and typed it into a browser search. He was taken to a page on racist language usage, the link highlighted because he had been to the page before. He recognized the page as the reference he’d used when he was told to eradicate the sexist language from the list of desk doodle quotes. He never bothered to check his list against outdated racial and ethnic slurs, but they were listed at this same website. At first he was indignant, knowing instantly that the link to this page meant his people had suffered from racism, but when he saw the word—Eskimo—he felt a glowing kinship. And Eskimo was a word he was sure he was entitled to use. He was Eskimo. He sat there for a moment in front of his computer with his eyes closed and his smile spread as he imagined an expanse of wild snow. There was a sense of serenity coupled with the nothingness in his mind as the walls of the cubicle vanished from his awareness and he felt finally and for the first time, at home.

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THERE ARE MANY INGREDIENTS THAT MAKE UP THE LONGSTANDING SUCCESS OF BOBBIE’S DAIRY DIP. THE MOST IMPORTANT, OWNER SAM HUH SAYS, GOES BEYOND BURGERS AND ICE CREAM

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Somewhere outside Seoul, South Korea, an elderly Korean couple is enjoying their retirement. This couple may be out on an average day, perhaps at the market, perhaps on the train. They’ve lived in South Korea their entire lives, and on this average day, somewhere between Incheon and Anyang, they may run into an old acquaintance. Together they’ll exchange an “Anyong Haseyo,” they’ll hug, and at some point during the encounter, the question will come up. The question always comes up. “So, how’s your son, Sam?” The couple will pause. They might purse their lips. They might scratch their chins. They might need some time to figure out the right way to say it. But eventually, they’ll just spit it out. “Well,” they’ll say, “Sam is serving chili fries and Chubby Checker milkshakes in a retro ice cream shop in Nashville, Tennessee. And he’s doing great.” Bobbie’s Dairy Dip is a long way from Seoul, South Korea. But it’s not a long way from what it looked like on opening day in 1951, when Thelma Harper cut the ribbon on Charlotte Avenue’s shiniest new walk-up, named it after herself, and unknowingly birthed a Music City mainstay known as Harper’s Dairy Dip. Some years later, she’d hand it off to a woman named Bobbie McWright, who also named it after herself, and when she got ready to hand it off many years after that, it mercifully stopped changing names. Which is a good thing, because Bobbie’s Dairy Dip sounds a whole lot better than Sam Huh’s Dairy Dip.

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SAM IS NOT THE OWNER Sam Huh is a fifty-year-old South Korean with a PhD in economics, an extensive banking and teaching background, and a surprisingly deft hand with a soft-serve machine. He has owned Bobbie’s for six years, and his presence is the first clue you get that not everything at Bobbie’s may be what it seems. It’s only natural, one supposes, that in sixty-two years, the keys to Bobbie’s have changed hands a few times. But Sam—modest, unassuming, proper, and polite Sam—is not the guy you see on Broadway and think, That must be the force behind Nashville’s favorite all-American ice cream and burger shop. Well, that’s on you. Because Sam is very clear about one thing: there’s more to Bobbie’s than what meets the eye. And it starts with him. “I am not the owner,” Sam tells me. “God is the owner. I am the general manager.”

Okay, we’ll call Sam the general manager. And he’s been general managing the hell out of Bobbie’s for six years now. It isn’t the only Nashville landmark he manages—Sam bought J&J’s Market and Cafe on Broadway before he bought Bobbie’s. And though he came to Nashville in 1995 to study economics at Vanderbilt, he soon found his research drifting from antitrust liabilities and fixed exchange rates to mocha beans and butterfat percentages. You know, the things South Korean boys who go into finance tend to fall into. Despite the success of his two Nashville hangouts, Sam still gives off the impression that he’s more comfortable with a calculator than a deep fryer. He’s quiet and polite, short and engaging. He’s humble, but smart. There’s also this unpredictability about him that makes you want to know more. He won’t begin an interview without insist-

ing that you have something to drink. And after an hour, when it seems like his businesses are the only things he could care about, he can pivot a conversation on the pride he takes in his daughter, his son, or his faith. But there is little room for unpredictability in the world of economics. Sam knows what a healthy business looks like, which is why it took him a full year to be talked into buying Bobbie’s when it went up for sale seven years ago. At the time, it looked like a bad business move. The people of Nashville loved Bobbie’s and its open-mouthed blonde bombshell that overlooked Charlotte Avenue, but not enough to keep it from losing money year over year. So Sam looked at the numbers and discovered a secret about the cheerful and carefree ice cream joint, a hidden mystery. It was not what it seemed. Nashville’s favorite all-American ice cream and burger shop

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wasn’t going to survive. “You have three years,” Sam told the former owner, “and you’re going to lose your business.” SAM IS GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS So Sam bought Bobbie’s and fired everyone. He’s only fired three people in his life. The statement you choose to believe depends on your perspective (as well as, I suppose, whether or not you’re one of those people he fired). Sam chooses to believe them both, and when he tells you what happened when he took over Bobbie’s, he has a disarming honesty that makes you believe they can both be true. Bobbie’s wasn’t making its own ice cream then. It wasn’t making its own burgers, chili, or anything else, really. So Sam walked in, took one look at the ingredients and the people who were handling them, and said the five words that would have knocked Bobbie McWright on her back. “We’re going to change everything.” Restaurants that have been in the same location for fifty years—and have had the same plywood sign over the window for fifty years, and have watched the road around them ebb and flow with the economics of a growing city for fifty years—do not simply “change everything.” But when Sam looked at Bobbie’s, he saw more than just a responsibility to his own wallet. He now owned—between J&J’s and Bobbie’s—almost 100 combined years of Nashville history. He was beholden to those legacies, and that meant, well... “I tell my employees,” he starts, “I’m going to kick your ass. Are you ready?”

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In restaurant terms, kicking ass meant making their own burgers, sourcing better dairy, making the chili in-house, and generally stepping up the ingredient game. It also meant shaking up the roster. Sam has the air of a smart, calm, measured, and friendly man. When you say his name around his employees, they smile. And in food service, that is rarer than a restaurant without a website. But Sam took down his restaurants’ websites to increase word of mouth, so he has no problem shirking the established order of things. And the one impression you get from him is that he does not suffer fools. “When I hire you, my mission is to instill three things in you: integrity, consistency, and confidence,” Sam says. “I love my employees. I have wonderful employees. We are a family.” But even families get their asses kicked sometimes, and it took three years of Sam’s ownership for the restaurant to turn a profit.

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Media took notice. Families started coming back. And after six years, Sam—who came to Nashville eighteen years ago, whose parents still walk the markets of Seoul—may have found the system that fits Bobbie’s. Last year, he opened a second location on 4th Avenue North, a place where the city’s businessmen and political brass have been known to pop in for a “Chubby Checker,” the famous peanut butter chocolate milkshake. And it’s also the location that stays open when the Charlotte store closes down for three months each winter. But for Sam, it’s more than just keeping a business running. “Working in an office, you know, sometimes it’s kind of boring,” he begins. “We’re responsible as their neighbor to add some seasoning to their lives.” The suits that come by for burgers may think the joint’s only been around since last October. But Sam and the regulars know the secret. They know the plywood

sign hanging on the wall—the one with the open-mouthed blonde bombshell— used to hang somewhere else. And so really, this place downtown isn’t new at all. It’s been around for sixty-two years. SAM IS NOT A GOOD BUSINESSMAN Sam changed a lot about Bobbie’s without really changing much at all. The grandparents who mosey on by, who point at the glass like they did a generation before, certainly can’t tell the difference. The memories embedded in the cinder-block walls and chip-painted picnic tables are still there. In many ways, the formula is still the same. But now Sam is talking about Reader’s Digest, and he’s trying to pinpoint what makes Bobbie’s so different from other American restaurants using the well-trod burger-fry formula. Why do people come back with three generations of family? Why do they go to Bobbie’s instead of a

drive-thru? Why do they say it’s hands down the best ice cream they’ve ever had? “I read a Reader’s Digest in college about a science experiment,” he says. Here it’s important to recall that Sam has a PhD in economics, and he’s about to break Bobbie’s down into a system of controls and variables. In the experiment, scientists grew two plants under the exact same conditions, with one exception: the scientists watered one of the plants with love. That plant flourished well beyond the other. Whether this story is true or not is not the point. The point is that Sam views these things about Bobbie’s—the meat, the potatoes, the dairy—as the control. In essence, these are things that lots of restaurants have. The variable, as it was with the plant, is something much more abstract. “I’m not a good coffeemaker,” he tells me as we’re sitting at J&J’s. “I’m not a good businessman. We are only great at

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one thing. My employees—my kids over there and over here—they try to put their love in the products they sell. That’s it. Our answer is, our food is alive. We sell hope, not merchandise. We have to put our hope in the ice cream, in the burger, in whatever we do.” And that takes us to the day Sam received a piece of mail. A few years back, a small envelope was left specifically for him at the restaurant. When he opened it, he saw that it was a funeral notice for a man named Mike Brodbine. Mike Brodbine loved Bobbie’s Dairy Dip and went there twice a week with his wife, Anne, for as long as Sam could remember. Mike had a special medical condition, and his favorite thing to order was a chocolate ice cream soda made in a special way just so he could drink it. And twice a week, Anne would walk to the window and order two of them. Mike would drink one in the car on the way home, and Anne would put the other in the fridge for later. Scribbled on the back of the funeral notice was a message. “Thank you to Mike’s friends at Bobbie’s,” the note said. “You all made him very happy. Love, Anne B.” And tucked away behind the note was a folded fifty-dollar bill. Initially, Sam didn’t know what to do with that fifty dollars, but he knew Bobbie’s needed a fence. He budgeted the donation into the fence fund, and later that year, a nice, benign wooden fence went up on the side of the property, the type that disappears into your periphery. Bobbie’s has thousands of customers, and to all of them, it’s simply a stained fence. But to the family working inside the window, the fence is something very special—something other than what it seems. “We call it Mike Brodbine’s Garden,” Sam says. J&J’s Market is nothing. Bobbie’s Dairy Dip is nothing. Sam is telling me this—that these businesses he manages, which mean so much to so many people, are not what they seem, and the more he points at the walls and denies the very existence of the room we’re sitting in, the more excited he gets about what they stand for. “It’s an illusion,” he says. “It’s an illusion,” he continues. “So, what’s real?

Humans. The people in J&J’s Market and Bobbie’s Dairy Dip. They’re real.” And then it starts to make sense. You go to Bobbie’s, you eat an ice cream cone, and you see the garden. You are connected to Thelma Harper, Bobbie McWright, Mike Brodbine, and even to Sam and his Korean parents. And it becomes clear. The grandparents at the window holding their grandkids’ hands and ordering the same milkshake they did fifty years ago—they create these things that Sam believes. And then you realize you’re dead wrong. Bobbie’s Dairy Dip is exactly what it seems.

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LOOKIN' WAVE COUNTRY

Even the landlocked can make great waves when there’s no surfboard in sight. “Authentic beach hair has waves, curls, straight pieces, and lots of volume,” says star session stylist Melanie Shelley. “Because no one has a curling iron at the beach, identical curls are strictly forbidden.” The trick? Prep wet hair with a salt primer, twirl into four sections, then flip your head over and diffuse on low heat while tugging at random strands. “Channel young Raquel Welch,” advises Shelley, “and make sure to wear a white bikini!” Melanie Shelley, TRIM Legendary Beauty Photography by Eli McFadden

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I think the term “genius” may be a bit over-utilized in a town full of artists. Maybe the problem with Nashville is that there are just too many geniuses in one place. Or perhaps it comes down to the things that don’t really matter in terms of art. “Well, she’s really pretty. He’s got great hair. They know so-and-so at Warner, and it’s not what you know but who you know, darlin’.” I try to stay away from the word genius on my radio show, just as much as I try to avoid the phrase, “You guys are killin’ it!” After a while, it loses its luster and seems less genuine. With that being said, I’m pretty sure k.s. Rhoads is a genius—or possibly something different entirely. Daytrotter’s Sean Moeller said it best: “k.s. Rhoads might not be a musician at all. He’s more like a sorcerer. He could be some kind of alchemist,

certo. Rhoads might be the preeminent singer, songwriter, rapper, beatboxer, composer, loop pedal operator, performer, and also, bartender. And trust me, I know a lot of good bartenders. His newest record is called The Wilderness. Most albums have one, maybe two hits, but this album has at least six—and that’s saying something considering there are only eleven songs on it. Take a listen to “Orphaned,” “Harvest,” “Invincible Fortress,” “If You Want Love,” “When Your Prayers Are Received,” and “This Is Where if that didn’t imply that he was turning I Come From.” Rhoads is a musician and a damn good lesser things into gold.” one at that. So, he’s not an alchemist in I can buy that. Did you see what he did the traditional sense. Well, not without at Live On The Green a few years back with the Nashville Symphony? The guy our assistance. Support a local genius— buy The Wilderness and help him turn vinyl locked himself in his studio and wrote out an entire concert for him and a full con- into gold, or better yet, platinum.

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Overheard @ N A T I V E

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

WHAT SONG REFLECTS YOUR PERSONAL STYLE? LIZ, 23

“Deep Shadows” by Little Ann Vintage Justin Boots

LOLA, 20:

“Chocolate” by The 1975 Watch from American Apparel

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animal of the month by Charlie Hickerson illustrated by Courtney Spencer

Kingdom: Animalia Phylum: Arthropoda Class: Insecta Order: Coleoptera Family: Lampyridae Genus: Photinus Species: P. Pyralis

They’ve illuminated many a Mason jar, inspired Owl City’s only chart-topping hit (it was your jam in the summer of ’10— admit it), and they’re Tennessee’s state insect. Say hello to the firefly. This guy’s a proud Southern son with a taste for strong whiskey, loose women, and whining steel guitars—a genuine bumpkin bug that “don’t take too kindly” to any insect not born and bred above the Mason-Dixon line. So, it’s no surprise that when the firefly sees insect intruders like spiders and praying mantises, he lights up like a freshly polished bumper on a brand new Ford F-150. The firefly can’t explain this reaction (he “don’t take too kindly to science talk,” either), but biologists have demystified how he gets his glow. Chemicals in the fireflies’ tails— luciferin (the stuff that actually glows) and luciferase (which triggers said glowing)—react with the ATP present in their bodies to produce that renowned radiance that drove you to become 106 / 106 // / / / / / / / / / / / //

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a “firefly hunter” as a kid. And because unsuspecting males to what they think is this process is au natural, the light they a good ole fashioned hoedown. But once produce is actually cold, meaning it he gets close, she scarfs him down quicker requires little heat to produce. In other than Betsy Jo does a funnel cake at the words, the firefly is able to shine like county fair. Swarms of Photinus males the fireworks at CMA Fest while keeping have fallen victim to this carnivorous cooler than an ice-cold Natty Light. But love connection, and any firefly with a don’t worry about all the science—all you lick of sense should avoid these gals like need to know is that if this guy is glowin’, Honey Boo Boo avoids a balanced diet. When he’s not sending warning flashes rival bugs are showin’. Well, either that’s the case or he’s just or dodging femme fatales, the firefly is found a fluorescent, foxy lady lightning trying to live his brief life span to the bug. When the mood strikes, males fullest. After spending one to two years as glow as they search for a mate in the a larva, the insect finally emerges as a fulltrees, shrubs, and grasslands. They’re blown lightning bug. But as an adult, this sort of like the rhinestone cowboys on dude will live for a month at most, so he’s Lower Broad looking for their country gotta get it while the gettin’s good. Maybe queens. But unlike the sexually ravenous that’s why the average male fathers rednecks lingering outside Tootsies, male around 500 fireflies in his lifetime (that’s fireflies risk more than STD contraction a whole lotta’ child support). But hey, in when pursuing their love interests. the words of those wise Southern rock A date with a babe from the Photuris sages, The Ozark Mountain Daredevils, genus can actually cost a male firefly “If you want to get to heaven, you gotta’ his life. Photuris females will pose as a raise a little hell.” Keep on keepin’ on, my member of the Photinus genus to lure fluorescent redneck friend.

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