A Yorkshireman of a certain age who likes most genres of music and most makes of old car. Travel is a joy, not least to escape the British winter. Travel by bicycle is bliss and if I’m not lost in music then I’m lost in a daydream about a hot day, tens of miles to cover and the promise of a great campsite and a beer. I like to think I’m always learning and becoming wiser. However, on the latter point evidence is in short supply.
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Juanita was an archetypal wannabee who arrived in Nashville with a guitar, dog and a head full of songs in her early twenties. She’s since been paying her dues by gigging around Music City as well as getting some higher profile support slots. The delight is that Juanita (a nom de plume) writes and sings traditional country music. Most of the compositions here are from her own pen. She’s talented but the album catches fire after teaming up with Mose Wilson, another traditional country music artist with his own career, to co-write a few of the songs and for him to play on and produce the album: it’s a superb partnership. I have to credit the other musicians on the album who elevate the whole affair, none more so than Jeff Taylor on piano. As records go this is all killer and no filler.
Fortune has a lilting pace where she mourns that fortune has left her and now she’s left with her mistakes in the tricky business of love. I especially love Jeff Taylor’s accordion and the vocal harmonies she creates with her own double tracking. If the lyrics are comfortingly predictable then Granny’s Cutlass Supreme shakes things up. Here grandma in a bikini (?) and martini keeps her Oldsmobile in a tip-top-tastic condition with polish and elbow grease. This nonsense enjoys a funky rhythm plus some gruff and deep vocals from Riley Downing (The Deslondes). There’s plenty of references to Honky Tonk in the lyrics and Honky Tonkin’ For Life – “When the music starts / I feel it in my heart / Singin’ is the life for me / I’m a honky tonk angel” reaffirms where her happy place is as the electric guitar picks, the pedal steel serenades as the snare keeps a steady beat with the bass. Certainly, this is one for a trip on to the hard wood floor.
We finish with the heartbreaker Blue Moon. Her voice, with a minimum of accompaniment, starts as a beautiful siren call as she laments that having thought she’d moved on from a lover she ends up melancholy with the appearance of the lunar vision. The song builds from an acoustic guitar and slow honky-tonk piano to strings. This is a heartening collection that encourages you to believe that along with other contemporary artists such as Sierra Ferrell, Brennan Leigh and Summer Dean there’s a female traditional country scene laying down a fine body of work to help us all keep the faith.
You’ll not need to be a rocket scientist to work out that most of my time has been spent hovering around Ives Towers cleaning, cooking, gardening, sorting out trades and variously tripping out to post or collect parcels and shopping for my bride (since our return from Austria with her broken ankle.) I have borne this yoke, as you must agree, heroically yet less kind close friends did observe that it was time I returned the favour after all those years of wifely servitude. I suspect the pleasing image of me bedecked in a pinny flourishing a feather duster in one hand and the Dyson in the other drove them to such disloyalty. However, there has been the benefit of everyday being a ‘school day’.
Who knew there were certain ways to clean a work surface? That the dish washer goes on once a day and that the washing machine has various settings? If there’s a qualification on how to use an air fryer then I’ve nailed that. If my burden has increased then so has the workload of the sales staff in Tesco. I suspect they’re now watching, in trepidation, the car park for my arrival. I was pretty good at spinning round and collecting meat, chocolate biscuits, frozen stuff, beer and dairy but complicated stuff like certain exotic brands of salad dressing, small bottles of shampoo with formulas that seem to be a cure for smallpox, various spray soaps (??), flax seeds etc have necessitated collaring a member of staff and asking for help. For example, who knew Auntie Bessie made a meat free toad in the hole or where it lurked?
One of Anna’s several frustrations include being unable to climb the stairs. A solution to the daily ‘will you find me x and bring it down’ has been helped by WhatsApp. We call each other and put on the video camera; I get guided to the ‘third drawer in the cabinet near the window, on the left hand side, in the spare room, where beneath the birthdays cards where you’ll find…’ I have now been to the deep recesses of the property that I barely knew existed let alone what the furniture contained. Everyday is indeed a school day.
Anna is now into her recovery after the operation and is optimistic, stoic and calm. It’s going very well but it’ll take time. I’d like to say it’s one step at a time but in her case currently it’s one hop at a time! Obviously in our situation concerts and socialising has taken a hit including a wedding bash in Scotland. Anna has been fulsome in thanking everyone for their kind thoughts and gifts. The kindness has been overwhelming.
Felt I should be honest with Rodney as his valet wasn’t. Seems he liked my help.
This has left a little time for reading and I have completed a quite brilliant book on the rise and global intentions of China. It’s called The Hundred-Year Marathon by Michael Pillsbury. I tracked this down in Columbia, South Carolina on my travels. It’s written by an American China expert who worked for several Presidents and has had a high profile with China over decades; all helped by his being fluent in Chinese. It’s not a happy story for the West as China seeks to dominate. This is by economic absorption and elimination of competitive industries (mainly by state subsidy of their own production) or more aggressively dominating near nation states by military might. Their inexorable rise continues at the price of democracy or freedom of speech not just in China but all over the world. Much of the commentary is how the West were mugged in plain sight by the Chinese playing up to US misconceptions and naivety over decades. It’s very readable and not a sensational Sino hostile read but a measured deep dive into the history and the track record of the Communist Party and its relentless ‘progress’ on this path. Beware.
Lastly, with the Mighty Jessney and Mrs Blues (or Steve and Sharon.). I went to York Art Gallery to see Monet’s Water Lilies. The exhibition included other Impressionist artists of the late 19th Century and some of his influences such as Japanese prints. It was interesting and I approached it with curiosity but I am to fine art what Kylie Minogue is to brick laying.
Over a century on with so much technology it’s hard to place yourself in this era when no doubt this art was seen as adventurous, brave and new. Anyway, it was a great hour or so and maybe I should study more.
I think we’re all aware that medical matters can be complicated and despite our reverence for the National Health Service (necessitating worship and respect like a religion) it was dilatory in processing Anna, which caused us unbelievable stress (as if the Austrian part wasn’t daunting enough…)
A virulent infection can be found in European hospitals. This meant our admission into York District Hospital would necessitate Anna completing three successful tests beforehand. Had she not had her brief stay in Austria then this would not have been a requirement. The first test/smear was taken on the morning of admission: Thursday August 15th. On her discharge I was sent to the local GP practice to obtain two further kits for the tests. On the Tuesday (August 20th) we submitted our last sample and awaited a call.
We got one. We had submitted two further tests that were not relevant. A doctor’s error. The hospital wanted us to obtain the correct test kits and start again. Given the time sensitive nature of her pinning I was very upset and anxious. However, with the correct test kits we submitted our last smear on Thursday August 22nd. We’d now lost a week. So much for the efficacy of the emergency actions by Anna and I to get to the hospital in the early hours of August 15th.
A call came through on the afternoon of the 22nd from the Trauma Co-ordinator. He talked of a Friday operation and went through the requirements of not to eat and stop certain medication and where to go to. Our joy was palpable. We asked about the test results? No, they were still outstanding and that was an issue but if unresolved then they might still operate but have to place Anna in a separate room afterwards.
On the morning of August 23rd he rang again. The operation was off. They had a capacity crisis with two children being admitted and the test results were not back. The department that analysed these samples didn’t appear to process things very quickly and our samples weren’t prioritised or no one pressed for them. He said he’d call back later that day to give us his next plan. It was Friday and weekend was a Bank Holiday: not propitious. He left for the weekend without calling again. How could he? We called the hospital.
At this point you don’t know who to call on a Friday evening and whether they had access or knew where to get any information. One critical issue was that if the operation was imminent (although we were unaware) then Anna would need to stop certain medication and fast. If she didn’t then we would accidentally extend the timescale for her to be ready for surgery. We were promised a call back. (That came 12 hours later. Frankly, useless.) However, with that delay we placed another call.
A brilliant nurse on the Orthopaedic ward took our call and did some research. Apparently we were scheduled for August 25th (Sunday). This was great news but still two weeks after the accident. We were told to call the following (Saturday) morning. That call, with a doctor, confirmed that all the tests were back and negative. No, he couldn’t confirm that they were all set for Sunday and they would call later to advise if a Sunday operation would take place.
No one rang. We kept checking with the ward about what they knew. Eventually a doctor rang in the evening confirming that Sunday would proceed. On Sunday Anna had her pinning. Her recovery now starts
What my story doesn’t dwell on is all the calls we made, the absence of knowing when a call would be returned and not least being in the dark about test analysis timescales or when they would operate.
As it’s the NHS and the eventual surgery was completed successfully you’re inclined to ‘move on’. However, frankly were it any other business you’d be contacting a consumer affairs programme. Despite the undoubted challenges the NHS faces our problems arose through poor processes and a lack of communication. They don’t necessarily cost much to resolve.
Lastly, several folk have been interested in the events and given support. I’m most grateful and heartened. It helped . Anna now has the tricky bit of healing and getting fit to work on. She’ll get there.
My first thoughts were getting to the hospital but on this day, the Tuesday after the Sunday accident I waited at the hotel for the Collinson call. This came with the usual telephone line being dropped and I was offered two flights. One at 10pm on Wednesday night or one at tea time on Friday from Munich. Anna would get three seats to herself to rest her leg in plaster. The problem here was that there were no midweek flights out of Salzburg and so we’d have to travel further afield. Consulting Anna I took the Wednesday, the logic being that the sooner we got to England then the sooner she’d get the operation and if we arrived on Friday then we may suffer the hospital departments partially closed for the weekend. However, it was clear that we’d not get to York District Hospital before midnight and they didn’t know we were coming! The advice had been to get to a hospital and go into triage.
From this decisive call I went down to the hospital and joined the walkers and holiday makers on the bus. The region had made this and several ski lifts free to encourage tourists. My bus stop, which was about a mile from the hospital was a very pleasant walk. I counted the different nationalities by the variety of number plates. It added up to 10 in a mile. Quite a destination for all and sundry.
Not a bad walk
Anna (and Helga) were fine although the room was hot due to the sunshine but the staff buzzed about and seemed to cope with the difficulty of catering for a vegetarian, not a usual Austrian problem it appeared! You take for granted the widespread knowledge of English and whilst it didn’t always help overcoming some cultural differences or medical matters I wouldn’t like to be a German speaker in a British hospital.
That night I said goodbye to the hotel staff and guests and packed. Everyone had been as kind and as helpful as they could be. I left the hotel mid-morning by taxi despite not being collected by an ambulance taxi in the late afternoon from the hospital. Frankly, there was nothing to hang about for in Hinterglemm and my mind was elsewhere. The taxi did turn up with a quasi para medic who drove the Mercedes mini bus to Munich.
My temporary accommodation
She was a nice girl but drove like a nutcase on the no speed limit autobahns. Clutching a stress ball in her right hand and swapping lanes to dive in and out of traffic in outer Munich rush hour traffic was an experience you’d usually pay extra for at a theme park. Anna shut her eyes. At the airport we eventually found the Check In desk.
With a wheel chair you cannot move through Security or onto the aircraft without ‘special assistance’. The downside of this is that we experienced an hour and half delay waiting for this ‘special assistance’ to arrive to push Anna. They were simply late and our abandonment by the now empty Check In desk long after the other passengers had disappeared through Security was stressful.
The flight eventually departed at 11.30pm and you can imagine that arriving in Manchester at past 1pm wasn’t ideal. Neither was the absence of the taxi to take her to Manchester. My car was located at a different Terminal and I had the suitcases to collect and move so it always the plan that she would travel separately and more promptly. However, I managed to exit the Baggage Reclaim and Customs before Anna and looked around Arrivals for a bloke with a sign. There wasn’t one. So, I hung around in Arrivals until she emerged. After a delay thinking someone would appear we called Collinson asking where the driver was. We were told that the driver wouldn’t appear and the only solution was to wait longer for someone new. Given we’d lost about 45 minutes through this fiasco we cut our losses and I went to the Terminal 2 and fetched my car to Terminal 1 and loaded Anna into the back seat and off we went to York District Hospital negotiating part of the M1 being closed!
There are 17 sets of traffic lights from the A64 to York District Hospital; we drove though 16 of those on green where I slumped over the counter at A&E Reception at 4am and related our story. They couldn’t have been more responsive or sympathetic to the ordeal and she was quickly wheeled into Triage. Then X Rays and then in front of a doctor. He looked at her X Rays and confirmed what we knew plus explained a little more about the breaks in the tibia and fibia. We were now in the system. Anna couldn’t come home as we couldn’t move her around the house without a zimmer/walker. They kept her in whilst I drove home in the emerging daylight. My head hit the pillow at 6am.
From here we’re waiting for her operation date. Anna remains calm and lots of friends and family have been in touch. We’re grateful for all the kindness and support. If there are some ‘take aways’ to emphasis then make sure you travel with your GHIC and always have travel insurance.
Hospitals wake early and by breakfast, at my hotel, Anna advised on WhatsApp that the consultant had done his rounds and that they wouldn’t operate and insert the pins. The reason that we eventually extracted was that they needed the bed. Had they decided to do the operation then Anna would have had to stay until the swelling of her ankle went down and then there would be further time after the operation in the hospital before she could fly. They had 60 beds at this small hospital and 46 were currently filled by tourists. (It does make you wonder how many hospital beds are filled by tourists in a major attraction like London, albeit the visitors are not probably skiing or walking up and down mountains: it must be hundreds.) So, with this development I called the emergency medical number for our travel insurer – World First. As it is with these organisations they sub contract the trickier medical bit. This medical insurance was provided by Collinson.
Our hotel in Hinterglemm
They were responsive and opened a case file. The next step was for them to receive a hospital medical report and for me to complete an accident form. They would then decide the best solution. Their reassuring approach made me feel that I was working with a partner and I trotted off to ask for the medical report. However, from here it was frustrating during the day, to create a dialogue between the hospital and the insurer. Obviously we wanted it moving quickly. The initial problem arose when the hospital wouldn’t provide a written report but would discuss it on the phone. That was irritating but they gave us a contact telephone number to call them. That didn’t connect! I found this out by ringing up Collinson at midday and asking how they’d got on? “Oh, we rang and rang but couldn’t get an answer”. Calming myself I thought why didn’t you ring me back to get the number checked? Moving on, I did amend the number after pressing the hospital for the correct one.
Hospital on the lake
Not all of my calls were easy with Collinson as the quality of phone signal in these areas was patchy and usually you’d drop off the line at a vital point when you were discussing details. Also, when you went back to Collinson you’d have to go through their protocol of re-affirming details before they would put you through to the case handler you were initially speaking to… “Case Number, name of claimant, date of birth and country where the claimant is claiming from”. Now if this sounds a bit ‘clunky’ rather than such a big deal by this stage you know you holiday is over and delivering a solution for your bride is the only focus. Resolving bureaucracy, language barriers with the Austrians, knowing virtually nothing about ankle breaks or their rectification and not least the pressing importance of a timely intervention being met. Add to this the sorting of this out on busy streets with poor mobile telephone connections in burning hot sunshine and knowing time is of the essence made this into an interesting and intensive activity.
Meanwhile I’m on the bus down the 13 miles of valley to the hospital to see Anna, who’s languishing in her two bed Ward with a testy elderly Austrian woman who snaps at the staff and demands coffee and biscuits at precise times in the morning and afternoon. I christened her Helga. One nurse was admonished for not placing her morning newspaper on her bed rather than a table. However, despite this less attractive side to her personality she spoke a bit of English and liked my voice! She told me and the nurses about my dulcet tones and wondered if I was an actor? In fairness, it was an easy mistake to make. On every visit Anna’s calm, well cared for and knows that despite my impatience a solution will come to pass.
After my visit I trooped up to bus stop in the heat, past the delightful lake, where Collinson rang to say that they had now spoken to the hospital. Yippee.
Laura still had details to sort with the hospital and was also disappointed they wouldn’t operate. I had this conversation at the bus stop on the main road as buses and concrete mixers are grumbling past. “Can you hear me?” “Yes, Laura”. The upshot was that if they couldn’t persuade the hospital they’d fly us home. It might seem obvious given our policy but in a state of heightened anxiety this was a comfort. She’d call tomorrow giving me the plan.
I continued up the valley to Hinterglemm and showered for dinner. The breakfast, lunch (pack up) and dinner were fabulous. Given Anna’s absence I’d had to explain to the waitresses and other Inghams holiday makers what had happened initially and given them a day by day report. This was whilst downing a large beer. I suppose this counts as holiday?
Back in the room I had a long accident report to complete and send along with passport details so that new airline tickets could be booked. Was it all straightforward from here with so many transfers and handlers and how would York District Hospital respond with no prior contact when we turned up at Stupid O’Clock with a broken ankle? Anyway that was tomorrow’s challenge. Now it was sleep.
Returning quickly to Anna she was sat on the ground with her legs stretched in front of her with a badly swollen left ankle. It had ballooned in barely seconds. She was in considerable pain, nauseous and couldn’t move the ankle let alone contemplate standing up.
Beside me was the kind lady who’d called me back. She was an Austrian school teacher who was staying locally with her teenage daughters at an apartment they had in the area. She spoke excellent English, as did her daughters, and assessing the situation that Anna would need carrying down or up the path to a road where a vehicle could access, she rang an emergency number. The person on the end of the line needed directions to where we were and as she spoke German she stayed to facilitate the navigation. It was a blessing to have such assistance.
In about 25 minutes a man appeared and quickly looked at the ankle, presumably confirming Anna needed hospitalisation, and then started to assess the best routes to get her to a vehicle (on a road). From here the lady and daughters said that they could do nothing further, accepted my profuse thanks and went about their original walk up the mountain. Who said there are no angels in Austria?
In the meanwhile, our official Mountain Rescue man called up another four rescuers who appeared with a stretcher so that they could safely secure Anna onto it and drag her off the mountain. It was about three or four hundred yards downhill to an ambulance.
I was surprised to see a Police van and the ambulance when we got clear of the forest. Anna meanwhile had been jogged around on this bumpy slide but was bearing up and urged me to give some beer money to the hardy souls who’d dragged her off the mountain. The Police just needed to know it was an accident rather than anything more sinister and they were soon on their way. The paramedics loaded Anna up and were off. I’d asked to go along with them to the hospital in the ambulance, 13 miles down the road in Zell-am-See, but was denied. No doubt some protocol.
With her in the best, safe hands I trudged the mile or so downhill back to the hotel to collect some things for her including her Global Health Insurance Card (GHIC) and then hailed a taxi to take me there. Needless to say my mind was flooding with the minutiae of being able to support Anna. For example it seems that several local businesses hide behind (imho) poor mountain internet signals to operate on a cash only basis. The taxi cost €65 in cash. This would be recoverable but how much cash would I need during this crisis to get about etc.? Where was an ATM?
On arrival at the hospital I was directed to the A&E waiting room where passing across the GHIC was met with relief. (I’m sure they would have taken care of the emergency without the opportunity to reclaim but taking away potential problems was a good move.) I was comforted that she was in capable hands but what was happening? Eventually Anna WhatsApp’d me. She’d broken her ankle in two places and was fully X Ray’d but would need an operation to pin the bones. This was when fuck met my old boots. I’d known things were amiss but this was very serious. I went up to the Ward.
As always Anna was calm and resigned to this issue but had to be on an infusion of pain relief for the ankle as it had been ‘reset’ in the correct alignment with lots of pulling and pushing that necessitated a very painful injection. We both quickly agreed that I would have been a hopeless coward had I had to go through this procedure. The initial advice by the hospital was that they would carry out the operation two or three days later.
Her accommodation was a bright, airy and modern room for two female patients with its own loo and shower. There was a TV attached to the bed which was very functional and moved up and down on the push of a switch. The view from the hospital window was sensational.
Floating around were various nurses and other staff. There appeared to be no deprivation or shortage of medics albeit no one would want to be there.
There was nothing more to do and as it was clear she’d be there for some time I took a long list of things to collect and return with the next day. We both started telling the tour operator, family and friends about events on WhatsApp and I returned to the hotel. This I decided to do by the free bus that ran along the valley. It meant walking a mile to the bus stop from the krankenhaus (yes, it sounds like a cartoon name for a hospital) and in the 30° heat/sunshine I caught the bus in a fairly sweaty mess back to Hinterglemm.
So, everything was under control? However, tomorrow a proverbial stick would be thrust into the spokes by the hospital.
So the present Mrs Ives felt that we should follow the 2022 footsteps of our youngest (and husband) to Austria for a walking holiday. Being a part time guide I had the kit and so off we went flying into Salzburg and then took a bus ride with Inghams to Hinterglemm.
The last time I was in the Salzburg area I was cycling back to York in 2018 from Croatia. The country is undoubtedly beautiful. I’d also spent a lot of time (a long time ago) in Austria or dealing with Austrians. They are or were pre-eminent in making furniture components. It was all familiar and attractive to me. The resort lay at the top of a valley in the west of Austria equidistant between Innsbruck and Salzburg. It was a Saturday when we arrived and town was jumping. The whole place is set up for tourism, whether winter skiers or summer walkers (or mountain bike riders.) It’s chocolate box pretty and the surrounding mountains are awesome.
There must have been a weekend festival as the crowded streets were teeming and the natives were to be found in local garb albeit often the worse for wear as they copiously imbibed. If their merriment was fun to see then the oompah music wasn’t. It amazes me how Austria ever made it to the 21st Century if this is what they like listening to. Granted it isn’t complicated as each tune was the same as the last one, give or take an odd toot. This cacophony was usually underpinned by a tuba and led by an accordion.
A musical highlight amongst this teutonic torment came when breaking away from this formula they played Smokie’s 1972 hit ‘Living Next Door To Alice’. (Sorry, I’m a geek I know this stuff.) It was a tolerable rendition that was enlivened by the crowd adding at the end of the chorus ‘Who the fuck is Alice?’ A sentiment I could relate to. Anyway as some of the crowd drifted off weaving to their accommodation we also crossed the road to our hotel that sadly was close to the noisy revelry. This din continued until 1.30am I am told. Frustratingly, for Anna, I was well asleep drifting off trying to recall the band members of Smokie.
Breakfast was splendid but passage to the buffet reminded me of the Austrian no nonsense approach to people in their way. This was to ignore them and barrel on. I found this intolerably rude, not least when I stepped aside and there was no ‘thank you’. I too did contemplate barrelling through but chickened out at the thought of being impaled by a plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns and the funny little things the Austrians think are sausages approaching me at 15mph held by a burly Frau with the sense of humour (and the manners) of a pedal bin.
After breakfast we met with the guide who told us about the walking routes and distributed maps. From here we walked to a cable car and ascended to the top and strolled around.
There were separate paths for all the mountain bikers who were togged up in elbow and knee protectors along with full face helmets. Clearly these chaps had speed on their mind and as us cyclists would say it was very ‘technical’ as the paths wound tightly down the slopes.
Yes, well observed this chap not wearing elbow protectors, but the rest were!
Our initial exertions resulted in a pit stop for a cold soft drink and we solved Austria’s national debt crisis in one fell swoop by paying for the drinks. (I know we talk about the cost of living crisis and inflation in the UK but this place is on another level.)
“There’s gold in them thar hills…”
After this we descended back to the town by walking and using the cable cars.
By this stage the legs are advising that this walking down hill malarky is tiring and tricky but with one small section to go before we reached the bottom we were mercifully out of the very hot sun in a wooded area that had a windy, in places steep, path that was covered in tree roots. I was walking ahead of Anna and was around a corner when a lady walker came back shouting for me to return as “your wife has fallen”.
It seems that dreams are mainly the province of the young, however, some may recollect I was transcribing the life story of Eric Blackburn back in 2021 and I published an exert of post war Hull – The Ballad of Porky Upton. Eric was born in 1927 and recorded, still with a pin sharp memory, his time in bombed out WW2 Hull as a school boy through to the 1960s. It started with an early death of his father and his first job at 13 years old as a farm hand. From here he joined the railway and progressed to the footplate on a steam engine. This time was split between the LNER and East African Railways in Tanganyika with a miserable spell in between completing National Service. I spent many weeks typing this up and transcribed over 250,000 words but Eric kept churning out more and more pages. I got to a position where after months I had to bring my toil to an end as there was no end in sight. At this point James, his son, stepped in and finished the write up and then organised the self-publication of the book. I get a kindly mention for my work. (This is quite a popular route to get your work into print.) There are many passages that paint a wonderful picture of a different era of agriculture with horses, German bombers flying overhead, post war rationing, steam engines, the futility of National Service, post war colonialism in Africa and the frighteningly violent move toward independence of these nascent nations.
The title is a play on words of ‘Goodbye, Mr. Chips’. This was a 1939 and then 1969 popular British film. Krupp were a large German company that made many rail components including rails.
So above is the hard back version. Eric is 96 years old and managed to get the job done: a quite remarkable achievement and life!
I have to say it’s been a wonderful summer of sport. Unforgivably I’ve spent a lot of time slumped on the sofa in front of the TV watching it! First came the football Euros, which were a damp squib. Southgate got an uncomfortable amount of hammer over England’s (unconvincing) progress to the Final where the best team (Spain) won. The next guy has all this misery in store for him. Nothing lives long in the memory about the tournament apart from Scotland’s demolition by the hosts. I still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about this (not). The Tour de France was as usual a ravishing watch with captivating scenery and sunny vistas. This was made all the better by watching (Sir) Mark Cavendish win a record 35th stage. To be competitive at 39 years old is remarkable and much to his credit he didn’t climb off at that point but painfully trundled through the Alps and Pyrenees to complete the race in Nice showing great respect for the race.
After this was Test cricket and whilst I’d have loved something that was overall more of a contest the West Indies, in some sessions, were terrific. Anna and I joined Paul for a day at Trent Bridge and to celebrate Nottingham City Council fined me £35 for driving in a bus lane, gits. Whilst we’re digesting all that the Olympics comes into view and we’re all agog about sports that we barely know exist such as Trampolining, BMX. Women’s Air Rifle and Artistic Swimming. Frankly we have no interest in the activity, do we? Of course, we wish the British participants well and luxuriate in our medal acquisition but as soon as they’ve collected their gong we’ve forgotten them, whoever they were. I suspect my lasting memory will be the soggy Opening Ceremony that included 15 minutes of ‘80s tuneless Euro disco. The setting in the centre of the beautiful city is sumptuous and I hope Paris is now enjoying paying for it all for decades to come!
It’s undeniable that the climate is warming. We can debate what’s causing it but it’s a fact. When I cross the fields around our house in summer I have to spray insect repellent to stop various horrid things stinging me. Horse flies are brutes! This type of misery I associate with Continental Europe or far flung hot continents. Ants are a thing as well aren’t they.
Our granddaughter is now over 8 months old and becoming, every day, more of a little person. Her mother (Sophie), maybe a little over frank, believes she has reached the ‘dog’ stage in terms of development. That is, she can recognise her name, do some tricks, is always pleased to see you and watches every mouthful of food you take! Needless to say, she is wonderful.
Two of my favourite females (excluding the Morgan)
A modern and frustrating (to me) common occurrence is that when someone dies the news is seldom accompanied by the reason for their death. It can only be to shield the family or reputation of the departed from the indignity of bad luck or mortality? I can comfortably accept this ‘black out’ for someone who takes their life. The shock is devastating enough. However, it’s inescapable that it’s only a delay as the facts will eventually come into the public domain.
Lastly, I found a piece on social media about a Perth (Australia) woman hiding some crystal meth from the Police by inserting it up her miniature dachshund’s anus, as reported in The Western Australian newspaper. Australians eh? A nation of independent thinkers and animal lovers. (You’ll be pleased to learn that the dog was unharmed and the woman prosecuted.) As we have an Aussie friend who’s on a round the world cruise and has been away from Brisbane for some time and maybe not abreast of all the important developments back home I forwarded the clip with the caption “Missing home?” A short while later he came back with a kindly paragraph about how he wasn’t missing Australia for various reasons. I was a little bemused as whilst I always wished him well it wouldn’t be me to enquire after his welfare as he cruised the high seas having a brilliant time, would it? It turned out the photo of the clip didn’t transmit with my question. Anyway, he now thinks I’m one helluva guy!
Alvin and Gilmore have long careers in American roots music with notable separate catalogues compiled within the Blasters, Flatlanders et al before striking out solo. Along the way Alvin collected a Grammy and Gilmore was nominated. Both artists have toured continuously over the years and upon a recommendation decided to pair up and have since toured together off and on. This is their second joint release of covers and original material.
Alvin and Gilmore only duet on four songs: The Death Of The Last Stripper, Betty And Dupree, Down The 285 and We’re Still Here. The latter is a jaunty piece of rock n’ roll that acts as a homily to their longevity. With Gilmore in his eightieth year and Alvin having battled cancer there’s no doubt they’re survivors. The album’s an excellent mix of americana, blues and storytelling. Gilmore starts the album with Borderland, his composition with engaging lyrics about life on the Texas border. Gilmore has reedy vocals like Willie Nelson that seem deft at picking through a story. The excellence of the band (The Guilty Ones) immediately strikes you: fluid, discrete, sympathetic and able to switch between moods and sounds seamlessly.
The album title originated from the origins of the artists with Gilmore from Texas and Alvin from California, something both are proud to emphasise. Alvin’s sound is less americana with a blues tinge. Blind Owl sees him in Kansas in hot midnight rain after a gig contemplating the next town. With a chugging riff that develops into sleek rock whilst propelled by harmonica as Chris Miller on electric lead delights. Alvin delivers the vocal in his part talk and sing style. (‘Blind Owl’ refers to Alan Wilson, a member of Canned Heat until his early death, and a song Alvin wrote and has performed with Canned Heat.)
This is a beautiful listen by two accomplished troubadours with a fabulous band in support. It’s heartening to have a selection of songs with interesting lyrics that give up something new on every listen. Class will out, top drawer.
Johnny Blue Skies is Sturgill Simpson: a nickname given to him by a barman in Kentucky decades ago. He doesn’t now plan to release solo albums under his own name. Apparently he’s no longer that person. Given the twists and turns in his career then this decision is just another curved ball from this intriguing maverick.
He came to prominence with two Dave Cobb produced albums in 2013 and 2014 that were straight country with Outlaw vibes. What was clear was that his rich baritone could hold a tune and he could write one. Exhibiting an attitude and personality along with alluring musicianship the albums were rightly coveted. At this point a major record label seized him, promoted him heavily and his next release, A Sailor’s Guide to Earth, bagged a Grammy. Frankly, I found this release to drift away from the good work he’d done on his earlier efforts but it did demonstrate his ability to purvey more than country.
At this juncture Simpson produced two fabulous albums for, debutant, Tyler Childers, fell out with the music industry, released an anodyne rock album (Sound & Fury), got to a position where he needed to take time out due to substance misuse and all along dabbled in acting. In 2020 he was back with some splendid bluegrass on Cuttin’ Grass Volumes 1 and 2 before2021’s excellent The Ballad of Dood & Juanita.
His latest release takes him back to the 1970s with americana, Southern Rock and blue eyed soul. There are also one and a half tracks of country here: Who I Am, and the Jimmy Buffett pastiche, Scooter Blues. The rest takes me back decades and the tunes could have come from The Allman Brothers Band, Cate Brothers or even the Average White Band.
During its incubation he’s been travelling collecting his thoughts and creating space from the USA and the music industry. France was one destination and we start with an accordion and violin on Swamp Of Sadness. It’s seton the streets of Paris and the song builds to go gently electric to “Spend my days in a haze, floating ’round in the Marais / Nights under the bright lights at Mignon on Beaumarchais.” The French capital is where he wrote most of the album and hence the exquisite sleeve photograph. (Scooter Blues originated in another location on his sojourns, Thailand.)
The blue eyed soul of If The Sun Never Rises Again could have graced the charts both sides of the Atlantic back in the day with this slow lilting dance tune and a lyric about restoring his intended – “All we need is starlight in our eyes”. Jupiter’s Faerie is haltingly about a suicide and the mournful delivery reminded me of its virtual namesake Drops of Jupiter by Train replete with 80s strings. Mint Tea is straight Southern Rock and Simpson’s sparse yet tasteful lead guitar is a complete treat, it grabs the song and hoists it high for all to marvel. The soft rock of One For The Road wades in at just under nine minutes and is a cathartic love song with words such as “I wanna taste all the grapes on your vine / I wanna leave all your bottles empty and broken / I wanna say that you’re all mine / But words are often better left unspoke.”
He’s a complicated chap who’s cerebral about his view of the world and his place in it. Simpson can turn to treasure the music he makes; this album is another chest full. It’s an easy, mellifluous and delightful listen. Despite my protestation about its tenuous sonic links to country music I fear it’ll appear on some end of year lists but, hey, I lost that battle a long time ago. Enjoy.
The lights went down and the full house at The Barbican roared as Rateliff energetically declared his arrival with Suffer Me. Not missing a beat, we were through three songs before he paused to acknowledge the crowd and give the first of his heartfelt thanks for everyone coming out; he was quick to point out it had been a long journey from his modest start in Missouri to sell out tours in Europe. Now fêted in americana circles it was clear that his appeal was to a crowd that liked to dance and wanted irresistible rabble rousing choruses. I can confirm that once exposed to his irrepressible charms then resistance is futile.
Like continual starbursts the eight piece band played a storm of rock n’ roll, old fashioned R&B with flourishes of Stax soul and gospel. The fact that Rateliff records on the latest incarnation of Stax brought to mind the Memphis Horns with saxes (baritone and tenor) working the audiences’ hips and feet like puppeteers and a trumpet for good measure creating some true highs. I’m On Your Side, also from his 2021’s The Future, confirmed, if you’d had any doubts, that here was a mesmerising master craftsman at work, often pacing the stage and switching between piano, acoustic, electric rhythm and lead guitar.
Songs from four albums made up the set list with a debut, for the British audiences, of tracks from his latest release South Of Here. If the audience were less sure about these new songs due to their lack of familiarity then on the remainder including Intro,Love Don’t, Hey Mama, You Worry Me and a cover of Springsteen’s Dancing in The Dark the joint jumped. Young and old alike leapt around with hands in the air, spilling beer and being transported whilst joining Rateliff on the choruses.
Returning for a couple of encores S.O.B. was the most animated I’ve ever seen the venue over my regular attendances; I’ve never seen such a consistently high energy set. It was one of those gigs where you just had to be there. If there was ever an artist who probably released great albums but was best experienced live then he’s the epitome. I implore you to make sure you get a ticket for his next UK visit. I will.
So, to complete our odyssey we left Spartanburg and headed north to the Great Smoky Mountains. This is a National Park with mountains/hills, rivers, waterfalls, a wide selection of wildlife (especially bears and deer), trails, history and, in places, lots of tourists. The Appalachians are a vast area stretching to Canada but I think it would be fair to say that when the name is used it registers in people’s minds as the rugged countryside of North Carolina and Tennessee. In the 19th Century there were Cherokees, early white/European settlers, thick forests and wildlife. The people living there seemed to eek out an existence by subsistence farming. Appalachian is also often seen as a variant in certain music genres, whether, americana, folk or roots music (acoustic).
We stayed a couple of nights in Bryson City, the proverbial one horse town comes to mind. It is however home to a heritage rail line. This ran into the park and along the Fontana Lake. This is a reservoir that at one end feeds a hydro electric power station. It looked idyllic with a lot of properties (house boats) floating on it as well as boats. The train ride was a run up the line and back again; why there were so many passengers in the 12 carriages will long remain a mystery as when I alighted I felt it was five hours of my life I’d never get back.
On leaving the town and saying goodbye to the horse we found a hiking trail. After all our city time we were yearning for some greenery away from the crowds. This was a complete tonic. The walk reminded me of strolling beside the River Wharf at Bolton Abbey.
We started to experience crowds when we drove through Cherokee and arrived at the fascinating Oconaluftee visitor centre that graphically explained the history of the park from the time that the Cherokees were the sole inhabitants until the European settlers arrived. Following the Europeans arrival then the loggers came and a major industry was established in the clearing and selling of timber. When this eventually fizzled out in the early 20th Century the area was turned into a National Park and is today a major resort area.
We drove the Newfoundland Gap, which was full of traffic but everywhere you looked the scenery was sensational.
We arrived at Gatlinburg. A place that has a little romance in it for me after it’s the town that “Sue’ found his father in the song A Boy Named Sue. The town blights the image of the Park in the eyes of many as it’s a resort with stacked hotels, fast food, child friendly entertainments, fairground rides, intense congestion and nowhere to park! We drove straight through and onto the other blemish, Pigeon Forge.
This bigger town was full of cheap accommodation, restaurants and some entertainments including the opportunity to dress up in 19th Century garb for a photo! One of the major draws is its proximity to Dollywood. This is a theme park owned and named after Dolly Parton. Despite my affection and admiration of the country artist then wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me in there . After some lunch and a visit to a supermarket we headed to the attractive and quiet Townsend. Our property back up in the woods was a base.
One day we drove to Cades Cove. The advice was get there early to avoid the congestion. This single track ride around a large wooded area was very popular and there were many visitors, even at 9am, cameras with long lenses snapping at anything that moved. I was initially a bit indifferent to the experience in a slow moving traffic jam until we actually spotted several bears. The clue to where the wildlife was, as you proceeded slowly, was the sight of volunteer marshalls in hi-viz , they were usually near bears and attempting to manage the cars. People leapt out of their cars to snap them (and in true US style left their cars running with the aircon working.). All in all we saw eight black bears.
For Anna who visits the North America seemingly in pursuit of wild bears it definitely ticked a box.I was so inspired that I procured one to take back for Isabella.
In Townsend we continued to explore with walks, visiting a local heritage museum and I even found a country club to use their static bicycle in the gym.
As my thoughts turned to home a worrying thought entered my head: the hire car was contracted to be returned to Savannah and not Nashville where we were headed. (The bland Hyundai Tuscon was underpowered and not much fun; I was surprised to see it’s sold in the UK.) This ‘return’ worry was well founded and eventually I spoke to Avis and they, for a fee, allowed me to return it to Nashville. This is what we did and found the airport easily and flew back to Blighty having had a wonderful time but looking forward to a rest!
To complete and continue our May and June 2024 American adventure I have written a couple of posts, this is the first.
From Memphis we drove to Nashville and took an internal flight on Southwest Airlines to Savannah, Georgia. This internal carrier slightly excited me because 40 years ago when I was doing my MBA they were a case study as a low cost airline taking on the established, larger players. Clearly they’ve done well to be still hanging around as some of their competitors have gone such as Pan Am and TWA. One notable part of the experience was being told by the air hostess to sit wherever there was a spare seat on boarding.
From here we went to stay with my niece, Victoria and her husband (Ben) and son (Henry). They have been here for some time as Ben works as an expat for a large UK company that manufactures and sells in the USA. Victoria works in interior design and young Henry, complete with American accent, goes to school in the town. Savannah is lovely as a coastal resort, university town and the home to the third largest container port in the USA. On this latter point you can see ships coming and going but otherwise the town seems quite separate.
The weather continued to hot and very sunny and we had a grand time with some family neighbours out and about on a pontoon in a sail to Little Tybee island.
In fairness the shirt was a Christmas present
Ben and Victoria are keen cyclists, who wouldn’t be on flat pothole free roads in sensational weather? I went out with their club on Saturday morning and as Ben disappeared to ride at 21mph I hung grimly onto Victoria’s wheel for 47 miles. It reminded me of Australia but a lot faster!
After our busy schedule in Nashville and Memphis (and lots of driving) it was nice to chill in luxurious surroundings before leaving to pick up a car and drive toward the Great Smoky Mountains. (Yes, the ‘e’ disappeared sometime ago, very troubling to a grammar pedant like what I am.)
Leaving Victoria we drove north to Spartanburg. This was a couple of hundred miles, it’s here that rain fell, about time (!) although it was still warm. We’d switched between eating out or catering for ourselves in apartments for breakfast or evening salads. After a few days on the road eating out starts to wane. On this night we slouched out to the magnificent Waffle House, a well known nationwide cheap greasy spoon. I do worry that the ingredients are full of all sorts of chemicals but it does the job and I always console myself that I’ll eventually be back to a less toxic diet. When we did shop there was often an ‘ethnic’ aisle in supermarkets mainly humouring the large Latino diaspora and Brits. Frankly the further north we got into the Smokies the ethnic aisle had a further reach around the store as some of the products could have been expanded from Latino and British to Hill Billy and Red Neck!
A Barnes & Noble store in South Carolina. I wonder how J K Rowling pays the rent?
The next morning we were promptly up to the nearby BMW plant for a tour ($10 each). Here they make the X Series from the X3 upwards. It’s a vast assembly and paint plant where they ship over 400,000 cars a year with 60% exported including back to the UK. They’ve invested $12 billion here since the plant was opened in the 1980s. We were lucky enough to see the fixing of doors, rear hatches and bonnets to the car all by robots. The lifting, placing, alignment and fixing was done by these massive arms that swung around with precision and grace. There were several lasers ensuring the component was a perfect fit. We also had a video, a look at the paint process and then were given a medallion. Sadly this didn’t come fixed to a gold chain for me to wear with an open neck shirt.
BMW X3A big lecture on not taking photos on the plant despite employees, on the plant, wandering past us on their mobiles!
From here in North Carolina it was back to Tennessee and the Smokies and maybe a bear or two?
Thanks to the App for UK’s sports radio channel TalkSport I was able to listen to some of the Championship football Play Off Final. The rest of the match I followed by looking at the BBC Sports website. I never had any serious conviction that Leeds would win, and they didn’t. After the result I was comfortably numb. Leaving Nashville we had a brief stop in Franklin before arriving in sleepy Memphis in our Subaru Outback.
A turkey sandwich not completely dulling the pain of another season in the Championship
In a straight line on the Interstate the car was fine but worryingly redolent with all sorts of baffling safety features that flashed up with irritating regularity on the dashboard. Lane control alerts, a speed pegging back cruise control if you got too close (100m) to a car in front, nasty bleeping if the car was switched off and you hadn’t restored the gear stick into ‘Park’, bleeping if the door was open when stationary, only opening one door when you pushed the button on the key fob; not all the doors. I came to hate it. On my own car at home I’d managed to switch all this Nanny State crap off. I would still be in Nashville had I attempted to fathom out how to do this on my Subaru.
Object of hate
I say ‘sleepy’ Memphis, the Downtown area was deserted and this was Memorial Day weekend. It should be jumping. This day commemorates all the fallen military. It was nine years since I’d been here and I thought it was going to be buzzing like Nashville: I was wrong. Also Anna had read that personal safety due to robbery and violence was something to concentrate on. The violence statistics were awful for the city. I’m not cavalier about what I wear or carry when out. I’m never anxious but thoughtfully aware. However, on an early stroll along the Mississippi we cut away from the river and climbed up toward a plush housing estate.
Anna and the mighty Mississippi
As we’re wandering along Glen and his wife Vicky greet us. He’s 83 years old (he told us twice) and a long term resident after a military career, a colonel no less. As we exchanged pleasantries and we say we’ve come from Nashville and music is our reason to visit. In a flash he’s onto his iPhone and produces a clip of a song by Glen and the Graduates, a sixties pop song. Glen apparently turned down a record contract to pursue a military career when a fledgling pop star. Who knows if he’d have made anything of himself but it was a great tune. As we’re digesting this he goes on to recount a recent local tragedy where a man is walking with his wife and small child nearby when they’re held up at gun point. The man was shot and lost his life. He talks of America in chaos with divides in society. Another vote for Trump, especially when you read the back of his calling card.
They depart, to continue their walk, urging us to be careful. Gulp!
I have to say the weather has been beautiful but hot and the evenings delightful. This led us to visit Beale Street. The history of music and important careers being nurtured here are part of blues folklore. The street has a few bars, a lot of gift shops and not many punters. I recollect it was a lot more vibrant. We did venture into the most famous bar, BB King’s Blues Club, to dine and listen to the band. The bands were sensational but they didn’t play any blues, I think the audience, all tourists, liked the rock covers they played. The vocalist could really sing with a great delivery.
We visited the National Civil Rights Museum. This is one of the most impactful collections I have ever visited, it was my second visit. It merits a compulsory visit in my not so humble opinion. Outside was a lady protesting about the museum gentrifying the area and masking so many troubling issues for all the Memphis residents. She’d been there for 36 years and on establishing my nationality proudly advised she’d been in The Guardian and met Harry. (Neither of these events ticked my box!) We had a back and forth about her point of view and I quickly felt I had got in a discussion with the local loony and was trapped. As I walked away she broke into God Save The King. Cuckoo.
A must visit. A world class museum.
Despite the poor press Memphis seemed fine and again all the folk were deferential, courteous and kind; so much for threats. Anna had checked out concerts to discover that Lionel Richie and Earth, Wind and Fire were playing at the local arena. At $58 for two tickets how could we not go? Break Wind and Fire were a 10 piece with now only three original members.
Earth, Wind & Fire
They had the crowd up from the get go. It’s quite a sight to see the heavy frames* of many of the 19,000 audience gyrating. For me the sound mix was terrible with the voices and horns sounding muted and tinny over a steady thunder of over amplified drums.
Lionel, a mere 74 years old. All the hits!
Lionel Richie fully adopted a Southern persona, a little different to when we saw him in Sheffield! He, and his sound, were magnificent. You should see him. Toward the end he went into a philosophical muse about the world post Covid and everyone getting along. The black woman behind us repeated his words, like a call and response in a church. When he finished she turned to leave the concert and reached down put her hands on each of our shoulders said “I love you” and was gone. Only in the South, only in the South.
Ample
In a cafe in a chap asked me about my shorts. Clearly he was impressed with my sartorial elegance. I told him the brand and we parted only to bump into him later with a couple of his pals. They advised us they took their vinyl to the Crosstown Concourse to listen to them on an immense hi-fi system. The building was the former Sears catalogue building that once serviced a nationwide mail order business. Clearly we all know how that ended. This listening room was donated by a Memphis luminary and in comfort you could listen to your music. We said we’d meet them there. We did and heard some Black Sabbath, Lemon Twigs and Elvis Costello with Burt Bacharach. One of the chaps started somehow on politics and started to vent about Trump. I changed the subject but I only mention this to confirm how vocal and public people are about their views and there’s little accommodation of their opponents.
Other museum visits included the Stax record label museum, the original home of legends like Otis Redding, Isaac Hayes and err… Lena Zavaroni. This is a terrific stop.
Nice shoes and socks, I know. Even sadder is that I wore them here in 2015!What??!
As part of a pilgrimage I again visited Sun Studios. Here Elvis Presley got his break and we got a number plate! We’d parked up outside a garage and Anna, concerned that we had parked in someone’s spot ask an employee if we were allowed? James Dean (Moss) not only confirmed it was but regaled us with his Mancunian heritage, something personally I would have kept secret, and then dived into his car to give us a number plate off a recent car wreck. As with all these older blokes we got a life story… 78 years old, had retired, had got bored (as not enough to do around the home or at his church) and so he’d found another job. Reluctantly he released us to visit the museum!
Unexpected gift!
When not absorbing culture we had a less frenetic time and I’d managed to find a couple of second hand record stores to spend paltry amounts on records by Billy Preston, Sharks and Blood, Sweat & Tears.
I like my history and we went to the Cotton Museum. Cotton was a vital 19th and early 20th Century crop that provided a great living to all but the black slaves and their descendants. The museum dwelt on this, its demise and move to California where technology and mechanisation make it a very different affair today.
From here it was back to Nashville to fly to Savannah, GA to see our niece and husband. It is, as they say, ‘all go’.
We asked the air hostess where we should sit as it wasn’t clear on our Boarding Pass. ‘Anywhere!’
*Obesity is commonplace here ranging from overweight to morbidly obese. It would not be uncommon for a couple in their 50s to pay $20,000+ per annum as a premium for their health care insurance. The high cost must, in part, be driven by the health issues that this weight contributes toward conditions such as diabetes, cancer and heart disease.
(This isn’t a travelogue, let’s be fair, a quick glance at Trip Advisor will tell you more about Nashville than I could, but an outline of our time in the city and some observations that appealed to me.)
Thanks to Amex and British Airways we’d acquired some credits to get a cheap low cost flight to Nashville, Tennessee. I’d been here in 2015 but the chance to return here and then to Memphis was not something I was about to pass up. If the original flight was cheap then the chance to upgrade from Economy to Premium Economy was irresistible when asked at Check In and we made the nine hour flight in greater comfort albeit about £668 poorer for the two seats. It was worth it.
Wider seats and more leg room. Also an unfortunate chap sat next to me who was on his first trip to the USA and and was hosting an event with corporate guests. Slightly anxious!He’d be pedalling one of these later!
We’d booked accommodation in a self catering flat in Downtown and from here we’d see the sights using, mainly shank’s pony. The city or Downtown is ‘party town’ and with nine years elapsing I last cycled here it seemed to have got brighter, louder and, as with all the USA, dramatically more expensive. In most large US cities then sprawl is enormous and the tourist hotspots don’t define the character of the town and in reality as you drive in the suburbs you quickly realise that probably most residents, in Nashville, care little for country music.
They reckon the average American has a wage 40% higher than a Brit. (That may be the average (mean but not the median or mode I suggest) difference but not for all as I explain below.) They need it! I couldn’t say all the prices were 40% higher than the UK but it was getting that way by the time you added on Sales Tax and subsidised the restaurant or bar owner by lobbing the waitress a 20% tip. In fact tipping has progressed to be a further optional sales tax eg. In a coffee shop you’re invited to add up to 30% for someone who stands behind a counter, writes your name and coffee specification on a paper cup, hands it to a co-worker and then smiles at you, mutters something banal and insincere such as ‘Awesome! Have a wonderful day’ and moves onto the person next in the queue. We spent most of our leisure time in Nashville and Memphis in attractions or in areas of hospitality and it became wearing the continual begging from guides or musicians for tips. ‘I don’t get paid to give this talk’ or ‘your generosity will help us pay for dental treatment..’ etc. This latter one came after we paid a door cover charge for the band!
Museum exhibits
One economy were Uber taxis. This facility is a blessing with the App and they are cheap! Two of our drivers were on vacation from their ‘day’ jobs! Rather than sit at home they clocked on for a few hours. Americans get a paltry holiday allowance and it seems that even when they do have time away from their main job they get out and work. You do feel Americans work a lot harder than Europeans. Another driver, Jennie described herself as ‘big’ yet complained as we shuffled into her SUV, when leaving Walmart, that she hardly knew how her last passenger at ‘500lbs’ (35 stone!) had squeezed himself into the car. Like a lot of Americans Jennie, mid forties, suffered from an over active knife and fork and you’d scratch your head as to why they risk these future mobility and health risks.
SongwritersIconic music clubToo shiny not to photograph!
Her size, however, might have helped in her main job as a Correction Officer. She worked at a County Jail and was trained in prisoner restraint. For all this she only received $19/hour, whereas on a good Uber day she could make $40/hour. We asked if she ever had troublesome passengers? ‘No, not really’ as she’d only had to use her firearm (nestled in the centre armrest) twice! The biggest problem arose when an aggressive Mexican had taken her phone and purse to suddenly see the error of his ways when he was facing a loaded pistol. She did comment that this Mexican was probably an ‘illegal, like half of them’. (Another vote for Trump there.) Sadly this interview was going well until arriving at our destination, which foreshortened this fascinating discussion.
Burning some more calories on top of the 20,000 steps per day
You might expect a little information on our musical discoveries. On the main drag in Downtown, Lower Broadway, there were numerous bars with live music. By 8pm it was cacophonous walking down the streets with thousands of mainly younger folk parading in T shirts, short skirts, cowboy hats and boots. They were out to party. It was exciting, a bit like moving with a tide of football fans about to enter a stadium for a key match. On one night we visited a bar where the beers were cheap and the music up beat and sweaty. We chose Robert’s. This bar promised honky tonk country music from the house band. On another night at Chief’s we saw a proper concert with an artist whose music I’d collected Julie Roberts (not Julia). I’ve written up the gig – see the preceding post.
Julie Roberts
However before that we’d spent lunchtime at Third and Lindsley attending a chat and concert by five songwriters (Gary Baker, Billy Montana, Randall Fowler, Greg Barnhill and Jill Colucci. Four of these had written major hits for major artists over the last 40 years.
The artists included Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, Sara Evans, Wynonna and Lee Brice. The music was terrific, the setting iconic and the history of the songs and their creation captivating. The Country Music Hall of Fame was another morning’s entertainment: a truly excellent museum in the centre of Downtown.
The gardens inside a hotel. Delightful at The Gaylord Opryland Resort
I’ve been in the States a lot and it’s always pleasing how clean the toilets always are (!), how unfailingly courteous most people are, when you might, say, meet on a narrow stairway the other apologises and gives way immediately. However, it still hits you hard how the concept of recycling or waste hasn’t yet had adoption. We looked around for different bins for plastic or paper waste: no chance. We tutted at noting trucks parked up for hours with their engines running or any fast food meal came with disposable styrofoam plates, plastic cutlery and acres of superfluous greaseproof paper. The world’s resources are finite. They don’t get it do they?
Friday night (and it’s bright)
We coveted and were jealous of the space. Their supermarkets had wide aisles. They had free parking spaces (and lots of them). Their suburbs were sprawling with spaces between the offices, factories and residential housing. Somehow this space created a feeling of calm and plentifulness to me.
Robert’s on Lower Broadway
Nashville was mainly white and even the tourists were white. For the first time, in a long time, I observed there were no ethnic Chinese or Asians tourists: I was used to York. Clearly the magic of Hank Williams, Dolly Parton and Willie Nelson had not spread eastwards. If the Downtown streets were white with a handful of African Americans then the retail outlets away from the centre employed many races.
Typical club on Lower Broadway with three levels
Post Covid there is a scramble for labour in low paid jobs. The working US elderly called it a day, never to return or younger workers moved to jobs that allowed them to keep working remotely. In a Walmart we shopped as the staff chatted to each other in Spanish, not socialising but running the store. I approached a chap for help and asked ‘where can I find sesame bagels please?’ The assistant (Latino?) looked blank but handed me his device to type in what I wanted (to enable a store search) rather than attempt to fathom out what I’d said. A quick practical solution but probably not from a training module he’d attended.
Why?
It must be a challenge running a $648 billion business dependent on low wage labour when there’s a chronic shortage. The average Walmart hourly rate is $17.50/hour (£14/hour). The UK’s comparable wage for a supermarket is c£12/hour and the UK cost of living is lower plus the employee benefits are greater. This is a nation where the rich are living on a different planet to hundreds of millions of others who need more than one job to make ends meet. It’ll be interesting to see how this excess of demand over labour supply plays out over the next decade. Can a machine put fruit and veg out or collect all the trolleys spread across a car park?
Nashville exceeded our expectations. With a surfeit of music and sightseeing we took an Uber to the airport to pick up a car for our drive west. I donned my Leeds United shirt as today was the day of the Play Off Final…
Tony Ives’ Blog 