This is Nashville

Most of you probably know that I don’t live right in Nashville.  I’m roughly the same distance from Nashville as I was from Minneapolis, when I was in Minnesota.  And I like it.  It’s close enough to drive in for the night whenever I want to, close enough to commute should I finally find employment there, and far enough away that I can kind of forget I’m as close as I am.

And I really often forget I’m as close as I am.

Tonight was one of those nights when a phone call comes in and two hours later we’re loaded up in a car with Florida plates listening to really terrible old-school Tim McGraw songs and headed toward really wonderful live music.

Tonight was my very first time at the Station Inn.

The Station Inn is a tiny little hole of a place.  It’s dark, there’s wood paneling on the walls and a big old wooden sign that says “Ralph Stanley” for no apparent reason other than this is a bluegrass joint and by god, if Ralph Stanley ain’t bluegrass nobody is.  The stage is no bigger than my bedroom– probably smaller, actually– and is backdropped only by faded green canvas and a wooden sign bearing the building’s name.  Behind the bar you’ll see bottles of every kind of beer they sell– no liquor– and a “wall of fame” signed by the likes of Mel Tillis, John Prine, Wichita Rutherford, Darryl Worley, and Dierks Bentley- and those are just the few I could pick out.  The back wall is lined with old bus seats, apparently taken right out of the Flatt and Scruggs tour bus.  It looks as though it hasn’t been remodeled or even redecorated since it opened in 1974.

And that’s why we love it.

The four of us sat at our table less than ten feet from the front of the stage anxiously awaiting the night’s entertainment when I had one of those moments.  My eyes had been wandering around when my gaze finally settled on the wooden Station Inn sign above the stage, and I thought to myself,

“Courtney.  You’re in Nashville.”

I’m in Nashville.

It’s still so surreal to me, sometimes.  Nashville is everything I hoped it would be and nothing I expected.  In a big way, it feels like I belong here, but it’s so different than what I left behind and I have to tell you, I believe I will always belong to the North in some way.  Not just in some way- in a huge way.

I ran hard and long in the rain today, listening to White Light Riot.  When I finally had to slow myself down, I closed my eyes and continued walking.  Minneapolis saw a lot of rain when I was there this fall, and White Light Riot is Minneapolis, far as I’m concerned, and so I closed my eyes and I breathed in the moisture in the air and listened to “Forever in the West” and I imagined First Avenue under my feet, towering over me, reflecting me and my cheap sunglasses as my boots clicked against it, running for my morning coffee.

I miss the morning bus ride.  I miss Jane Austen and a Dunn Bros. dark roast before work.  I miss running up and down the streets with a video camera, navigating skyways, movies at Block E and strolling down Nicollet.  I miss the fact that I never knew which friend would be the next to call and say “I’m on my way! You busy this weekend?”

Nashville is not the same kind of city.  I had friends here before I moved.  I’ve met some amazing people since I’ve been here.  I’m not at a loss for things to do if I want to do them, or people to do them with.  And the biggest part- my music is here.  My music.  And that, friends, is reason enough to stay, maybe not forever, but for another long while.

But Minneapolis?  Minneapolis is really my kind of city.  I hardly knew it until I left.

Tonight I was in Nashville.  Tonight I watched Jimmy Stewart, Chris Stapleton, Bryan Sutton, Mike Bubb and Richard Bailey play the hell out of some amazing songs, new and old.  Barry Bales and Adam Steffey were in the room just hanging out and drinking beer.

This is Nashville.
It’s surreal.

Will it ever be home?