For my readers new and old, country fans and not: Let me tell you about the amazing and weird dream I had Friday night.
I dreamed that I had come to Nashville, except not on my usual research trip—I was there with
my sister and
my mom, and I was going to break into country music songwriting. (For the record: this isn't one of my big life goals.) I guess they were there to provide backup and emotional support—that’s the only reason I can think for them being along. It seemed in the dream that I had moved to Nashville and had brought very few things along; I was traveling light for this big move. The details are hazy, but it seems that I may have been driving one of the smaller U-Haul vans, with Pixie and Mom sitting in the cab with me.
We weren’t sure where we were going in Nashville. (This is a very true part of the dream, because I know only how to get around in a very small portion of town: the eight miles from downtown to the Colonel’s old apartment.) We got lost a number of times. The place where we’d meant to go was the "songwriters’ part of town" (maybe that represents Music Row? I don’t know), but got lost quite a few times.
However, the getting lost wasn’t at all bad—a little frustrating, but not bad. I steered the van down a side street that I thought was a shortcut, only to find out it was a dead end, and that we’d have to turn around. But while driving down this dead-end street, we
ooh-ed and
ahh-ed at the adorable little 1920s “mill cottages” (Southern vernacular, a few shotgun houses, and the like) that had been redone and turned into shops and cafes.
All of them were painted in bright, vibrant colors—I saw several cheery little houses painted yellow, some taxicab yellow while others were a light buttery color—and all had front yards overflowing with flowers and plants. Rambling rose bushes tumbled over little picket fences, cannas shot up alongside the edges of front porches, morning glories twined around mailboxes. The front porches themselves were painted in cheery contrasting colors to go along with the rest of the house, and all were decorated in fun, funky ways. A few had Christmas lights strung all around their posts and banisters; others had interesting decorations hanging up, such as wind chimes, wind spinners, colorful glass “witch balls,” hummingbird feeders, steel yard art, cast-stone figurines (such as St. Francis or Kuan Yin or woodland fairies), and a few even had crazy, brightly-colored stepping stones and mosaic-covered statues…I seem to remember even seeing a mirrored disco ball in one yard! It was SO neat to see a little neighborhood that was so involved in keeping up its appearance…and in such an interesting way, too! No old-fashioned nonsense for
these yards.
As we drove along and commented aloud on the yards, we saw what was going on at each of the little houses. (Quite a few were residential—and what’s weird is that they were MUCH plainer and “conservative,” and all on the opposite side of the street from the cool, funky little houses.) One was a ladies’ clothing store, with gorgeous fashions on the mannequins in the front window. Another was an art gallery, with people milling about on the front porch. Yet another was a vintage clothing store, with signs advertising how this store had lots of Western wear and boots, a la
Nudie suits and
Manuel Cuevas-type creations. There was a little coffee shop, with people coming in and out with their stainless-steel mugs for coffee, and other people sitting on the front porch and steps and in the yard drinking coffee and eating pastries. A few other gorgeous small houses were directly involved in the country music biz: one had a sign advertising photography for musicians; one was a used-vinyl and CD shop; one was a promoter. As we passed each little house, there was something unique and fun about it.
But as we came to the end of the street, we noticed something really unusual about the little house two lots from the dead end…on the bougainvillea-covered front porch stood
HANK WILLIAMS, JR., playing his guitar and singing as if he were just out there to have a good time and hear himself sing!!!
I can’t remember if Hank Jr. acknowledged us as we drove by, but I do remember that he stayed out on the porch, just like any regular person might do when a car drives down the street and they’re having a good time watching the world go by. We exclaimed aloud to each other, “
Holy shit! Was that
Bocephus?!?” just as we reached the dead end of the street. I carefully turned the van around so we could head back out, and maybe catch another glimpse of him.
In the next portion of the dream, we’d finally found the place we needed to go—this was a neighborhood where songwriters lived and worked (a songwriters’ ghetto?). This neighborhood was also very fun and funky, and reminds me of
Atlanta’s Little Five Points area. It had quite a few older apartment buildings, maybe three stories tops, all made of brick with brick and brownstone front porches, and front yards filled with neatly-trimmed lawns, hydrangea bushes, roses, huge Boston ferns in pots, and so on. I parked the van and we walked along, not really sure where we were going. (I think this might’ve been just a visit to get familiar with the area, and for me to get over my shyness about approaching people I don’t know.)
At one point, I walked through a large, spacious older home that looked as if it were a law office, but it was really a music publishing house, and two famous women songwriters-publishers-singers were sitting around a large oak table, and they asked me if I needed any help. (And I can’t place who they were, but it seems like they bore more than a passing resemblance to
Emmylou Harris and
K.T. Oslin.)
“Well, I just moved here to Nashville to get into the music business, and I’m getting acquainted with the area.” The women asked me if I’d previously had any songs covered by any country artists, and I replied that I had. (Why on earth did I say that?) I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks as I told the fib, but it came out of my mouth anyway. I guess I knew what they’d say if I'd said "no"—the talking-down-to-me speech about the different baby steps I needed to take to be a songwriter, pay my dues, blah blah blah—and I was already feeling awkward and out-of-sorts in this new town. I thanked the women and left, not telling my mom and sister the big lie I’d told inside the office.
As we walked down the neat, clean sidewalk, we were approached by a very sad-looking yet docile poodle mix, who was wandering around as if he were lost. He was dirty, beat up, and bloodied, as if he’d been in a fight with other dogs. “Wait, he has a collar,” my sister said. She handed me her cell phone, and I looked at the tag—
whoa! A famous songwriter’s name was on the tag! “Wow! Call him!” my mom said, and I dialed the number. The songwriter answered the phone, and I introduced myself and said I’d found his dog. He was overjoyed that I’d found the dog, who tended to wander off, he said, and he gave me his address and told me to come on over.
We got to this songwriter’s house, and he welcomed us very warmly, asking us to step inside. (In the dream, I don't recall his name, but he could've won a
Harlan Howard look-alike contest but for his long, ponytailed grayish-white hair.) It was again an older home, but had been split into two or three large, funky apartments, all with 15’ ceilings, plaster walls, radiators (like you’d find up North, but this was Nashville!), and so on. He’d decorated the place in a
Shabby Chic kind of way, which I thought was unusual for a man's decorating taste. The Harlan Howard-esque songwriter thanked me for bringing his dog back and asked us to sit down; he brought out cold lemonade for us. As the three of us talked to him and explained that I’d moved here to try to break into country music songwriting, he seemed to warm up to me even more. “Y’all’ve had a long day,” he said. “I’ve got a couch and a daybed in there—why don’t y’all take yourselves a nap while I get some lunch ready?”
Mom, Pixie, and I lay down, petted the grateful dog, and began to drift off. At one point, I awoke and went into the kitchen, which looked like something right out of the late 1940s or early 1950s, with an old-style gas range and a curvy-sided fridge, plus a classic KitchenAid stand mixer and FiestaWare dishes all around. “Really, sir, you don’t have to fix us lunch, or offer us anything,” I said, feeling funny about this offer of hospitality from out of nowhere. "We'll be at our motel this evening and will find a place for me to live pretty soon."
“Oh, nonsense,” he replied, and smiled a knowing, warm smile. “I got my start in this town a long time ago, and I know what it’s like. Other songwriters helped me out back then, and I’d like to help you out now. You've got
a lot of promise, young lady.” He paused to turn the chicken in the skillet. “Besides, you brought my dog back to me! That’s worth more than I could
ever repay you!”
I’m not really sure what this dream means, but it’s one of the most interesting ones I’ve had in a long, long time.
Labels: Music, Teaching, Travel
