The ferocious Texan heat could crackle the skin off a Scot’s back. Even after almost 20 years living in the Lone Star State, I still struggle when the mercury tops 40 degrees.
During one particularly oppressive summer, the record heat drives me away from home in search of cool, refreshing water. About 50 kilometres west of Austin, on the edge of the rolling Texas Hill Country, I find a small pocket of watery paradise cut by a meandering subterranean river: the Hamilton Pool.
Thousands of years ago, the roof of a water-eroded grotto collapsed, exposing an underground lake, which is now half shadowed by a dramatic crescent overhang. The jade-green pool is like a mirage; enveloped by an amphitheatre of limestone and moss at one end, while lapping at a sandy beach at the other.
Before plunging into the surprisingly deep pool, I feel the cool air beneath the overhang. It’s refreshing but somewhat unnerving, with the weight of all that limestone hanging precariously over my head. Still, the lure of the cool, invigorating water works its magic and I slip into its refreshing embrace. Overhead, the Hamilton Creek tumbles over the rock precipice and down a 15-metre drop into the pool, creating a singularly beautiful waterfall. After a swim and an hour of lazing on the small beach, I almost forget about the heat, ready to take the shaded walk along the creek’s bank to the Pedernales River and head back home.
The number of people permitted into the pool is strictly controlled and I’m grateful this tranquil spot is not teeming with swimmers. I leave, knowing I’ll return. And when I do, I’ll be prepared for friendly locals, spectacular scenery cold, clear water – along with a desire to swim, hike and luxuriate in this hidden paradise for an eternity.
This is how I come to meet Nick Bishop, owner of Hattie B’s Hot Chicken. Having spent the morning gorging on biscuits, country ham and fried green tomatoes at the Loveless Cafe, pitmaster George Harvell and brand manager Jesse Goldstein ask about other quintessentially Nashvillian dishes I’ve tried. There’s barbecue and meat ’n’ three, sweet tea and grits.
“What about hot chicken?” asks George.
“I’ve had chicken-fried chicken,” I reply. “Is that the same thing?”
At which point they laugh, shake their heads and point me in the direction of Hattie B’s. “Don’t order anything hotter than the medium,” Jessie offers as a final piece of advice.
At Hattie B’s the menu – basically chicken, with five levels of heat from Mild to Shut the Cluck Up, and sides – is written on a board. The chicken arrives in a basket, sitting on a piece of white bread with two slices of pickle on top. Dishes of mac ’n’ cheese and coleslaw come as the sides. The medium chicken is hot. Damned hot.
Satiated for the second time in about three hours, I drop my empty basket at the return station and head out. A man is standing in the sun.
“How was your meal?” he asks.
“Absolutely delicious,” I tell him without a word of a lie.
“That’s great to hear. Y’all have a good day.” About to walk off, I twig that this man probably isn’t just a random well-wisher. It turns out he owns the establishment and, sure, he’d love to chat about hot chicken.
“Hot chicken has enjoyed a resurgence in the past four or five years,” says Bishop. “Local people have always eaten it, but it’s got a lot of publicity lately. Here’s what you’ll find in the States: things that were old are now new. People want old, they want tradition, they want the way things used to be.”
That’s what he gives them, albeit with some tweaks. Most southern-fried chicken is soaked in buttermilk, breaded then fried. Not hot chicken. Some places soak it in hot sauce; at Hattie B’s the chefs make a blend of cayenne pepper, dried habanero and other spices. “Then it’s mixed with oil to make a type of demi-glace,” says Nick. “Depending on the level of heat it’s either brushed on or dunked into the infusion. The Shut the Cluck Up has some extra spices shaken over it.” Those extra spices include scorpion powder, made from the hottest chilli in the world. “It puts people in a euphoric state,” he explains, then laughs.
It’s not hard to feel on top of the world in Nashville. The capital of Tennessee isn’t a huge city – the population is about 600,000 – and still has a down-home charm. The Loveless’s Jesse Goldstein, a born-and-bred Southerner, isn’t surprised. “I always say folks know they’re in Nashville when they get to the four-way stop signs – people are so nice here, they’re often waving everyone else on to go in front of them,” he explains.
While parts of the city are changing rapidly, you don’t have to go far to taste tradition. At Monell’s in Germantown, guests sit at communal tables and platters of Southern classics – fried chicken, corn pudding, biscuits – are passed to the left with everyone helping themselves. The rules are thus: take as much as you can eat but eat what you take, and never answer your mobile at the table.
This combination of tradition and hospitality wins hearts. Four years ago Matt Farley moved from New York, and in 2011 he became executive chef at The Southern. The updated Nashville classic on the menu is meat ’n’ three. “I had no idea what a meat ’n’ three was before I moved here,” confesses Farley. It’s basically a protein – anything from pork chops to meatloaf – with three sides. Mac ’n’ cheese is popular, then there’s mashed potato, fries, coleslaw, baked beans and collard greens.
“It’s comfort food,” he explains. “It’s heavy and warm and makes you want to go to sleep. If we want to lighten it up in the restaurant we do, especially when it gets warm – and it does get hot here.”
His cooked-to-order meat ’n’ three is quite different to the traditional version served buffet-style at spots across the city, some of which, like Arnold’s Country Kitchen, still pack them in. The Loveless Cafe is another original. Its former owners, Lon and Annie Loveless, started selling chicken and biscuits from their home in 1951 to travellers driving along Highway 100 between Nashville and Memphis. They converted rooms into dining areas before the Interstate eventually bypassed them. “By the time that came about the Loveless was already doing really well,” explains Jesse. “There’d be nights after the Grand Ole Opry when they’d call and say ‘Keep the kitchen open, we’re coming out’ and they’d all pile here and take over.”
The Loveless is famous for its buttermilk biscuits, salt-cured country ham, fried chicken and, of course, barbecue. George Harvell arrives at 2.30am to start his 12-hour(ish) shifts. First he shovels out the pit and gets a fresh fire started using indigenous hickory wood. He cooks pork butts for nine hours then wraps them in foil and puts them back in the pit overnight. The process takes about 21 hours. As we talk he’s ‘pulling’ the pork – separating the meat you eat from what you don’t – while it’s hot. “It’s gotta hurt when you’re doing it,” he says.
He’s been barbecuing for almost 30 years. “I learned from a friend who owned a catering business,” he explains. “He taught me how to do it his way and I’ve added little things. And I listen. You know, there are some old country boys in bib overalls who walk through here who’ve been doing this all their life and they’ll give you little tips. You don’t learn anything when you’re talkin’ all the time.” He laughs, and continues pulling pork, greeting people who walk by his barbecue shed: “Morning y’all. Welcome to the Loveless.”
You can create degrees of hotness by choosing the sauce in the marinade wisely. If you want a milder flavour, go easy when you brush the spice mix over at the end.
INGREDIENTS
8 cups water
½ cup hot sauce
½ cup salt
½ cup sugar, plus extra ½ teaspoon
1½ kilogram chicken, quartered
2 litres vegetable oil for deep-frying
1 tablespoon cayenne powder
½ teaspoon hot paprika
¼ teaspoon garlic powder
2 cups plain flour
METHOD In a large bowl, combine the water, hot sauce, salt and sugar and mix until the salt and sugar have dissolved. Add the chicken pieces, cover and marinate in the fridge for about an hour.
Make a spice mixture by heating about 3 tablespoons of oil in a small saucepan. Add the extra sugar, cayenne, paprika, garlic powder and a pinch of salt. Cook until fragrant (about 30 seconds), remove from heat and set aside.
In a large bowl, season the flour. Remove the chicken from the marinade and dredge each piece in the flour, shaking off the excess. Rest on a wire rack.
Get yourself set up by placing a wire rack over a baking tray and warming the oven to about 100ºC. Heat the oil in either a deep-fryer or a large heavy-based saucepan on the stovetop to 180ºC. You need to keep it at this temperature to ensure the chicken pieces cook through without burning. Dredge the chicken pieces in the flour again, shaking off the excess. Put half the chicken in the hot oil, and cook until it’s a deep golden colour and the chicken is cooked through (about 25–30 minutes). Transfer the chicken pieces to the tray in the oven, and repeat with the remaining chicken. When all the chicken is cooked, brush with the spice mixture. Hot chicken is traditionally served on top of thick slices of white bread with a couple of slices of pickle.
Equal parts eerie and amazing, this underwater gallery of more than 500 life-size sculptures brings new meaning to interactive art. Occupying 420 square metres of seabed off the coast of Cancún, the Museo Subacuático de Arte is a haunting garden of human faces and bodies. The sculptures, created by dive instructor and graffiti artist Jason deCaires Taylor, surrender to the marine environment over time, transforming into a unique artificial reef that is constantly evolving.
The reef is a magnet for snorkellers and divers, and also helps promote the recovery of sensitive ecosystems by luring visitors away from natural reefs vulnerable to human impact. The museum can also be enjoyed from a glass-bottom boat.
Phil Kaufman and Michael Martin had everything they needed: a busted-arse hearse borrowed from Martin’s girlfriend, matching wardrobes of Levi’s, cowboy hats and tour jackets, a case of beer and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. The unencumbered boldness of extreme drunkenness was a necessary accoutrement to their end game – what was to become the rock-and-roll heist of the century.
Arriving at the mortuary hangar at Los Angeles International Airport, the pair saw a truck carrying a casket pull up. “Is that the Parsons remains?” Kaufman asked the driver, who answered in the affirmative. “The family has changed their plans,” Kaufman told him, making up a story as he went along: “They want to fly the body by private plane from Van Nuys.”
Not surprisingly, considering their state, the driver was wary. “Look, man, it’s late,” continued Kaufman. “We’ve got a couple of girls lined up, and then we got this call. We want to do this quickly.”
The paperwork was handed over and, as he was signing it (with the name Jeremy Nobody), a police car pulled up, blocking the exit. Thinking the gig was up, Kaufman walked towards the cop, waving the papers and asked him to move the car. The policeman apologised, backed his vehicle away and helped Kaufman move the casket from the gurney into the back of the hearse.
In the driver’s seat, Martin promptly took off and drove the hearse into a wall. The cop watched on incredulously, but didn’t stop them. Part one of the plan was a go.
Gram Parsons was born Cecil Ingram Connor III in Florida during the winter of 1946. His mother Avis was an heir to the Snively citrus fruit fortune; his father Cecil a World War II pilot who came home to work in the Snively Groves packing division. From an early age, Gram showed an interest in music, but he had a sad childhood. Cecil committed suicide two days before Christmas 1958. Avis remarried but she was unhappy and, although her new husband Bob Parsons loved Gram, he was a philanderer.
It was at Harvard University that Parsons found his true calling: country music. In the ensuing years he would join the Byrds, form the Flying Burrito Brothers and record an album with the Fallen Angels, called GP. Now these recordings are considered the beginning of the country-rock scene; Parsons the father of alt country.
For all his genius – perhaps because of it – Parsons had a long, troubling relationship with drugs. Lots of them, often chased by enormous quantities of alcohol. In July 1973, at the funeral for friend and guitarist Clarence White, who’d been killed by a drunk driver, Parsons and Kaufman got loaded and made a pledge: the first to die would be taken by the other to Joshua Tree and cremated. Not for them a stuffy funeral attended by family and acquaintances neither cared for.
Joshua Tree, a stunning desert area in south-east California, had become a place Parsons loved. He’d been going there for a few years to get high and, from Cap Rock, stare at the night sky looking for shooting stars and UFOs. He’d even taken Keith Richards, Anita Pallenberg and Marianne Faithfull out there one night to enjoy the psychedelic view.
Parsons had just finished recording a new album – Grievous Angel, with Emmylou Harris – when, in September, he headed out to Joshua Tree with some friends. Days later Kaufman took a phone call – Gram was dead. In his autobiography, Road Mangler Deluxe, Kaufman says the cause was a morphine overdose. The autopsy report, however, names the cause of death as drug toxicity – the morphine may have been the final straw but it was Parsons’s years of drug and alcohol abuse that sealed his fate. He was 26 years old.
Kaufman blew into town, cleared room number eight at the Joshua Tree Inn of any drugs before the police arrived, and whisked away the female hangers-on. Back in Los Angeles though, he railed against Bob Parsons, who had organised a family-only service in New Orleans. For some reason, Kaufman thought Bob was after his son’s estate, but Gram was married (however unhappily) at the time. His wife Gretchen was to inherit the little money that was left from his mother’s family and, up to that point, Parsons had only ever received one royalty cheque for his music.
So began Kaufman’s plan to carry out his friend’s wishes. Clear of the airport and the cops, he and Martin drove Parsons into the desert, stopping on the way to buy a can of petrol and eat a burger. At Cap Rock, they unloaded the coffin, opened the lid and poured in the petrol. According to Kaufman, he played ‘gotcha’ with the corpse, touching the autopsy scar on Parsons’s chest before flicking the singer’s nose. He poured in the petrol and threw in a lit match. The coffin went up in a ball of flames that shot into the sky. Seeing lights in the distance, Kaufman and Martin got back in the hearse and took off, scared the police had caught up to them. They hadn’t, and Parsons’s body was discovered the next day by hikers.
It took the police a while to catch up with the body snatchers, and they were charged with misdemeanour theft, fined $300 each and ordered to pay back about $700 for the destruction of the coffin. Kaufman, who had no money, organised a party – part wake and part benefit – to raise the funds.
In some ways, Kaufman’s actions made Gram Parsons far more famous than he might well have been had Bob and the family had their intimate funeral. It’s the legend that still brings new listeners to his extraordinary catalogue of songs, as well as Grievous Angel that was released posthumously to critical acclaim. But for some of Gram’s friends and his family, it robbed them of an opportunity to mourn him properly. The claims that Bob was after Gram’s money are spurious at best. Despite being in the midst of divorce proceedings, Gretchen was entitled to whatever there was. In the end, Parsons’s remains were taken to New Orleans where his family buried him at Memorial Lawn Cemetery, where he lays beneath a gravestone carved with lyrics from his song ‘In My Hour of Darkness’: “Another young man safely strummed / his silver string guitar / And he played to people everywhere / Some say he was a star / But he was just a country boy. / His simple songs confess / And the music he had in him / So very few possess.”
Open-air cinemas pop up like mushrooms in cities around the world, but you’d be hard-pressed to find any cooler than this chilled-out setup that glows over the rooftops of Brooklyn. Situated next to Gowanus Canal, the Old American Can Factory plays host to Rooftop Films, an annual film festival that boasts more than two-dozen outdoor cinemas dotted across NYC.
Catch a feature film or a short flick on the terrace, then explore the exhibitions and performance houses on the factory’s lower levels. With more than two decades of tradition behind it, the festival is a must-do if you’re looking for a different take on the Big Apple.
This luxury cruise liner turned World War II troop carrier has seen its fair share of tragedy and terror since its maiden voyage in 1936. Time Magazine declared the ship one of America’s 10 most haunted places and the docked Queen Mary lives up to her reputation.
Nightly ghost tours lead spectre spotters on spine-tingling wanders below decks, taking in the engine room where a 17-year-old sailor was crushed to death while trying to escape a fire. There are also stories of a lady in white roaming the decks and lingering spirits of children drowned in the pool.
A paranormal investigator accompanies the brave with ghost-detecting devices and you can even sleep overnight. If you dare.
Feel like a kid again – or re-create scenes from some of your favourite movies – at these summer camps for adults. With the slogan ‘disconnect to reconnect’, Camp Grounded is the ultimate gadget-free getaway for tech addicts who want to get off the grid. Hand in your smartphone, laptop and assorted devices because here face time honours the true definition of the term, and the only posting you might do involves a mallet and dirt.
This is the perfect environment for grown-ups to tap into more wholesome childhood pastimes. For four days you can roast marshmallows during a campfire singalong, stargaze, learn to play a ukulele, take part in creative workshops, hike, bake, swim in the lake and shoot arrows. Hold your own in a laughing contest and be on guard for one hell of a pillow fight. You’ll have so much fun, you won’t want your gizmos back.
There are camps in New York, Texas and North Carolina, but our favourite Camp Grounded is set on 800 hectares on the edge of Jackson State Forest in California. It’s a renovated 1930s camp, surrounded by old-growth coastal redwoods. Trek into the forest to find secret forts and bands playing late into the night, or take a dip in the River Noyo, which runs through the property.
The last time I visited Nashville I really wanted to meet a country star. I craved big 10-gallon hats, hillbillies with long beards, the Grand Ole Opry, rhinestones, sequins, mullets and a whole lot of southern accents.
Serendipitously enough, my wish was granted. I ran into country star John Rich of the hugely successful duo Big & Rich at a trendy downtown bar. Having no knowledge of country music, I didn’t know who John Rich was until someone pointed out the gentleman I was talking to was a country superstar. The only thing I knew was that he was wearing sparkly silver boots and a matching glittery cowboy hat. And that was all I needed to strike up a conversation.
After a little convincing, he agreed to sing us his big hit, ‘Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)’, a ditty he performed acoustically with the help of a guitar plucked down from the wall. Only in Nashville could a song like that get produced and earn commercial success, without being interpreted as being part of a Saturday Night Live skit or lumped in with the likes of ‘Mambo No. 5’ or ‘I’m Too Sexy’. Oh yeah, the guys from Rascal Flatts were there too.
I had come to Nashville to find country and it had found me, in a bar.
But things have changed in the home of country music. Though country and honky-tonk are still very much part of the city’s music scene, rock has also taken a firm hold. And with the genre has come organic coffee bars, designer boutiques and skinny jeans, all rockin’ the foundations of this once exclusively country town.
Locals congregate at Marche Artisan Foods for brunch, before getting their shop on at places like imogene + willie (designer denim), Local Honey (local designers), Posh (high-end designer) and the Hip Zipper (vintage). Farm-to-table restaurants like City House have elevated the city’s dining scene, while hipster fave Mas Tacos brings an ethnic element to an otherwise very American food offering. And while tourists may choose to flock to bars like Tootsies, the locals prefer dives like the Springwater Supper Club & Lounge, bluegrass joint the Station Inn, or, for indie music, the 5 Spot or Exit / In.
Nashville’s much-storied musical history does feature a few earlier rock’n’roll moments. Both Elvis and Paul McCartney spent time here recording. It was in Nashville Jimi Hendrix honed his guitar skills with friend Billy Cox after being discharged from nearby military camp Fort Campbell. And Bob Dylan found himself head over heels with the city while recording Blonde on Blonde, later returning to record Nashville Skyline.
Alas the star power of these few was not enough for anyone to look past Nashville’s rhinestone sparkle. It took several decades after the 60s for any sort of viable change to occur. The shift in scenery started to take place when the Pied Piper of all things hip, Jack White, moved in, bringing his then-wife, English model Karen Elson. Like a slow trickle, White’s clout helped draw like-minded folks to the city. While Elson opened the now defunct vintage shop Venus and Mars, White opened the first physical location of Third Man Records, fostering local talent and serving as a mecca of sorts for fans. The label spawned bands like Jeff the Brotherhood and Pujol.
Then there’s that little multi-platinum, Grammy-award-winning local band, Kings of Leon. When their breakthrough album Only by the Night was released, their dirty, grungy rock appeal not only helped cement Nashville’s dominance in the rock scene, but allowed people to see the city as more than just the home of the Grand Ole Opry and Garth Brooks. Kings of Leon even went on to form a record label called Serpents and Snakes, helping bands like the Features and Turbo Fruits gain wider exposure.
Before you could say “cowboy hat”, the glitter quickly gave way to grit, and transplants like the Black Keys, Paramore and the Ettes moved in. Along with homegrown talents like Pujol and the Honeymoon Thrillers, these bands have transformed Nashville from country capital to America’s hottest rock location.
Unlike Seattle in the early 90s or Los Angeles in the 80s, Nashville doesn’t seem so bombastic that it might prematurely explode. Music here is more about escaping the pretension of the bigger city and enjoying the community that comes with living in a smaller town.
“People are very warm and supportive,” says Lindsay ‘Coco’ Hames, lead singer of the Ettes. “They’re always willing to contribute what they can to other people’s projects. For instance, Poni (drums) and I are acting in two Wanda Jackson videos, just because it’s Wanda. Or Jem (bass) will fill in when a friend’s band’s bassist is out of town.”
Whether or not that means Nashville is the next Seattle is yet to be seen. So far the city has only produced one rock band that has had huge commercial success (Kings of Leon), while other well-known artists (the Black Keys, Paramore, Jack White) established their success before arriving in Nashville. Nashville is not known for a particular sound. But that’s what makes it unique.
“Everyone pitches in here and everyone supports everyone else,” Hames says. “It’s not competitive; it’s collaborative. And that feels special.”
“It’s Nashville’s time right now,” Turbo Fruits lead singer Jonas Stein says. “Come on down! We’ve got open arms.”
Brick Lane. Haarlemmerstraat. 7th Street. They might all sound wildly different, but at their root these streets all harbour the same eclectic soul.
My particular 7th Street is located in the East Village in Manhattan, and I’ve called it home for most of my life. It is by no happenstance that I put up with five flights of stairs, impossible parking and a light dusting of heroin addicts on my way home; I chose this address over any other in the city, if not the world, because nothing comes close to its character, anywhere.
Diversity is at its best on 7th Street, if not the entire East Village. For anyone who demands a healthy dose of stimulus to keep their ADD at bay, the East Village is a natural remedy. Located east of Broadway between 14th and Houston streets, my neighbourhood is a turbulent mix of art and garbage, complex culinary dining and simple street food, deep religious roots and hedonistic sinners. While it’s impossible to bombard a reader’s senses with the raw, visceral environment that is the East Village, allow me to take you down my favourite street to give you a taste of what my home has to offer.
Starting at the western end of 7th Street, experience living history inside McSorley’s Old Ale House, established in 1854. It is unfair to call McSorley’s a bar when really it is a museum that serves beer. The guts of this old beast are lined with ancient artefacts from a city long gone: an invitation to the Brooklyn Bridge opening, a letter from Teddy Roosevelt, even Houdini’s handcuffs. As a local, I can’t say I call McSorley’s a hangout – it’s frequently overrun by tourists, only serves two beers (light or dark), and the way they clean their glasses is reminiscent of a old cowboy film – but I wouldn’t change it a bit. Again, this is not an East Village bar, it’s an East Village museum, and while MoMA (Museum of Modern Art) is amazing, I doubt you’ll see many bar fights inside.
Wandering eastward you’ll pass a bevy of strange little shops, some that seem to be brand new and others perfectly ancient. There’s a little place where you can still fax things for five cents a page, Pilar’s Jewelry Repair – which I’m convinced is stuff from Pilar’s dresser drawer – and a Thai place whose delivered fare is the best you’ve ever tasted, until you see where it comes from. At the end of the block, you’d walk right past Jimmy’s No. 43, a subterranean cavern filled with the world’s best craft beer and amazing ‘hunter’s fare’ food, without even noticing it’s there. In a city constantly evolving due to the necessity of novelty, the East Village somehow remains constant – and yet continually surprises. It would seem that Houdini left more than his handcuffs here.
On the corner you will find Moishe’s. I have seen New York University students dare each other to eat something from this ancient Jewish bakery, and while it looks condemned, its chocolate cigars and raspberry rugelach (Jewish pastry) are the best in the city. I can hear old man Moishe, the owner, saying, “Who needs a fresh coat of paint when our confections are this delicious?” And he’s right. With sweet pastries in hand, continue down the block to Abraço Espresso, which serves the finest coffee you’ll find outside of Italy. Don’t judge the flavour of the coffee by the size of the shop; I have seen people lined up around the corner, waiting for a taste of the caffeinated delights coming out of this closet. Personally, I only drink its lattes, which can only be described as liquid cake. A warning to the Starbucks-goer: these are coffee purists. I have witnessed a young mother of two denied a ‘red-eye’ (drip-brew coffee with espresso) with a very disgusted look and a “we don’t do that sort of thing here” rebuke. She realised her mistake upon first sip and quickly departed, stroller in tow, whispering apologies to the espresso-laden air.
At this point it’s time to eat something serious, so I suggest the arepa de pabellón from Caracas Arepa Bar. Consider, if you will, a gently fried cornmeal dough stuffed full of delicious slow-cooked beef, salty white cheese and sweet tender plantains that greets your tastebuds with a Latin lover’s kiss. Don’t waste your time with dessert here my friends, for you have two fabulous choices just next door. Butter Lane offers myriad exceptional flavours on top of fluffy cupcakes. This is basically Magnolia Bakery without the tour bus outside. If creamy delights are more to your taste, venture into the closet with Big Gay Ice Cream. Greeted by a giant purple unicorn and more sparkles than a stripper’s bed sheet, Big Gay serves up chocolate-dipped, salty cones that will soon have you flying the rainbow flag. Walk a block to Tomkins Square Park and watch dogs play and junkies squabble while you slip into a blissful sugar coma. When you are done, head across the street to Niagara, a real local bar, where you can still get a shot of Powers and a bottle of cold beer for US$5. Let the night slip away as you watch the game, talk to an old-timer or eavesdrop as two drunken students passionately argue the plot points of their new short film.
This is just one street in the East Village. Just around the corner there’s plenty more to see, including Pommes Frites, the Russian & Turkish Baths and Brindle Room, home of the world’s best hamburger. Or the secret bar behind a wall in a hotdog stand, the hidden marble cemetery, or the two-tonne monument you can spin if you push the right way. While much of the rest of New York has replaced its old soul with a shiny new culture, the East Village stubbornly holds onto the character and grime that kept this city together through thick and thin. In a city that doesn’t sleep, the East Village is the afterparty New York goes to. It’s not glamorous, and it may not be pristine, but you can come as you are and find whatever fix you may need.
“Now I understand that there are one or two people in the world who don’t listen to country music, but even you’ll have heard of the people we’re gonna visit with.” At the Ryman Auditorium, Wanda, a tiny elderly lady with a beaming smile and wry sense of humour, is launching into her backstage tour. “The first people we’re gonna visit with are Johnny and June Cash.”
To visit Nashville is to be surrounded by both types of music (for those who haven’t heard the joke, that would be country and western) but it is also to be reminded constantly of the legacy of Johnny Cash. The Ryman, Wanda tells us, was the first place Johnny ever laid eyes on June. He was performing at the Grand Ole Opry; she was sitting in the balcony on a school trip.
It was in Nashville, too, that he shared a house with Waylon Jennings after divorcing Vivian in the mid-60s. Although he lived for many years in Hendersonville, northeast of the Tennessee capital, he played shows in Nashville throughout his life, and he inspired practically every musician who’s schlepped their guitar to the home of country music ever since.
Until the middle of 2013, however, there was no separate and permanent collection of Cash memorabilia. That was until Bill Miller, Cash’s niece Kelly Hancock and a small band of tireless friends and fans decided to take the DIY approach. “Bill Miller has been collecting memorabilia for 40-plus years,” says Sydney Robinson, the museum’s director of marketing. “He was in the fan club and established a lifelong friendship with Johnny.”
There could have been no other way to welcome fans to the museum than with the words, “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.” The singer’s voice rings out as it does on the opening of his groundbreaking 1968 At Folsom Prison album. Then the visitor is launched into a multimedia room, where they can watch clips from each decade of his career on a series of iPads. You could – and some people do – spend hours pouring over the extensive footage. There are also the instruments he and the Tennessee Two – Luther Perkins and Marshall Grant – played during their very first recording session. “These were given to us by Marshall’s widow, Etta,” says Kelly, who, for the last 14 years of the singer’s life, was Cash’s personal assistant. “She’d kept them all these years, along with those handwritten cards.”
The extent of the items on display is extraordinary. There are instruments, stage costumes that show Cash was a big man in every respect (by comparison, June’s costumes look as though they could have been worn by a child), awards, programs, tickets and posters, but far more personal items too.
Both John’s mother, Carrie, and his first wife, Vivian, had boxes of papers and trinkets. There are bunches of cotton from Dyess, Arkansas, where Cash grew up, school report cards – “not very good at American history; straight As for typing,” Kelly points out – and the Bible he took with him when he served in Germany. “When Vivian passed away in 2005 her girls went over to her house and found a lot of these things in her attic,” Kelly explains. “She’d saved Johnny’s Air Force uniform as well as many other things. She kept everything.”
Fans, she explains, tend to congregate in the theatre where an 18-minute film offers a potted history of the singer’s time spent on the screen: hosting The Johnny Cash Show, appearing in movies such as Five Minutes to Live and The Last Days of Frank and Jesse James, taking parts in television series like Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman and voicing Homer’s spirit guide in an episode of The Simpsons.
For Kelly, however, her favourite piece in the museum is far more personal. “It’s a letter Johnny wrote to June in 1973 when he flew from Jamaica to LA,” she explains. “My mum and my brother and I had flown to Jamaica to have Christmas there and he wrote this on the plane to LA – he had a very bad flight and didn’t think he was going to make it. It says, ‘Tell Reba, Timmy and Kelly that I love them all and I wish I could be there for Christmas’ and he writes about the Christmas spirit. It’s beautiful. The letter tells June what to do with the home they had in Cinnamon Hill, Jamaica, and some other things: sell this, don’t sell that, do this. It was kinda instructional, but it also said he loved us all, so it’s kinda precious.”
Near it is a diary opened to a page where he’s marked a trip to Australia. I mention that, since we use smartphones and computers to organise our lives these days, in future years there’ll be none of these kinds of documents to fill museum shelves. “Every single day, until the week before he passed away, Johnny wrote in his planner,” Kelly tells me. “And he believed in letters. Emails? Not so much. He was old school.”
For fans there are plenty of emotional tipping points: a recitation of ‘Ragged Old Flag’, photographs he took and sketches he drew, and the handwritten poem he read at June’s funeral. Then there’s the final exhibit: the console used during the recording of the American series, a sign rescued from the House of Cash and the video for ‘Hurt’, filmed three months before June’s death and seven months before Cash’s own. Some consider it one of his greatest recordings. There is, however, no mention of his passing. “That’s one thing Bill said about the very end of this tour: you will not find death,” says Sydney. “When you go to Graceland, at the very end of the tour, you get to the place where Elvis is buried and you leave on that note. But here you walk outside and there’s a huge mural just down the street done by some local guys as a tribute. Then you go on to Broadway and he is everywhere. All the bands know ‘Walk the Line’ and ‘Ring of Fire’. You leave here and turn on to Broadway and Johnny is everywhere. He’s still alive.”
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