Native | March 2014 | Nashville, TN

march

2014

LOCAL HONEY

NOW OPEN monday 3:00pm - 11:00pm tuesday 3:00pm - 11:00pm

wednesday 3:00pm - 11:00pm thursday 3:00pm - 11:00pm friday 11:30am - 12:00am saturday 11:30am - 12:00am sunday 11:30am - 11:00pm

growlers & tap room

The Hop Stop is located at 2909 B Gallatin Pike Nashville, Tennessee 37216

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TABLE OF CONTENTS MARCH 2014

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44 56 68

THE GOODS

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19 Beer from Here 20 Cocktail of the Month 23 Master Platers 100 Hey Good Lookin’ 103 You Oughta Know 106 Overheard @ NATIVE 108 Observatory 112 Animal of the Month

FEATURES 26 Pop Punk Purgatory (And Other Stories) 36 Stranger Than Horror-Fiction 44 You are OK 56 The Bigger Picture 68 The Lazarus House 80 Bagmen 94 The Illustrated Spotlight: Courtney Spencer

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THANKS BUD LIGHT FOR THEIR SUPPORT AS THE MARDI GRAS Y’ALL OFFICIAL BEER SPONSOR. WE COULD NOT HAVE DONE IT WITH OUT YOU!

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DEAR NATIVES,

A

s we’re putting the finishing touches on this March issue, we’re also sharing stories of last night’s almosttornado storm. Looking around, you might think the tornado actually touched down in our office—there’s shit everywhere. That’s because we’ve just moved on up (shoutout to the Jeffersons) from the first floor of Marathon Village to a two-story office space directly above our old one.

“Moving” seems to be the word of the year in Nashville. We’re always meeting someone who just moved here, plans to move here, moved to a second location, or is just moving really quickly in general.

Whether you’re moving to or from here, people in this city are…well to be honest, they’re just really nice. We all have our own stories about them (“slept on their couch for a month,” “loaned me their car for a week,” “got me into that show at the Ryman,”), but the bottom line is this: Nashvillians know how to make you feel at home.

In this issue, you’ll meet a pair of messenger bag designers whose move from New York to Nashville helped them “move” their product all over the globe. You’ll meet a tattoo artist who is moving into feature filmmaking, a band who is moving past their past, and an architect who’s not only moving the city through his designs, but through his impactful collaborations as well. And finally, you’ll meet a family who realized that the best way to move Nashville was to not move at all.

But no matter what your move looks like, we’re just happy you’ve decided to move with us.

Cheers,

president, founder:

ANGELIQUE PITTMAN JON PITTMAN associate publisher: KATRINA HARTWIG publisher, founder:

founder, brand director:

DAVE PITTMAN

founder, senior

account executive:

CAYLA MACKEY

creative director:

MACKENZIE MOORE

managing editor:

production manager:

CHARLIE HICKERSON ALEX TAPPER

art director:

COURTNEY SPENCER

community relations manager:

account manager:

JOE CLEMONS AYLA SITZES

web editor:

TAYLOR RABOIN

film supervisor:

CASEY FULLER

writers:

photographers:

founding team:

ALEXANDER SUPERTRAMP CHARLIE HICKERSON ANDREW SULLIVAN SHELLEY DUBOIS KRISTEN MCDANIEL MATT COLANGELO JON GUGALA MELANIE SHELLEY WELLS ADAMS

DANIELLE ATKINS RYAN GREEN WILL HOLLAND ANDREA BEHRENDS QUINN BALLARD EMILY HALL JESSIE HOLLOWAY ELI MCFADDEN AYLA SITZES

MACKENZIE MOORE JOSHUA SIRCHIO TAYLOR RABOIN

want to work at native? contact:

WORK@NATIVE.IS SALES@NATIVE.IS for all other inquiries: HELLO@NATIVE.IS to advertise, contact:

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Phase 1 Teacher Training with Sid McNairy

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TENNESSEE BREW WORKS

BASIL RYEMAN WRITTEN BY

ALEXANDER SUPERTRAMP A pedigree farmhouse ale brewed in the tradition of Nashville’s storied Mother Church of Country Music, the Basil Ryeman has a playful texture not unlike your favorite childhood cream soda. However, this spicy saison differs by about six-and-a-quarter percent alcohol by volume.

I could ramble about how Christian Spears and Garr Schwartz abandoned the corporate world to follow a passion for beer, or the branding awards they’ve won, or the industrial chic design of the building that houses both the brewery and their Tennessee

TapRoom, or the special resource- and energy-efficient mash filter they use, or their commitment to the “local movement” and partnerships with CSAs, or their emphasis on pairing local musicians with their finely tuned beers, or the fact that they’re one of the newest contributions to what’s quickly becoming “Brewer’s Row” between the Gulch and the Music City Center.

But I’d rather you discover all that on your own. This is about the Basil Ryeman. Brew-virtuosi Christian and Garr have balanced sweetness with an earthy rye malt, Thai basil, and notes of

fennel—a combination that peppers your palate with a pleasant piquancy.

These flavors are bold enough to stand on their own, but also play well with others: cheeses, fish, and big juicy burgers.

Let this tasteful addition to the Nashville craft brew lineup awaken your appetite for savory suds. And if you want to take in a view, some tunes, and beer-centric conversation, the Tennessee TapRoom might be the place for you. As they’ll tell you down on 809 Ewing Avenue, “a rising pint lifts all craft brewers.”

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THE FRANCIE NOLAN “I hate all those flirty-birty games that women make up. Life’s too short. If you ever find a man you love, don’t waste time hanging your head and simpering. Go right up to him and say, ‘I love you. How about getting married?’”

- Bettie Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

THE GOODS 1 oz old Overholt rye 1 oz Auchentoshan Classic Reserve scotch 1 oz Honey Soju* 2 dashes Angostura bitters

*Honey Soju: ¼ cup WARM honey 375 ml Jinro Soju F Shake well

F Pour into a freshly iced rocks glass and garnish with a lemon twist -Ben Clemons and Alexis Soler, No. 308

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A SALAD OF COLD CAPELLINI NOODLES, BUTTER LETTUCE, AND ASSORTED VEGETABLES

BROUGHT TO YOU BY RYAN DAVENPORT, SOUS CHEF AT FLYTE

THE GOODS: FOR THE PONZU COMBINE: 1 cup soy sauce 1 tbsp lemon juice 1 tbsp lime juice 2 oz orange juice

F NATIVE:

What are your favorite local food products?

F RYAN: Bear Creek beef, Lick Creek Farms watermelons,

Bell’s Bend Farms hops, Noble Springs eighteen-monthaged goat’s milk gouda, Buck Snort Apiary whipped honey.

1 thumb-sized piece fresh ginger (peeled and thinly sliced) 1 tsp sesame oil FOR THE CAPELLINI NOODLES: 1/2 pound dried capellini noodles (cooked and chilled in an ice bath, then drained) FOR THE SALAD: 1 head butter lettuce (cored and torn into bite-sized leaves) 1 mango peeled, pitted, medium dice 1 red bell pepper, medium dice 1 jalapeño, small dice 1 small cucumber, medium dice 1 carrot, sliced thinly into rounds 1/4 cup, whole mint leaves 1/4 cup, whole cilantro leaves 1/4 cup, whole basil leaves 1 avocado, pitted and sliced 1 pinch, red pepper flake (optional) Toss in olive oil, salt, and freshly ground black pepper (to taste)

DIRECTIONS: F Preheat the oven to 400˚ F. F Toss the noodles with the ponzu and set aside.

F Sear two 8-ounce Bear Creek beef filets in grapeseed or canola oil. Transfer the meat from the hot pan onto a baking sheet and cook to medium rare (120˚125˚ F internal temperature), roughly 6 minutes.

F Remove the meat from the oven and let rest until it can be handled for slicing.

PLATING: Alternate layers of noodles and salad and top each salad with 4 oz of sliced filet.

PHOTO BY DANIELLE ATKINS

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BY CHARLIE HICKERSON | PHOTOS BY RYAN GREEN | MAKEUP BY LOREN PEARSON

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POP PUNK (AND OTHER STORIES)

HOW JOSEPHINE AND THE WILDFRONT SUCCESSFULLY NAVIGATED THROUGH THE PERILS OF POP PUNK, SHODDY ELECTRICAL WIRING, AND FEDORA SEXISM

(drums), and Devan Köchersperger (bass)—each dressed in black—shuffling around a dimly-lit stage like synth-wielding ghosts. I don’t know if it’s the painfully bleak Tennessee winter, the band’s gloomy attire, or the Morrissey album I listened to while driving down I-24, but the lyrics to “The Antagonist,” a hypnotic, trip hop-y track from the band’s Swallowed by the Ocean EP, start echoing in my head: “Twisted by vile hatred/ Colder than the darkness/ Welcome the antagonist.”

I feel like I’m in for a lighthearted, upbeat afternoon.

“Thanks for driving down here. Do you want any coffee or tea or anything?” Josephine begins with an inviting, closedmouth smile. It isn’t exactly the greeting I was expecting from someone donning a metal bull skull necklace and a Dead Kennedys button on her lapel—or someone who sings lines like “Spit into the bottle / Tie that noose around your neck” over Moog melodies cold enough to make Trent Reznor shudder.

The band leads me to a stairway nook tucked away in the corner. As I fidget with my recorder, I’m expecting a discussion about Kafka, Joy Division, and existential

PURGATORY JOSEPHINE AND THE WILDFRONT LOOK LIKE THEY’RE GOING TO A FUNERAL, AND THE WEATHER ISN’T DOING MUCH TO CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE. It’s forty-five, drizzling, and dismally grey as I walk through the parking lot of Just Love Coffee Roasters, the band’s Murfreesboro practice space/ hangout/ place of part-time employment.

Through the glass front door, I see Josephine Moore (vocals and guitar), Krista Glover (keys and synth), Preston Vaughn

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crises—you know, your everyday, life-ismeaningless-and-absurd type of stuff.

Instead, Krista and Devan start cracking jokes about Franklin’s pop punk scene (which is apparently very active due to Paramore), The Rolie Polie Olie theme song, and Craigslist.

Okay, maybe I am in for a lighthearted, upbeat afternoon.

“Most of the major aspects of my life have come to me through Craigslist— my house, this band, my gear,” chuckles Devan with crossed legs and a straight spine. Though he only joined the band a few months ago, he’s already stepped into the role of the “hip older cousin.”

He’s like your sort-of-weird aunt’s son who dresses cooler than you and uses slang you pretend you’ve heard, but you’re just grateful he’s nice enough to give you a couple of Bowie albums when he visits twice a year.

As a matter of fact, the whole band is a family—at least in some kind of postmodern, non-nuclear sense of the word.

They squeeze into a couch at Just Love like they’re the Simpsons, finish each other’s sentences, look across at each other for answers during our interview, and tease one another relentlessly. As is the case with Homer and Marge, there’s no real dominant parental force in this

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family. While Josephine and Krista are the primary songwriters, they don’t run the band like an oligarchy. Actually, they don’t “run” the band at all. As Krista aptly points out, “We sound like a group that writes all of the songs together instead of a band that just added people as we progressed.”

But Josephine and the Wildfront weren’t always a democratic family unit that trades off ideas. They had to wade through the perils of the Middle Tennessee music community before rising to indie relevance. It all started a long time ago, in a Tennessean county far, far away…

PART ONE: FROM FUNDAMENTALISM TO THE FOLLOWILLS Okay, it actually started ten some-odd years ago in Williamson County, when Josephine’s parents, who are religious documentary makers/activists (they’re currently shooting a film about the conflict in Israel), consented to enrolling her in “real school.” That is, school that wasn’t at home. “My parents didn’t let me listen to secular music or watch TV at all—unless it was Playhouse Disney,” she laughs. “When I went to public school my sophomore year, it was probably the scariest thing I’ve ever expe-

rienced because I was so sheltered. It was the first time I realized people actually talked about sex all the time. Who knew?”

It was also the first time Josephine started taking music seriously. Growing up, writing lyrics and playing guitar had always been a footnote to her real plan: finishing high school early, moving to California, and becoming an actress. But after receiving “encouragement” from her friends—“They basically locked me in a closet and forced me to play this song I wrote for them”—she started to perform the songs she’d hidden since seventh grade.

And then she heard The Strokes and “Trani” by Kings of Leon—or more specifically, the live, Day Old Belgian Blues version of “Trani” by Kings of Leon. “Me and my friend used to listen to that and cry. It’s just so beautiful, and Caleb Followill cries in it, so there’s just a lot of emotion,” she explains as she tears-up.

In nearly perfect unison, her bandmates collectively chime in, “She cries all the time.”

In her defense, Josephine has overproductive tear ducts—seriously, she had surgery for it. Plus, it’s impossible not to get a little emotional as Nashville’s fortunate sons barrel into the

JOSEPHINE AND THE WILDFRONT: native.is/josephine-andthe-wildfront

“Trani” ascending bridge like it’s the last notes they’ll ever play. All Southern-rock-inspired bawling aside, the Followills gave Josephine the last bit of inspiration needed to bring her acoustic originals to local coffee shops. Leave it to the Tennessee public school system, peer pressure, and the garage rock revival to corrupt a religious homeschooler from Franklin.

PART TWO: POP PUNK PURGATORY While Josephine discovered life outside of Playhouse Disney, Krista and Preston were coming of age in a slightly different fashion: namely, by starting a band that became Holy Coast. After burning through various incarnations of the lineup, the band found themselves lead singer-less.

“Josephine and I had been close for two years—and in a relationship for almost half of it—and I loved Jo's solo project,” Krista asserts. So she asked Jo to play rhythm guitar and sing. Thus, a four-piece prototype of Josephine and the Wildfront was born—complete with Taking Back Sunday-esque riffs, lo-fi vocals, Marshall stacks, and Misfits covers.

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TWISTED

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haven. “Now we’re just more fluid.”

Josephine, Krista, and Preston parted with Holy Coast’s lead guitarist, which effectively ended the band. Krista explains, “We couldn’t keeping going as Holy Coast because we couldn’t play any of it. The chorus of one the songs was our guitarist just doing this,” she pauses to do an Eddie Van Halen-style run on an air guitar. Shortly after the split, Josephine got a job at Just Love and continued to write songs as a solo act. That’s when fate—or more accurately, a vintage synthesizer and an unrefusable offer—came into play.

However, there was trouble in pop punk paradise. Holy Coast’s former lead guitarist carried most of the writing responsibility, and the rest of the band began to resent the whole angsty, 170 BPM, distortion pedal thing. Middle Tennessee's pop punk community didn’t exactly respect the notion of a female-fronted band, either. Holy Coast repeatedly ended up on “Girl Power” or “Chick Rock” nights around the area, and Josephine maintains that they would clear the room before even plugging into their amps.

“When we came on, everybody would leave the room. Being from Franklin, I know a lot of boys that play pop punk, and I’ve sat down and had conversations with them about why they don’t think women can play music,” Josephine sighs with exasperation. “That’s just how it is—I knew that if they were pop punk, they’re weren’t going to respect me as a musician because I’m girl.”

Later in the interview, I compare this female pigeon-holing to Reddit sexism, to which Devan replies, “Yeah, the only thing that’s missing is the fedoras.”

To make a long story short, the band saw the writing on the wall: pop punk wasn’t enjoying them, and they weren’t enjoying pop punk. “When we were in Holy Coast, there was a lot of arguing and butting heads. Now, we’re… just a lot friendlier and happier with everyone,” Preston points out, smiling as he reminiscences on their days playing in venues like The Owl Farm, East Nashville’s former punk and hardcore

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PART THREE: WINNING THE BOSS LOTTERY AND THE DEATH OF THE VOYAGER In the food industry, you’re usually lucky if you get a manager that let’s you take vacation time, and you’re even luckier if you get one that doesn’t make you close on weekends. But if you find a boss that records your EP for free and gives you a $5,000 synthesizer, you’re not lucky, you’re blessed. Enter Rob Webb, the founder of Just Love Coffee Roasters. After Kim Franklin, a barista at Just Love and the band’s current manager, gave him a demo of Josephine’s solo material, he insisted on recording her for free in his home studio.

“He told me, ‘I have to record this,’ so we started recording as a solo thing just called Josephine,” Josephine begins. “Then he said, ‘You’re gonna need a live band for this,’ so I said, ‘I don’t want to have a live band, I want to be in a band.” Luckily, she’d just left a band where she was on good terms with two-thirds of the members, and Holy Coast became Josephine and the Wildfront.

Josephine, Krista, and Preston finally had the means to make a record. The only problem? Equipment. “I’ve been playing keys and piano since I was in late elementary school,” Krista says. “I’d been focusing on bass with Holy Coast. So I had keyboards, but they were stuff you’d buy a twelveyear-old—Casios, Yamahas, stuff like that.”

As they added electronic layer upon electronic layer to Swallowed by the Ocean in the studio, the band realized that in order to recreate the EP live, they were going to need a little more than a Casio.

Again, Rob, who is probably entitled to a “World’s Greatest Boss” mug, came through for the band.

“After he produced the album, Rob got really into meditating and decided that he was attached to too many material things. So, he just gave his studio and stuff away to his friends—we got his Minimoog Voyager.” Armed with a highly-coveted synth and a new EP, Josephine and the Wildfront

started playing shows around town.

While setting up at one of those shows, the band watched electricians and soundmen repeatedly attempting to fix problems with the house PA. Skeptical, but not skeptical enough to pack up their gear and drive home, the band plugged in to play. Josephine’s guitar electrocuted her; Krista’s Minimoog (which the band still describes as “a beautiful gift”) instantly fell victim to the shoddy wiring and was destroyed.

They had to cancel the show, hire an attorney, and sell their 1993 Plymouth Voyager van—but, now hopeful they’ll win a $5,000 settlement, the band looks back at the incident as a blessing. “I’m not a spiritual person on any level,” Krista states matterof-factly. “But the phrase to use is ‘blessing in disguise,’ I guess.”

Despite what Josephine and the Wildfront simply refer to as “The Tragedy,” they’re already working on a follow-up to Swallowed by the Ocean, which Preston jokingly describes as “nightmare pop.” Taking on a serious tone, Josephine interjects, “It’s more dynamic, more band-oriented”—and it’s certainly easy to see why.

Josephine, Krista, Preston, and Devan have narrowly escaped the confines of religion, musical death via pop punk, and actual death via electrocution. When I ask about the future of Josephine and the Wildfront, I’m flooded with a sea of answers: “Paramore will be opening for us at Bridgestone,” “A couple of music videos, a few documentaries, a few stints in rehab,” “A death in the band.”

Krista eventually breaks the cacophony, saying in a low voice, “But really, we’re pretty serious about it.”

As I look at this endearingly dysfunctional family in black, huddled together in their nook, I can’t help but believe her. They may be dressed for a funeral, but they definitely aren’t mourning their past.

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It’s raining outside. I won’t resort to hyperbole, but it’s pretty bad out there. It’s only a few hours

before the worst defeat of Peyton Manning’s career, but right now, Ben Dixon and I are just casually speculating on sports—as men who don’t know much about each other often do.

We’re hanging around his shop, Lone Wolf Tattoo, the Broadway location to be exact.

It’s noon and quiet, save for the pitter-patter of raindrops humming in the background.

Some artists are going about their day, making no commotion. Everything seems rather calm and peaceful, despite the fact that myriad depictions of horror engulf every corner and flat surface the shop provides.

In the light of day, Ben plays the role of an unassuming owner of a local tattoo business; but under the light of the full moon, when the cold winds blow and shrieks can be heard ripping across the Cumberland…Did I mention that Ben directs horror films?

Before we sit down into his cut of the store, Ben shows me around the studio, each room occupied by a different artist operating out of Lone Wolf. Fixed all around us are tattoo illustrations and a fantastic array of horror collectibles—notably Leatherface, with

chainsaw raised. Signed headshots of horror notables like Tom Savini and Ken Foree fill the walls alongside photos of Ben’s wife and kids. Welcome to the office of the damned.

Ben moves the conversation along effortlessly. He speaks in a deep, laid-back drawl, like a man who learned his phonemes south and to the west. He’s telling me about a man named Ron Kevie, owner of Forever Yours (one of Nashville’s first tattoo parlors), and Ben's mentor.

“I was going to commercial art school at the time,” says Ben. “Commercial art wasn’t the way I wanted to go, and after I got my second tattoo from Ron, I thought that tattooing might be something I’d like to go into.

So I stopped in, asked him for an apprenticeship, and he told me to get the hell out. So I came back the next day, asked him again, and he said, ‘Go clean my toilets.’ So I did all that, and he said, ‘Get the fuck out of here.’”

Each round of refusal seems to amuse Ben more.

“And so I came back the next day, and the next day, swept the floor, cleaned the parking lot, did all of the worst jobs, get me? He was trying to humiliate me—see if I really wanted it. Well, after two or three weeks of that, he took me on.”

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Ben has this look of even-keeled determination about him. The look of someone who’ll ride through troubled waters if they lie between where he is and where he wants to be. As we speak, he’s the picture of comfort and leisure— one can feel the unshakable composure in his blood. Intent seems to be as much a part of him as the ink pressed into his skin.

After apprenticing under Ron Kevie from 1991 to 1993, Ben found himself briefly working out of a tattoo parlor in New York called Physical Graffiti. While there, he worked alongside tattoo heavyweight Paul Booth, a man widely considered a master of the art form. Tattoos were still far from the mainstream, but New York tattoo culture in the early-tomid-90’s brought in young artists from various backgrounds. The methods of the old school—the simple coloration worn by sailors and military professionals—were giving way to newer tools and

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newer styles.

More complex configurations of interweaving needles were invented. Heightened levels of texture and shading were introduced. Breathtaking depictions of realism and portraiture were now possible in the world of the tattoo.

As Ben shares this knowledge with me, I can’t help but notice the lifelike tattoo of Jack Nicholson as Jack Torrance photographed and displayed in Ben’s studio.

It’s the classic axe-through-the-bathroom-door scene. You can almost hear Jack screaming, “HERE’S JOHNNY!” “It was good for me up there,” says Ben. “I kind of caught it at the right time.

I learned about business—a guy named Steve Ferguson taught me how to run a shop. So that’s when I decided to come back to Nashville and open up.”

And so the first incarnation of Lone Wolf opened in Mt. Juliet.

“I started Lone Wolf on my own. I was originally going to call the shop Sacred

Ground Tattoo. On my father’s side is where I have my Indian heritage, and I wanted the name to represent those beliefs.” Ben has a tattoo of a Native American chief in black running up his right sleeve—Paul Booth’s work.

“It was my dad who suggested that I call it Lone Wolf.”

The symbol of the wolf has appeared a number of times throughout Ben’s life. When he was twelve, his father took him bear hunting in Montana. The guide service that lead him to his first ursine kill bore the name Lone Wolf. His grandmother on his father’s side had the maiden name Wolfe. Much like the mythologies of the Native tribes, Ben has found a connection between strength, perseverance, and the wolf.

Soon Lone Wolf outgrew its Mt. Juliet accommodations, expanding into Lebanon, Franklin, and Midtown Broadway.

By 1996, business was coming in steady and strong at Lone Wolf, strong enough

for Ben to pursue other interests independent of tattoo—namely horror. After taking a ten-week makeup effects course in Orlando, FL, Ben returned to Nashville and started getting work on music videos and short films.

“There was no one around here doing horror makeup. I got called to do a couple of short films, and after I got to work on set, that was all it took. I was blown away by the whole process. And after working on a feature film with this guy, I thought to myself, ‘Well man, if he can do it, then why can’t I do it?’” Ben confides.

Fast-forward to 2002, when Ben wrote and directed his first film, Skarecrow, which Lionsgate picked up for their Dark Harvest series. Ben took the money earned from Skarecrow and put it to work on his next film, Wolfsbayne, where he met his wife, actress and makeup artist Stacey Dixon.

Stacey, as Ben puts it, is integral to pening,” he starts. “I told my wife Stacey, what they do. When she isn’t assist- ‘I don’t know how much more I want to ing him with film, she’s organizing the go on with this. We’ve tried, we’ve done Nashville Full Moon Festival, the duo’s our best, y’know?’ It’s crazy ‘cause when horror and tattoo convention held annu- you have success straight from the beally in Nashville’s downtown convention ginning, it’s frustrating when you can’t center (it takes place in April this year). get your work sold.”

Ben had reached the borders of his Originally a tattoo expo exclusively, the convention grew another head after Ben territory. Unsure of how to move forand Stacey worked on a film with Gun- ward, he took a little time off, and as it nar Hansen (of Texas Chainsaw Mas- had done in the blood of his ancestors, sacre fame). Coming into its thirteenth the wolf showed him a path apart from year (quite a telling number, no?) the this world.

“Fifteen years ago, my dad was dying of Nashville Full Moon Tattoo and Horror Festival is one of the first events to play lung cancer. He read a lot. He was very serious this one day, and he handed me matchmaker for horror and tattoo.

The only thing that’s left for him is the this book and said, ‘You need to read next hunt, tracking the prize and tasting this, this is horror.’ It was called The Toits blood on his teeth. And for Ben, this tem, by David Morrell (First Blood, Rambo, next cut is personal—it’s an homage and and Desperate Measures), and I’d tucked it away on my shelf for years and years. a symbol.

“I’d reached a point in 2011 where we’d It wasn’t until I hit this wall in 2011 that I tried to sell our films and it wasn’t hap- took that book off the shelf. It just stood

“I TOLD MY WIFE, ‘I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH MORE I WANT TO GO ON WITH THIS. WE’VE TRIED, WE’VE DONE OUR BEST...’”

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hatWRKS: Located at 1027 8th Avenue S. hatwrks.com native.is/hatwrks

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out—The Totem. I carried that book with me, almost devoured it, and immediately in my head I could see the movie.”

Ben contacted the author and they put together a deal to get the rights for the book, which took about ten months. “So I finally get the contract and I’m signing it, and I look at the date,” Ben begins. “It’s October the 8th. October 8th was the exact date that my dad had passed away fifteen years before.”

Sometimes truth is stranger than horror-fiction. Whether or not one believes in the supernatural is inconsequential to the circumstances. For Ben, the pattern is coming full circle: his father, who was essential in guiding him towards the name Lone Wolf, is now guiding him from beyond the grave to his next task, The Totem. The blood of the Native ancestry is moving through the cadet branches of his veins.

Currently in pre-production, The Totem looks to be Ben and Stacey’s most ambitious project yet. With a projected budget in the millions, a team of dedicated horror professionals (including Ken Foree, Sid Haig, and Bill Moseley), and a whole host of information one isn’t at liberty to discuss, The Totem has the potential for greatness.

“I think one of the biggest challenges is going to be proving to the production company that signs with us that I can do it,” Ben says matter-of-factly.

“I’ve done four micro-budget films, a handful of music videos, some short films, and documentaries, but it won’t add up to much in their eyes. So I feel that’s going to be my biggest challenge: being able to direct this and keeping my visions my own. All I told them was to give me a chance. Give me the opportunity. But at the end of the day, we hold the rights, so we hold some cards as well.”

“The golden rule,” he says to me before I step back out into the rain.

“He who has the gold makes the rules.

They’ve got the gold, sure, but,” he says with a grin and pointing to The Totem, “we’ve got some gold too.”

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Of course Kevin Perryman wants you to wear great clothes from his vintage boutique Local Honey. But he also thinks you look great just the way you are

By Shelley DuBois | Photos by Andrea Behrends

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It’s nine o’clock on a Tuesday night, and Kevin Perryman, co-owner of

Nashville’s vintage boutique and hair stop Local Honey, is spinning soul at a bar. The spot, called Canvas, is lit red and orange.

Kevin works the turntables on a platform in the back, past a curtain of wooden frames suspended high from the ceiling. Behind him is a nautical, portal-type window lined with Christmas lights. He’s on a podium, surrounded by a couple of chairs occupied by beautiful people (his crew).

Kevin is an approachable DJ—he’s fair skinned, red-haired, and wears fashionable glasses. He smiles big and commits when he laughs, leaning back into it. Instead of retreating into the zone of his headphones, he moves on and off the platform, fine-tuning music and talking to friends. The people around him wear outfits just interesting enough to catch your eye without making a scene—everyday garb at first pass, but splashed with a shiny surface or gold chain necklace.

“We dress people during the day, and they come in and dance with us at night,” Kevin says. Many of the people who work or shop at Local Honey also go to Tuesday nights at Canvas, an event called “Strange Brew.”

“That’s a big part of how we founded the business, on Kevin’s DJing popularity,” says Luke Tidwell, Kevin’s best friend. Luke is a Nashville-based designer who co-owns Local Honey with Kevin. When they set up shop three-and-a-half years ago, Kevin had a following “that helped us make this much more profitable than if it was just two dudes opening a store,'" Luke claims.

At one point, Kevin leaves his post to dance with his boyfriend Evan Magness, a handsome, warm-eyed man wearing jeans and a backwards cap. “When we were in college, Kevin was well-known as the best dancer around,” says Luke. “He could freak on people, juke on people, drop it, pop it, lock it, shake it, crank it. He was the real deal.”

To understand the evolution of Local Honey, you’ve got to go back—before the

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soul music on Tuesdays, before Nashville even—to Clinton, Mississippi, where Kevin met a long-haired teenager who would be a major part of his life.

Clinton is Luke’s hometown, and Kevin was visiting a friend there. Their first encounter was not magical. “He was this weird red-headed dude. I wasn’t on his vibe,” Luke explains. “I had a Jim Morrison thing going on.”

Fast-forward to 1996 when Belmont University was courting Luke to play soccer. In an effort to woo him, recruiters showed off the snazziest dorm room on campus.

“Somebody had tricked that dorm room out!” Luke remembers. He was impressed— it turns out it belonged to that dude he met one time in his home town. “His mentality was not ‘I’m going to just live in junk,’ so he had it nice,” says Luke.

Luke believes there’s some truth to author Malcolm Gladwell’s theory that a person can master a task after 10,000 hours of practice. That’s why Kevin’s dorm room looked so good, because he had thoughtfully showcased his clothing since the sixth grade.

“I would pick up magazines and lookbooks at the department stores, and I would try to create my own,” Kevin says. “I would take inventory of all the things in my closet—this is no joke—as a sixth grader. I would know every shirt that was in there and everything that went with that shirt, and on the daily, I’d plan my outfit.”

Kevin’s dad even helped his little middle-school son make a mall-worthy layout in their house in the Atlanta suburbs. Together, they built a clothing display in his room, modeled after the Ralph Lauren department store section. They also turned Kevin’s closet into a DJ booth.

“Growing up Christian, I was super involved in the church, too,” Kevin says. “My parents were actually the ones saying, ‘You can be whoever you want to be. If you don’t want to be gay, then we’ll help you not be gay.’ So they paid for counseling. I even relocated to have some intense counseling

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LOCAL HONEY: Located at 2009 Belmont Blvd. localhoneynashville.blogspot.com Follow on Facebook @localhoneynashville or Instagram @local_honey

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on a daily basis. Then when I said, ‘It really didn’t work, and this is who I am,’ my parents said, ‘Well great, now you know who you are.’”

Kevin stayed involved in the church at Belmont, where he helped plan a Christian event called “Flight 747.” At the end of the event, a dance troop—“Troop 747”—performed a routine that Kevin choreographed.

“You were churchy,” Luke says to Kevin. “But it wasn’t fake.”

Belmont is a Christian school that only ended its formal relationship with the Tennessee Baptist Convention in 2007. “When we first went to Belmont, you couldn’t be gay,” Luke said. “It’s changed a lot.” Kevin took some time to reconcile all the different parts of himself. He says Luke encouraged him to come out of the closet.

“I was like, ‘You’re never going to be happy unless you are yourself,’” Luke says. “At that time, people didn’t think that way in Nashville.” But even though Belmont could be a hostile environment for gay people, Luke remembers Kevin’s self-discovery as beautiful.

“Kevin was able to hold on to the better parts of religion and let go of the oppressive parts.”

Throughout his years at college, Kevin kept his closet sharp and color-coded. It’s how he created a world that makes sense to him—by crafting small, visual stories out of space and clothes.

When he graduated in 2000, Kevin went to New York and got a job working at upscale hair salon Bumble and bumble. By 2006, beauty conglomerate Estée Lauder bought Bumble and bumble and began restructuring—they let Kevin go four years later.

“Kevin called or texted me and said, ‘Man, I need to do something,’” Luke remembers.

“So we decided to make something happen and not just sit on our asses and tell a sad story.”

Luke spotted Kevin three grand and told him to buy clothes with the money, move to Nashville, and get something going in fashion. So Kevin did—he lived with Luke and his wife in their condo for about nine months.

There, they launched a line they called Tidwell and Perryman. They scraped it together in Luke’s living room, but treated it

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“SO WE DECIDED TO MAKE SOMETHING HAPPEN AND NOT JUST SIT ON OUR ASSES AND TELL A SAD STORY.”

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like a top-tier brand, com- everything in here with our own piling a portfolio and look- hands—just me and Kevin.”

Today, Local Honey is all clean books. They built a mock display, a sophisticated white lines and weathered hardversion of Kevin’s sixth wood. One room has a mounted metal deer head (painted white) grade room.

The first time they above a faux fireplace. Hangers showed their line, they hold their contemporary take disassembled their living on the requisite vintage pieces— room construction and flannel shirts, cotton knit sweatrebuilt it at a vintage fair ers, leather jackets—and flashier in East Nashville. Shea wear like patterned jumpsuits Steele, then-owner of Lo- and a spangly gold bra.

The clothes on the rack are cal Honey, was there, saw their booth, and agreed to hand-picked by Kevin or one of meet with Luke and Kevin his curators, many of whom show up at Strange Brew. Kevin’s co-DJ to talk Nashville fashion.

She ended up offering “Huntee” (aka Hunter Thompthem a chance to sell their son) runs a line of clothes called stuff in her store. Luke EPICENE. The word means remembers the hand-off: something or someone that has “She was like, ‘Just turn it characteristics of both sexes or over. I’ll charge you hardly neither, and that’s how his line anything to be in here, just looks—full of dark-toned, flowy pieces unrestricted by gender. sell your men’s clothes.’”

The jumpsuits, on the other That’s how it started: two awkward kids who hand, belong to a line called the met in small-town Missis- BALEE COLLECTION, curated sippi bonded over a clean by Balee Greer. “Balee dresses dorm room at a Christian the modern riot grrrl,” Kevin says. school. Different as hell— “She’s all about the 90s, and that’s but both Virgos, they say— her moment.”

Finally, Evan works the MAGLuke and Kevin schemed about getting involved in NESS line, which speaks to the design and fashion. In the cultured Southern woman. He aftermath of the collapse likes high-end, hand-dyed silks— of the world economy, they took career woman clothes. But vina chance on a tabled dream with tage.

The compilation of styles $3,000-worth of secondhand clothes and a pop-up fashion attracts starving artists, drag shop in East Nashville. Slowly, queens, models and even Frankthey colonized Local Honey, lin housewives who drive to the spreading their vision through little shop on Belmont Boulevard friends, a little DJing, and down- in their BMWs. It’s a place for all kinds of kinds. and-dirty manual labor.

According to Kevin, the main Last year, Luke and Kevin bought the whole store from Shea, goal is not to inflict a set fashion and now it’s their show. Looking sense on people, but to let them around the dark plywood salon express themselves by finding a on the second floor of the store, fresh way to fold the one-off piecLuke says, “I think we’ve built es at Local Honey into their ward-

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Weddings, birthdays, corporate events, club meetings

robes. Because they have had previous lives, Kevin believes the clothes have their own little souls, and that makes them more approachable. Approachability is important, since Kevin wants people to wear the garments he curates, even if they’re wild.

It’s like his music—Kevin’s philosophy of spinning is not to show off the deep cuts he knows, but to make the people move.

“The party’s got to be jumping,” he says. “If you’re not dancing, that’s a problem.”

In fact, he’s got an ace in the hole to get the dance floor rowdy. It’s “You Gotta Be” by Des’ree. “You drop a bass beat with it and you mix it? Son! You have got them on lock,” he snaps his fingers. “They’re grinding.”

Kevin knows that the whole scene— the vintage clothes, the beautiful stylists, the DJ sets—walks the line of living the dream and becoming overly hip. But Luke and Kevin seem wired to make it work.

“You would probably look at vintage and maybe the way we look and think we’re laid back,” Luke says. “We’re not laid back at all. We’re on our grind, I promise you that. We are on our grind every day.” Sure, Luke thinks clothes can bring out the inner you.

But at the same time, on some level, people need to cover their junk and keep warm. He says it’s important to laugh at the facade you present to the world.

And anyway, says Kevin, most of the time, “You look awesome not because of the garment but because you’re in it”—in the moment, he means, being a person.

In fact, “You are OK” was Tidwell and Perryman’s original slogan. People spend a lot of energy trying to be something they’re not, Kevin says, instead of just being.

He moves his hands, controlled, up and down. “You’re fine, relax. You’re good.”

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THE BIGGER PICTURE NICK DRYDEN, CO-OWNER OF DA|AD, CREATES PLACES—NOT JUST BUILDINGS— AND HE’S CONNECTING PEOPLE IN THE PROCESS

BY KRISTEN MCDANIEL | PHOTOGRAPHY BY QUINN BALLARD

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Nick Dryden loves the mystery of “in between” spaces: those spots where you can grab a beer after a long day, order “the regular” without looking at the menu, and hug the employees before you go home. Burger Up, Billy Reid, Peter Nappi, and The 404 are just a few of his favorite projects, partly because he never thought they would be so important to this city. His vibrant yet intimate atmospheres facilitate our interactions with both the designed environment and each other.

Nick views architecture as a transformative process—one that combines the arts, history, and music of this city within one medium. Rather than focusing on just one piece of the puzzle—one building, one space, or one project—Nick likes stepping back to take in the bigger picture. He creates design through narration, transforming his clients’ language into thought-provoking spaces.

Within the walls of what used to be a cement-mixing truck garage, I sit down with Nick at his office on White Avenue to learn more about his work and what makes architecture in Nashville beautiful.

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What’s your favorite neighborhood in Nashville?

I’ve always had this special affinity for Germantown. What makes it interesting is that it’s mixed use—family-owned spots that have been around for decades still thriving next to the industrial, manufacturing businesses. When I lived there, places like City House were our neighborhood watering holes.

We were there all the time. This neighborhood just has layers to it—people living and working in

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this historical place that’s just a hop away from the downtown buzz. And architecturally, while some of the original fabric may be faded, there’s still a lot there that’s worth paying attention to.

What brought you here in the first place?

The music culture gives Nashville a good industry backbone; it’s the best of both worlds to live in a small town and still benefit from the ebb and flow of talent into and out of

the city. With those bigger cultural influences so prevalent, I kind of realized I didn’t have to go to New York, L.A., London, or whatever.

Rather than just adding water to the ocean, there was a lot of bubbling opportunity here, and I knew I could make an impact. For architecture, it’s important to be in a place where people are educated on design and interested in pursuing provocative things. After I found that here, I had no reason to leave.

So it’s safe to say music influences the work you do, right?

Well, I kind of like to fantasize that architects here are like songwriters perpetuating the Nashville tradition. I worked with Marty Stuart on a project once, and he’s just one of those legends that I could just sit with my hands folded beneath my chin and listen to forever. After just chatting for hours and getting to know him, he turned to me and said, “Ya know what? I like you, Nick Dryden—you’re nothing but

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“RATHER THAN JUST ADDING WATER TO THE OCEAN, THERE WAS A LOT OF BUBBLING OPPORTUNITY HERE, AND I KNEW I COULD MAKE AN IMPACT.”

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a songwriter.” It was just the most beautiful thing. Music and architecture are similar in that regard. They’re both all about collaboration and finding your plateau with people through your shared passions.

Because you collaborate so much, do you have to compromise your designs?

You have to listen and be the filter to some degree. You’re kind of like a curator in that regard.

You build a show from different people’s works, which is an art in itself. Urban-wise, Nashville isn’t the greatest city, so for us, it’s like piecing the city back together. I’m not alone, either.

There are a handful of architects here who have really taken on this challenge. It would be much easier for us to do more lucrative/design-y things, but we run our business with headaches. We joke that we should be a nonprofit because that isn’t how people make money, but for us, it’s all about going back and connecting those

dots for the bigger picture. The growth of Nashville startles a lot of people—we don’t want to become another concrete city. But by creating places instead of just buildings, you sort of facilitate a culture of growth and you don’t have as much of a disconnect.

When you go into creating something, what are you the most interested in?

For us, it’s all about creating memorable places. We are honestly more interested in the experience left behind than the design of it all, which let’s us work on a mix of things. I always get questions like “What buildings have you done?” because people expect architects to have this identifier. I don’t really have that. Instead, I get excited about people going through neighborhoods with our work and just awing at the collective experience of it. Maybe I didn’t create the Batman Building, but getting those people on the sidewalks and reani-

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Did you know?

90 MINUTES OF HOT YOGA burns 800 to 1300 CALORIES

mating those dead neighborhoods… that’s what makes it worth it.

You are so sure of all this—were you the same way when you decided to go into architecture?

Yeah, but I fought it for a while. My dad is an architect and my grandfather was an architect, so I definitely rebelled but finally fell into the family business. I was always building stuff and drawing as a kid, and it was just a matter of time until I was on my dad’s coattails, begging him to take me to a job sites. I really enjoyed rolling up my sleeves and immersing myself in the work— construction and all. I’d go to those sites and talk with everyone from the overseers to the construction workers. I never had a perfect manicure or an array of business suits because I was all about getting in there and getting my hands dirty. I still like to think of my work today in that way—it just makes it more personal.

How do you get inspired?

Sometimes you start with small things you’re drawn to, but a lot of times, inspiration comes from dialogue. It’s all about developing a narrative and transforming it into physical form. That’s what really jump-starts a project for me. That conversation with who you’re working with about “why do you like this street” or “what are you drawn to in this building” is so important because our process is all about our clients. This town generates it’s own creative energy because people are good about collaborating and sharing, and that in itself is pretty amazing. The architecture community here is pretty tight too, and while it can be competitive, there’s plenty of room for people to do their own thing. For now, I just feel lucky to be here at this time. There’s just some special stuff happening.

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ATIVE IVENNASH ASHVI VILLE LLE ##NNAT

THE LAZARUS HOUSE The story of a dying house and the owners who revived it

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Walking into The Treehouse for dinner, you wouldn’t think about the building’s past. You wouldn’t know that the

hundred-year-old wooden floorboards are original and were only discovered during renovation; that the well-appointed kitchen used to be someone’s bedroom; or that the tables, chairs, and bar top were all hand-made from original wood framing. All you’d see,

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like I saw, is a room full of people eating and drinking under the yellow glow of thirty Edison bulbs.

What you’d miss, like I missed, is the history that makes this restaurant so authentic and remarkable—a history that stretches back to the era of Thomas Edison himself, or more precisely, eight years before Edison died.

We have to go back to 1923, a boom year in which Time Magazine opened

for business and Yankee Stadium opened its gates to the most fans ever in a baseball stadium. It was the year that the Hollywood sign was erected, Pancho Villa was assassinated, and President Warren G. Harding died of a stroke. Outside of North America, it was the year that hyperinflation reached its karmic peak in Germany, and the year that the Russian Civil War ended.

Though it wasn’t in the news, 1923 was also the year that a modest singlefamily home was built in East Nashville at 1011 Clearview Avenue. We don’t know much about the people who built this house, except that they were not especially gifted at paying their bills on time. Relics include several past-due utility bills and a pastdue library notice from the Lockeland Library for Snow White (for which a

boy called “Dickey” was responsible and probably grounded).

Situated at the center of Five Points, between Historic Edgefield and Lockeland Springs, 1011 Clearview witnessed the destruction of a promising, up-and-coming neighborhood. In 1923, East Nashville was recovering and rebuilding, seven years after a terrible fire turned 500 houses into smoldering rubble and left over 2,500 people

homeless.

While 1011 Clearview missed the fire, the house definitely was affected by the Tornado of 1933, which destroyed a large swath of land from East Nashville to Lebanon. From accounts on the ground, it’s likely that the house would have sustained serious wind damage, perhaps enough to tear off its roof and knock out its south-facing windows.

It’s a miracle the house wasn’t leveled.

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THE TREEHOUSE: Located at 1011 Clearview Ave treehousenashville.com Follow on Facebook @treehousenashville native.is/the-treehouse

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COREY A total of 1,400 homes, sixteen churches, thirtysix stores, five factories, four schools, and one library were damaged in the tornado—which gives you a sense not only of the tornado’s destruction, but also of how gentrified East Nashville was before the tornado.

The house at 1011 Clearview withstood this natural disaster, which occurred during a more prolonged economic disaster known as the Great Depression, and it survived the resulting de-gentrification of East Nashville. By 1993, the area had worsened and the house had fallen into enough disrepair that it was bought for pennies on the dollar: $45,000 by Nashville fiddle legend Buddy Spicher (pronounced “Spiker”). He had recently purchased the house next door for $22,000—prices that wouldn’t have been unusual in the 1920s but fit snugly into the session musician’s tight budget.

That’s where our two protagonists come in: Matt Spicher (Buddy’s son, forty-five) and Corey Ladd (Buddy’s grandson and Matt’s nephew, thirty-one). They grew up in the house, broke rules in the house, and eventually turned it into the profitable business we know today as The Treehouse (named after the actual tree house that Buddy built in the backyard).

Their stories about growing up at 1011 Clearview paint a very different picture of the Five Points area. Corey remembers Grandma Spicher shooting a lawnmower thief with a paintball gun and people stumbling out of a seedy bar called Shirley’s Place on Woodland Street (where 3 Crow is now). Matt recalls a next-door neighbor named “Sweet Willie” who got arrested for “running prostitutes and drugs” out of his house. To echo a euphemism that Corey and Matt employ repeatedly: it was a different time back then.

Despite the area’s shortcomings and their limited budget, the Spichers fixed up the house with the help of local labor. What they lacked in construction tools (like levels and tape measures) they made up for in pluck and ingenuity. Matt describes the time his family lived in the house as two decades of “hobo craftsmanship.” Paying the hobos presented another difficulty: “If you paid them too early, they would disappear and head straight for Shirley’s. If you didn’t pay them enough, your skill saw and drills would disappear.” They made sure to pay them decently and on time.

Since the Spichers didn’t have the means to demolish and rebuild the house, it became a

constant work-in-progress. Over the twenty years that they lived there, they slowly fixed and added things to the property: fresh paint, tiles, new kitchen appliances, green Formica countertops, you name it.

So imagine the family’s surprise when, in 2012, Corey shared his idea for The Treehouse Restaurant and Bar, the first step of which would be to completely gut the house. He would be dismantling twenty years of hard work and hobo craftsmanship. He would be turning a nearly hundred-year-old home into a financially uncertain restaurant. To quote his grandfather Buddy Spicher: “Do you know how to make a million dollars in the restaurant business? Start with two million.”

Corey dove headlong into the renovation project with his grandparents’ blessing and a passion bordering on a bankruptcy wish. What he lacked more than anything were the finances. To start the demolition, he sold a house he owned down the street for a $20,000 profit. He spent that money on thirty-foot dumpsters and beer, and he convinced his friends to help him knock down walls. The demolition took about six months and cost way more than $20,000.

During the demolition process, Corey uncovered artifacts in the house that had been hidden for years. The original wooden floorboards were found intact, just a couple feet below the floor. Inside the fireplace were $3 utility collection notices from the ‘30s and ‘40s. So was Dickey’s past-due library notice from the Lockeland Library. They even found Mason jars under the house, presumably from the 1920s. Corey and his friends salvaged these materials and turned them into the tables, chairs, benches, light fixtures, tea mugs, and bar top that now grace The Treehouse. In fact, almost all of The Treehouse’s interior is recycled from the original house.

But recycling the building materials didn’t solve the financial problem of how to pay for it all: the demolition, renovation, licensing, and everything else you need to open a restaurant.

Enter Uncle Matt, who “put the investment together” to keep the bank from foreclosing on what little was left of the asset. Though he

REMEMBERS

GRANDMA

SPICHER SHOOTING A LAWNMOWER

THIEF WITH A PAINTBALL

GUN.

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doesn’t disclose exactly how significant this investment was, he suggests that it was north of $300,000. Something tells me it was well north of that figure. In any case, it was money well spent.

Once Uncle Matt was on board, Corey built out the rest of The Treehouse team with friends from the Nashville food scene. Having worked for five years as a sushi chef around town, he knew some people who could help out. To helm the back of house, he picked Chef Todd Alan Martin, a rising star in Nashville who studied at the Culinary Institute of America and worked at high-end spots such as Miel and Lockeland Table. His menu is a surprising and appropriately homey combination of Latin American and Southern cuisine. Cornbread with Mexican Anasazi beans, for example, is an item that not only looks good on the plate, but is something you can nestle into on a cold winter night. Nothing too fancy, but that’s the point.

To manage the bar and front of house, Corey and Matt nabbed David Fisher. David’s experience developing drink menus and setting up point-of-sale systems stretches from Nashville to NYC to Los Angeles, where he’s worked at big-name spots such as Beauty Bar. Besides a deep knowledge of wine and cocktails, what he adds to the team is restaurant management experience. Actually, he’s the only one with management experience. (While in college, Matt managed a college bar in Murfreesboro called 527 Main Street, but that was years ago and a different type of establishment.)

Together, this four-person team turned a tumbledown house with history into a homey restaurant with a future. Corey had the original idea, Matt found the financing, Todd brought the food, and David melded everything into a coherent whole. When The Treehouse is on its game, you see the food, drinks, and décor all contributing to an experience that is both relaxing and intriguing at the same time. It is an homage to the history of the house (and the materials hidden within it) as well as an attempt to experiment with food and drink. It is a place that mixes old and new, familiar and unfamiliar, in equal parts.

This mixture is reflected in the interior of the restaurant, which was designed to mimic the dreamy nostalgic feeling of an actual tree house.

The finishings, which Corey and Matt made themselves, give the restaurant a comfortable,

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domestic feel while also evoking a sense of wonder and discovery. “Remember what it felt like to go up in a tree house?” they ask me.

The bathrooms are full of old fantasy and science books: Einstein, Galileo, Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, as well as a couple Boy Scout and Girl Scout handbooks and some adolescent coming-of-age novels. Also in the bathroom is a steampunk submarine panel that Matt built, with a bunch of fake gauges and knobs. It’s hard not to imagine yourself as Dickey, the adolescent boy who originally lived in the house and took out books from the Lockeland Library down the street.

The homey feeling at The Treehouse comes from all the recycled materials: the original floors, the old mantles that are now being used for bathroom shelving, the old door knobs that were turned into coat hooks. Matt explains how they even repurposed old two-by-fours: “We took all that wood and cut it up into pieces, and that’s the table you’re sitting at. And the chairs, they used to be the walls.” Nearly every physical object in the restaurant is repurposed.

What makes this recycled design serendipitous is the fact that some of these materials were only rediscovered during the demolition process, like the original floors and Mason jars.

Without the demolition, Corey and Matt would not have uncovered these materials—and they wouldn’t have used them in the design. In Corey’s words, “The history came out of the house when we were doing the demolition.”

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The process of physical rediscovery that informed the interior design of The Treehouse parallels a process of culinary rediscovery that is transforming Nashville and Southern food culture. Chefs and bartenders are returning to local ingredients, reading old cookbooks, and experimenting with new applications of those flavors—whether they’re Southern or South American. Like Corey and Matt, they’re using older ingredients to create new taste profiles.

This old-made-new trend is particularly popular in Nashville, a city that is long on history and forgotten foodstuffs. Chef Todd’s menu isn’t New Southern per se— it’s more New South American—but it’s reimagining old flavors in a similar way.

The same goes for David Fisher’s drink menu, whose cocktails adopt but skew traditional liquor combinations. The Medicina Latina, for example, is a Latin take on the Penicillin that uses tequila instead

of Scotch.

In areas like Germantown and East Nashville, where new restaurants are opening on a weekly basis, this culinary rediscovery is fueling rapid neighborhood revitalization. It’s stimulating the local economy, generating national press, and re-branding Nashville as a food city in the process (it’s also raising rents).

The Treehouse is a relative latecomer to this revitalization effort, but a significant one: as a historic-house-to-restaurant conversion, it’s a physical embodiment of the urban revitalization that’s taking place. It’s not a concept restaurant that ignores the neighborhood’s history.

On the contrary, it’s a restaurant that revives the neighborhood’s history. It’s not just an addition to the neighborhood; it’s a product of the neighborhood and the neighborhood’s pioneers, people like the Spichers who settled there and worked there.

Matt and Corey want The Treehouse to “feel like a home” for people in Five Points, especially the “late-night niche” of kitchen staffers and bartenders who get out of work late. To make that happen, they did something remarkable: instead of building a new home; they excavated the home that was already there. They revived the history of 1011 Clearview and incorporated it into the restaurant. Now, when you go to The Treehouse, you won’t just see entrées and Edison bulbs. You’ll see a forty-two-seat home that was ninety-one years in the making.

we’ve got lunch, and we deliver it.

WAGS

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It’s Your Move.

2206 21st Ave South #200 615-369-6151 nashvillecityliving.com

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BAGMEN TUCKER & BLOOM’S DAVID AND CASE BLOOM ARE MAKING THE BETTER BAG.

BY JON GUGALA PHOTOGRAPHY BY JESSIE HOLLOWAY

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“IT’S ALWAYS BEEN OUR RELATIONSHIP, BOUNCING IDEAS BACK AND FORTH.”

NO ONE KNOWS WHERE TUCKER & BLOOM IS. Never heard of it. That’s the first thing you learn when you’re trying to find Tucker & Bloom.

The internet sure as hell knows who Tucker & Bloom is. Sites are glutted with glowing reviews of the company’s bags. They’re legendary in the worldwide record community thanks in part to a collaboration with iconic DJ Rich Medina. And just in time for last year’s gift-giving season, Jack White’s Third Man Records (motto: “Your Turntable’s Not Dead”) announced a special edition of the company’s popular North To South Messenger Bag, which can hold twenty or more records. Tucker & Bloom have a distributor in the high-end Asian markets, and like that Tom Waits song, they’re big in Japan.

But in East Nashville, the floating blue dot of my GPS says I’m here, and I’ve parked in a strip mall off Main, confident I’ll be able to see it. Or Maybe if I walk a little bit, I’ll see it.

I don’t see it.

There’s no Tucker & Bloom marquis in lights or a storefront of sparkling glass; I just see north Gallatin, with its beauty supply stores and cell phone shops and gyro palaces. A barbeque grill that looks like a modified oil drum is belching smoke into the light snow that’s coming down.

Case Bloom, the younger half of the fatherand-son business, will later describe their company as serving “a global market, but niche. We have to look at them first and foremost.” Because of that, Tucker & Bloom don’t mind a well-hidden location, and they’ve succeeded, because the people I’ve asked—two women leaving a salon, the owner of the barbeque place—have no idea. My interview is supposed to be right now. So I call.

“Can you see a building with an underwater mural on it?”

It’s fifty feet ahead, and I walk toward it, hooking left down a long parking lot lined with brown, subdivided factory spaces that seem to get bigger the farther I go. These aren’t retail shops; these are the laboratories of mad craftsmen with dust in their eyebrows. In the back corner, where the building forms the crook of an “L,” Case pops his head out the door to make sure I find him. A small Tucker & Bloom sticker in the corner of the window belatedly announces I’ve arrived.

Case is a compact man, efficient, and young, with an intense personality that doesn’t waste

words. He’s wearing a beanie and a sweater and a week’s worth of black beard; if it wasn’t for his manner, you’d expect him to be loitering in a coffee shop.

The factory layout was designed by Case’s father, David Bloom, the other half of the company, based on his experience working for a Japanese fashion company with a factory in Long Island City. It’s split between two floors, with the cutting room above. But this isn’t so much a sweatshop as it is a toyshop, and from the sewing machines in the center of the room, the detritus of avant garde design gets pushed to the edges: prototype bags clutter an old couch next to David’s desk in the corner, and oil paintings and photography look down at the workshop from the walls.

David Bloom is reclining in an office chair in the back corner where his workspace is. He’s fifty-nine, with chunky tortoiseshell glasses and a white, grizzled beard somewhere between a week or two old, the kind cowboys would grow on a cattle drive. Which is fitting considering David has worked with leather for over thirty years in the fashion industry. He’s done it all from building his own line when he was twenty-one to running it for eight years before he began contracting with high-end brands like Couregé, Valentino, Hartmann, and Coach.

And it shows in his body language: a steady slouch back in the seat and crossed legs which seem to say that at this point in his life, there is nothing new under the sun.

I ask Case what it’s like, growing up the son of a bagman. “Rolls of leather were stashed away where normal people might keep canned goods,” Case says. “There were leather scraps everywhere. And then there was the smell of it—just being around it all the time.”

There were the childhood vacations, where David would make Case a bag out of bark or some other alternative material. “I remember being in third, fourth grade, and coming up with some idea and talking to him about it, and then we would figure out how to make something,” Case says. “It’s always been our relationship, bouncing ideas back and forth.”

It’s not long before Case and David start to swap family stories.

David remembers, “When Case was very young, he used to make macramé products. I remember clearly having the discussion with him about how you need to price these things so you make money. The whole idea of paying # NAT I V ENAS HV I L L E

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mous for its programs in design, and Dayourself, not just—“ vid was splitting time between Nashville “Covering materials,” Case says.

“Covering materials, yeah,” David and New York, where he was working agrees. “You need to understand what as a designer for Coach. Nashville was a you want to make on an hourly basis and wonderful city, David remembers thinkwhat it takes for you to do that, and the ing, but his family belonged with him and his work was in New York. So, in the late profit margin. It was Business 101.”

But David never pressured Case to months of 2001, just as Case was beginget into bags. These were discussions ning his senior year, the family put a “For more about the business of art in general, Sale” sign in the front yard of their Nashwhich Case was pursuing, working in oils ville home.

“Then 9/11 happened,” Case says, “and and charcoals at Hume Fogg and then later at Hillsboro High School. His art essentially, the industry collapsed.”

David watched the planes hit the towexcelled even as he battled intense isolation. Uprooted from New York, he found ers from the sample room window at himself in a city with a much smaller Jew- Coach on 33rd and Avenue of Americas.

His apartment was a block away from the ish population than in the Northeast.

His childhood friend Amy Fleischer re- World Trade Center. “It was surreal,” he members that time. A few years younger says, shaking his head. “The whole thing than Case, she too attended public high was surreal.”

Case, back in Nashville, was pulled out school, which was abnormal for the Jewish community in the late ‘90s. “There of class with his sister. They tried to call are always those feelings of isolation their father, but cell phones were down. when you’re an adolescent, but especial- “I’d spent the summer in New York livly if you’re a little different,” Amy says. ing with David and going to Pratt, taking Of her 500-person graduating class in the train from the World Trade Center Brentwood, there were maybe five Jew- to his apartment every day. It happened so early, we were thinking that he took ish students.

“I remember being just a total outsider, the train, and he’s at the bottom of the feeling that way at least,” Case says, talk- rubble,” he says.

“I felt really disconnected because I felt ing to his fingers in his lap. “We’re Jewish, and everybody is Christian, and I was like I was here, he was there, and I was this ambassador for the Northeast, and supposed to be there and then I saw the entire neighborhood...blow up on TV. EvJews in general. It was totally bizarre.”

He’d already been accepted into Pratt erything I knew as home there just...went.

Institute, an art school in Brooklyn fa- Yeah, it was terrible, man. It was terrible.”

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Fashion designers still talk about September 11, 2001, as a cataclysm for the industry. Labels went bust. Budgets shrank.

Designers like David were cut. “The whole luggage industry took a nosedive after that. I mean, really bad,” he says. “It got me thinking about how small is beautiful. The idea of ‘huge’ being the critical importance for a business, particularly in the bag business, really shifted in my mind.”

It changed Case’s future, too. “I had to take a real hard look at what it meant to be an artist,” he says, “and the risks that are associated with that beyond just the short term.”

With uncertainty in the market, David lost his contract work for Coach and returned to Nashville.

“It was really sad to see it be disposable. His art and his craft were just gone,” Case says. “I saw the ripples, and they directly affected my family.”

You could say it made Case bitter, watching this through his senior year, seeing his father struggle, but it also made him meta about the life of the artist: “The artist is the first one to get canned whenever something goes down,” he says. “So that made me step back and examine what I was getting ready to go into.” Instead of Pratt, Case started business school at MTSU. During this time, he had seen his father get work and lose work, “the struggle of being an independent contractor,” Case

TUCKER AND BLOOM: DOCUJOURNAL: Located at 919 Gallatin Ave. docujournal.com tucker-bloom.com Follow Facebook Follow on on Twitter and Instagram @docujournal @tuckerbloom native.is/docujournal native.is/tuckerandbloom

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calls it. “Tucker & Bloom was necessity at a certain point. It was like, ‘How are we going to take control of this? When you’re the first one to get canned, how do we find some stability in that?’”

David was looking for an outlet for his design, and Case, with his developing business background, could help with the company face, business model, and input in product development. “It just kind of morphed into, ‘Okay, let’s build this website, here’s the logo, here’s the name, let’s get photos,’” Case says.

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I ask for specifics on the date and they both laugh. “We always have problems with this one,” Case says. “We just need to come up with something.”

But while they might still be trying to assemble their mythology, their company name isn’t a mystery. Bloom is the family name, the artistic side with a rich history in design. While Tucker, Case’s middle name, is from his maternal side—whalers from the northeast. Outdoorsmen. “The idea is to bring design to function,” Case says.

“I think we both share this desire for design to fulfill a need. It’s not just aesthetically pretty,” he says. “Good design

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is intrinsically beautiful, but it’s based off of serving a purpose. So we look at how we can make a container that will fit this, this, this, and this elegantly.”

Case has continued to make art—he shows me some urban landscape prints he’s been working on—and he expanded into the music scene, becoming one of the driving forces in the emerging Nashville hip hop community. The Boom Bap, his monthly series at the 5 Spot that pulls world-renown DJs to spin, just celebrated its six-year anniversary and has expanded into Atlanta and Miami.

Like Tucker & Bloom, Case says The Boom Bap came out of necessity: “We

wanted a place to play the records that we loved, and no one was really giving us that venue, so we decided to make it happen ourselves. And now it’s different. There are a lot of talented rappers and producers coming out of Nashville.

They were here before, but I think that the light’s been shined, and they’re able to make moves.”

When you grow up with a father as a craftsman, it’s natural to be involved in that career, even without the parent weighing in. David’s father was a doctor in Boston, so was there ever a desire to go into medicine instead of fashion?

David thinks, then says, “No, because

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I was completely...” He looks into the rafters, the bottom of his cutting room floor.

“Disinterested?” Case says, and they both laugh.

“Left-brained person,” David says.

“We just have different kinds of minds, that’s all.”

That’s true for not just David and his father, but for David and Case.

What Case designs, David breathes into life, and it’s helped make them a respected name in a worldwide community, even if their Nashville location can be hard to find.

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THIS TOWN IS FULL OF MUSIC KNOW-IT-ALLS, RIGHT? Okay, let’s see how good you are. What do The Jimi Hendrix Experience and Nirvana have in common? Did you say Seattle? Well, that’s true, but it’s not what I’m searching for. What link do Sublime and Crosby, Stills, and Nash share? Are you going with Southern California? Also true, but again, not what I’m fishing for. How about The Police and Muse? I know, both English bands, but stop thinking locale. Still stumped? Three words: Power. Freakin’.

Trio! Nothing against bigger bands, but I love a three-piece. The fact is, there just ain’t nothing to hide behind in a trio—it’s just you and two other musicians trying to make the difficult look effortless. In this day and age of Auto-Tune and lip-

syncing, it’s nice to see some musicianship, which I must say is paramount in this new Nashville three-piece: enter That’s My Kid. Forrest Arnold, Jashaun Smith, and Abraham Fongnaly formed the trio several years ago while still in high school in Murfreesboro. This month will mark the beginning of the trio’s third year together.

In the spring of 2013, TMK released an eight-song debut called This One. “This One” record is fantastically genre nonspecific. “This One’s For You” starts the album off with a certain Buddy Holly rockabilly sound, then “Heartbreaker” follows with a dirty, guitar-driven Chicago blues tune that would make Buddy Guy tip his cap. Late in 2013, TMK put out an

EP called December, which is available as a free download now at thatsmykidmusic.com.

December starts up where This One left off by meandering through genres while keeping the band’s tight drums, flawless bass lines, dirty guitar licks, and cutting vocals. Basically, it’s everything you need in a power trio. I don’t know what kind of music does it for you—it may be Delta blues, punk rock, Laurel Canyon harmonies, tailgate twang, skinny jean indie, or purple-haired pop. Whatever your poison, You Oughta Know That’s My Kid can probably play it better than most—and with only three dudes.

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Boots from UAL “Disney Princess”

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this means these guys sleep during the day and make an appearance at night

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