Nashville Bluegrass at IBMA
The hound dog bass thumped tirelessly outside our hotel room until daylight. I had expected to hear a lot of bluegrass music on the floor where we were staying but I did not expect to hear it all night, every night.
Lying in my bed at the Renaissance Hotel in downtown Nashville, Tennessee, I stuffed cotton in my ears and put a pillow over my head silencing the banjo, but the bass penetrated everything, including my patience. Now, I know why the room was available. It was located next to a tier of 5 elevators where, in the foyer, was plenty of space for people to gather, mingle, sing, and restlessly play their instruments relentlessly. It was hell week on the twentieth floor.
It was my fault. When I checked into the hotel, I deliberately changed our quiet room to a room on a “jamming” floor thinking that our good friends would gather and do some picking and singing. After all, we had planned for a full year to get together at the IBMA, the International Bluegrass Music Association Convention. The Renaissance is attached to the convention center and though quite expensive, the convenience was worth it. But as usual, I over planned and did not leave any time for jamming. I suppose I could have grabbed my guitar and joined the persistent and pesky players outside my room. The countless workshops, performances, and visits with friends left me too tired for jamming. Old folks are like that.
For three long days, we walked the streets of Nashville, stayed up late to listen to great bluegrass bands, listened to experts tell their stories on everything from how to play the guitar to how to write an award winning song. Then, late at night, weary and fatigued, clump-bop-clump-bop-clump-bop, all night long with no relief until the sun would send the tireless and troublesome troubadours back to their rooms to sleep away the morning.
I begged for relief but, the hotel had no mercy. All other rooms were taken and I was stuck. I called the front desk each night and asked to have the menacing minstrels move a few inches further away from my headboard but the front desk was deaf to my demands.
Such distractions, though thoroughly annoying, did not temper an otherwise great adventure.
I had a chance to meet with my good friend and former co-worker, John Hamlin, over lunch. John is the senior vice president of production and development at CMT (Country Music Television.) He has always had more energy than anyone else I know and has used it, along with great talent and skill, to cultivate a great career in the television and music industry. It was good to see him and tour the CMT headquarters.
Even the Thursday night Karaoke on lower Broadway was a lot of fun. Our friends Mike, Nisa, Valarie, Jeff, and Shannon were all about Karaoke. Up until this point in my life, I proudly testified to everyone my basic disdain for Karaoke but somehow, in the dim light of a Nashville honky tonk, it was okay.
It actually takes a lot of courage, or a few strong drinks, to sing a Patsy Cline song on a stage that is only a few hundred steps from the Ryman Auditorium. Jeff, a retired art teacher and nationally known artist from Live Oak, Florida, showed no intimidation and nailed it. It was down right good. She and Valarie even found bluegrass Karaoke at a later event at the convention center and didn’t hesitate to jump on stage to sing. Heck, if I could sing that well, I might have done it too.
We left the party fairly early Thursday night and headed back to the hotel. I knew there would be bluegrass music waiting for me outside the room. My granddaughter and I had carefully hidden some of the benches and chairs outside in the hall hoping the late night jam session would end early since we made sure there was no where to sit. But, the annoying and assertive ensemble dragged the chairs from their own rooms and persisted with the all night sing only inches from my ear lobes.
I wasn’t the only one having a run with bad luck. My friend Mike, who was staying down the street at the Best Western, had a near fatal accident with a boiled egg at the breakfast buffet. He was warming two eggs in the motel microwave when he apparently ignored the warning taped to the glass door and left the eggs in too long. When he removed one and tried to stick a fork in it, an explosion sent egg yoke flying everywhere including the hair of a businessman seated at the table next to him.
Mike, who is not the type to let a little public humiliation deter him, sent other motel guests scampering out of the buffet area when he reloaded the microwave with more eggs. He finished his breakfast while the motel maid wiped eggs from the walls and off the buffet appliances. The Best Western buffet was one of the main reasons he chose to stay there and no little egg explosion was going to keep him from a free and wholesome breakfast.
Friday and Saturday were devoted entirely to bluegrass music because at IBMA, the best musicians on the planet perform. I, along with thousands, enjoyed hours and hours of great music including shows from Vince Gill, Kathy Mattea, Blue Highway, and others. Truthfully, there was not one bad band at the convention. I enjoyed every ounce of music I heard during normal human being hours.
Vince Gill delivered a powerful performance and although I am not comfortable admitting it, I caught myself a little damp eyed when he sang, “Go rest high on that mountain.”
Kathy Mattea, known mostly as a country music singer, has deep West Virginia roots and delivered an exceptional performance with some coal mining ballads that clearly came from very deep recesses of her soul. It was a very moving and inspirational performance and seemed to capture the essence of a coal miner’s struggle to survive. Her take on a Hazel Dickens song, “Black Lung” was spellbinding.
Inside the Nashville Convention Center, vendors selling high end custom made guitars, banjos, fiddles, and everything bluegrass were set up in booths and eager to show off their wares. It was very tempting to spend a few thousand dollars on one the incredible and beautifully mastered custom guitars. I resisted the temptation and kept my Visa securely stashed in my wallet.
By Saturday morning, I was a stranger to myself. I can’t remember the last time I had been so sleep deprived. With only one more night left in Nashville, I decided to try once again to convince the inhospitable hotel to change my room. At the front desk I demanded a new room or else “I am checking out!”
As I drove around Nashville, luggage jammed into the trunk, I quickly realized that a football game between Vanderbilt and Auburn had brought thousands to town and coupled with the bluegrass convention, rooms were hard to come by. I was so aggravated, I decided to drive home but my wife and granddaughter, much to my surprise, insisted we stay the night. I reluctantly agreed as I wondered which park bench we would sleep on.
It took several calls but I finally found a room at the Best Western. I can only assume that Mike’s earlier encounter with the eggs created unexpected vacancies but I can’t say for sure.
Saturday night after a day of the best music I have ever heard, I was dead-dog tired. We stayed and lingered late but I knew for certain that when I finally got to my room, I would sleep the sleep of angels. No hound dog bass, no banjo, no fiddle, just the soft, sometimes abrasive rhythm of my wife’s snoring.
When I finally got out of bed Sunday morning, all I could think about was getting on the road and heading home. I had a good time, no, great time, but I was ready to surround myself with my stuff and sleep in my bed.
I quickly loaded the car and checked out. But before leaving, I stepped into the breakfast buffet only to find a few cold pastries and fruit. Eggs had been banned from the buffet. Thanks a lot Mike!
Will I go again next year? Heck yeah! IBMA is the epicenter of bluegrass music and I can’t imagine a life without it.
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About Me
The life of any News Director is stressful most days... so, when the weekend rolls around I find myself on the back roads of our bountiful and beautiful part of the state looking for bluegrass music, interesting things to do, and, of course, fried chicken. I will try to share some of these "finds" with you. There are a thousand stories left to be told or simply remembered. Don't expect to find them all here; maybe just a little stroll down memory lane or maybe a little skewed insight into topical issues.
Larche Hardy,
News Director
All My Entries:
- Nashville Bluegrass at IBMA
- Marty Raybon and Georgia Bluegrass
- Curse of the Acoustic Guitar
- A Millville Hero
- Bluegrass at BAMA JAM a hit!
- Bird watching not a bore
- No Poet Laureate
- Let the Bluegrass begin
- Hurry Spring
- Alabama’s Highway 52
- Cell Phone Interuptus
- Bellying up to the bar
- Resolutions are Doomed to Failure
- Bah-dad-gum-Humbug
- A hunting we will go!
- Hot Stuff!
- My new camo hat… A bargain at $34
- The Road Trip
- “If you don’t want to make the news, just don’t do it.”
- Hostage
- Not a Cat Person
- Hollywood - Here I don’t come…
- Found: a cure for the blues…
- It won’t be long…
- Not Enough Historical Markers, I say…
- Evolution takes many forms
- Revisiting Vernon
- All I know is that it’s hot…
- I Love Slocomb
- The Not-So-Casual Traveler
- The Casual Historian
Other News13 Blogs:
- The Casual Historian - Larche Hardy
- Derby Girl - Enocha Van Lierop
- The Newby - Jessi Chapin
- Gainesville, Georgia's All American Girl - Tuquyen Mach
