Destination: Nashville
Michael Island was tall and lean, and carried himself with the confident ease of a man smart enough to know that he had nothing to prove, and the grace and assurance of a dancer skilled enough to perform. His distinctive blue eyes often squinted with amusement - at least around me - and while he was quick to laugh, it was alway with and never at. A scientist, when he approached a conversation or discusssion, he always weighed the evidence, examined the subject, stepped back and looked at it, picked it up and poked at it, held it to the light and checked its consistency and form before making an argument...which he was always willing to test against other hypotheses. He was very slow to judge, and even slower to talk about his life before Baltimore.
There are many moments (although not enough) that I recall often and fondly now, a little more than a six years since his death and on what would be almost exactly his 50th birthday, but one of them has been invoked often and often over the past week.
It was sometime in June of 2002 - roughly a year and four months before his Kia Rio rammed into the back of a parked semi-truck - and we were lingering through the Federal Hill Jazz and Blues Festival. Crowds of people milled up and down Light Street in and around the vendors and between musicians. The headliner performer had been playing a few songs, and a few small hoards of people were gathered around the stage. We had been there a little while, and had stuck around long enough to see the group that was meant to be the focal point of the festival, and I (whose musical tastes include some really shamefully bad songs) commented that I thought they were pretty good. Michael didn't answer right away, and I turned to look at him. He stood, staring intently, arms crossed across his chest as though to help him concentrate, for just a moment and then shrugged, rolling his eyes slightly, he looked at me and said, with the only hint of chauvenism I'd ever heard from him:
"They aren't bad. But they couldn't find a street corner in Nashville."
My friend, my friend the scientist, the dancer, the academic; my friend who defined gentleness and courtesy in a way that self-professed "gentlemen" could only dream of aspiring to; my friend Michael, just for one brief and rare moment, revealed himself for what was underneath and explained all of that. My friend Michael was a good ole boy, and he was from Nashville.
I knew where he was from, of course. He had talked about being from there and how much he loved it - and how much he thought I would love it if I ever visited. But when asked why he left, his explanation was simple. He said: "I'm not married, I'm not a Baptist, and I can't play guitar."
All of this. All of this made so much more sense after my visit last week to Tennessee.
Walking down Broadway one night with two friends, we walked into an unfortunate karaoke bar where whiskey, beer, and God knows what else left the drunk men a little bit out of tune, eventually the bartender took the mic, stood on the bar and sang out a raucous country song with as much talent as gusto. As we left, we passed a woman who, to all appearances, was homeless - playing the spoons with more skill than I've heard anywhere else. It is true and more than true: the headliner band from that festival in Baltimore that year could not have succeeded on a street-corner in Nashville when even the most destitute can play. It is said, in fact, that the surest sign you're in Nashville is that the person who cuts your lawn has won a Grammy.
Another night, with different friends, we went into Tootsie's Orchid Lounge - perhaps the most famous of the Broadway Honkeytonks - and after establishing that the band was, as had by that time become just routine, really amazing (and that they grow them pretty down there), we left to find another place where there might have been fewer people and a little less noise. Two doors down was Laylas - which was largely empty, giving us the ability to talk to each other and - be still my heart - dance a little. The extraordinary talent of the only run-of-the-mill musicians on Music Row was hard to fathom, including a fiddler who was truly astonishing. Anyplace else in the world this would have been a band that drew huge numbers of loyal local followers. In Nashville, they weren't anyone special. You would wonder why, given that fact, that anyone would want to play on Music Row in Nashville...except that the question answers itself. It's Music Row. It's Nashville. And there is no place that you would rather play.
I loved it.
I cant wait to go back.
Somewhere, I am sure, the spirit of Michael is throwing back his head and laughing at this fact. Because, of course, he knew that already.
There are many moments (although not enough) that I recall often and fondly now, a little more than a six years since his death and on what would be almost exactly his 50th birthday, but one of them has been invoked often and often over the past week.
It was sometime in June of 2002 - roughly a year and four months before his Kia Rio rammed into the back of a parked semi-truck - and we were lingering through the Federal Hill Jazz and Blues Festival. Crowds of people milled up and down Light Street in and around the vendors and between musicians. The headliner performer had been playing a few songs, and a few small hoards of people were gathered around the stage. We had been there a little while, and had stuck around long enough to see the group that was meant to be the focal point of the festival, and I (whose musical tastes include some really shamefully bad songs) commented that I thought they were pretty good. Michael didn't answer right away, and I turned to look at him. He stood, staring intently, arms crossed across his chest as though to help him concentrate, for just a moment and then shrugged, rolling his eyes slightly, he looked at me and said, with the only hint of chauvenism I'd ever heard from him:
"They aren't bad. But they couldn't find a street corner in Nashville."
My friend, my friend the scientist, the dancer, the academic; my friend who defined gentleness and courtesy in a way that self-professed "gentlemen" could only dream of aspiring to; my friend Michael, just for one brief and rare moment, revealed himself for what was underneath and explained all of that. My friend Michael was a good ole boy, and he was from Nashville.
I knew where he was from, of course. He had talked about being from there and how much he loved it - and how much he thought I would love it if I ever visited. But when asked why he left, his explanation was simple. He said: "I'm not married, I'm not a Baptist, and I can't play guitar."
All of this. All of this made so much more sense after my visit last week to Tennessee.
Walking down Broadway one night with two friends, we walked into an unfortunate karaoke bar where whiskey, beer, and God knows what else left the drunk men a little bit out of tune, eventually the bartender took the mic, stood on the bar and sang out a raucous country song with as much talent as gusto. As we left, we passed a woman who, to all appearances, was homeless - playing the spoons with more skill than I've heard anywhere else. It is true and more than true: the headliner band from that festival in Baltimore that year could not have succeeded on a street-corner in Nashville when even the most destitute can play. It is said, in fact, that the surest sign you're in Nashville is that the person who cuts your lawn has won a Grammy.
Another night, with different friends, we went into Tootsie's Orchid Lounge - perhaps the most famous of the Broadway Honkeytonks - and after establishing that the band was, as had by that time become just routine, really amazing (and that they grow them pretty down there), we left to find another place where there might have been fewer people and a little less noise. Two doors down was Laylas - which was largely empty, giving us the ability to talk to each other and - be still my heart - dance a little. The extraordinary talent of the only run-of-the-mill musicians on Music Row was hard to fathom, including a fiddler who was truly astonishing. Anyplace else in the world this would have been a band that drew huge numbers of loyal local followers. In Nashville, they weren't anyone special. You would wonder why, given that fact, that anyone would want to play on Music Row in Nashville...except that the question answers itself. It's Music Row. It's Nashville. And there is no place that you would rather play.
I loved it.
I cant wait to go back.
Somewhere, I am sure, the spirit of Michael is throwing back his head and laughing at this fact. Because, of course, he knew that already.