Prologue: Louisville, Kentucky, and Nashville, Tennessee
Louisville, Kentucky is the birthplace of Hunter S. Thompson. Today it is home to Whiskey Row, a stylish strip of high-end restaurants and booze parlors. The KFC Yum! Center reminds us we’re in the South.
Inside the Troll Pub, a matronly truck driver stares forlornly at her tall beer. “I’m Sandy,” she says, “That’s my partner.” I’m not sure at first she’s talking to me. The man next to her looks away. “Don’t get the crab cakes, they suck.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, looking over the menu. “What’s good here?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve only had the crab cakes.” Sandy explains she and her partner are a truck driving team based in Boston, stopping for their first shower in “a while”.
“Is that the usual setup?” I ask.
“Oh, no,” she says with a grimace. “It’s very rare. But we can just go, go, go. Never stop. You know, we drive each other crazy sometimes, but we make it work. Sometimes we cry.”
“Well, any good relationship has the occasional tears,” I say, trying to flag down the bartender. “These things happen from time to time.”
“Sure,” she whispers, nodding. “But we have a very special relationship. I mean, everybody thinks I just want to get in his pants and he just wants to get at my special lady bits, but it’s not like that. We’re a team.” I nod, frowning. “You know, he can say things to me that I’d never let any other man say. Not in a million years. But he can run his mouth all he wants as long as we’re workin’.”
The man stands suddenly and pushes away his three-quarter-full beer. All the hair on his head and face is the same length. He whispers something to Sandy.
“Have to go,” she says, jerking her head toward her partner who is already making for the door. “We have to do laundry.” She rolls her eyes.
Nashville, Tennessee, for a few blocks on and around Broadway, is a combination of Disneyland/Dollywood/Bachelorette Party/College Frat run amok. There are no natives here. Everyone who lives in Nashville stays away from this part of town. I only drive through. Even on an average Fall Monday, it is chaos.
“Actually, I found out that we have the highest rate of bachelorette parties of anywhere, so, I guess that means we’re the bachelorette party capital of the world.” Corey at local dive bar/music venue Springwater hangs his head.
“Oh,” I say, “But that has pros and cons, I suppose.”
“Well,” he sighs, “Yes and no. Like they had the draft here one year and all the bachelorette parties were complaining because the bars were full of football fans. I mean…” He stares off into space with a defeated look.
Jason, the bartender, immediately wins my affection with his cold, brusque manner upon my entry. I look around at the empty bar and ask, “Is it open?”
He’s tall and lanky but weathered, like a rundown Tony Hawk. He says, “Ah…you know. Band played earlier. They’re out back. I don’t know what they’re doing. Taking their sweet ass time. We’re still selling beer, I guess.”
“Oh, alright. Can I grab one, if you’re not trying to shut down?”
“Well,” he says, groaning with the effort of leaving his stool, “You gotta have a vaccination card and you gotta have ID.”
“Oh, alright, check this out.” I pull out my phone and whip out my handy Excelsior Pass.
He looks at it, squints a bit, pumps his eyebrows, and says, “Alright, cool, fuck it. Whatever man. What do you want?”
I look over the drafts and ask, “How’s this IPA here?”
“I don’t know how any of those beers are. They don’t let me drink ’em for free and I’m not paying six bucks.”
“Okay,” I say with a laugh, “I’ll take that IPA right there.”
He gives me an IPA in a plastic cup and I stroll outside to talk to the band. I’m too late to catch them, they’re filing out as I get there. So I go back in to talk to Jason and Corey about the meaning of life and Nashville. It turns out Springwater is the oldest bar in Tennessee, established 1896. It survived Prohibition as a speakeasy.
“Lot of history here, then,” I say.
“Oh yeah,” Jason says. “Probably too much.”
“So you know where the bodies are buried?”
“I’ve heard,” he says, straight-faced.
“Oh yeah,” Corey laughs, “We know where they are. We’ve heard.”
“Mistakes were made,” I add, a bit darkly. The bar grows quiet. “And then buried.”
A young couple burst in and sit at the bar, all smiles. Jason doesn’t even stand up. “Gotta have a vaccination card. And ID.”
The kid explodes. “What? Are you kiddin’ me, man? I gotta have a fuckin’ vaccination in this place that smells like sewage?” To my mind, it smelled more like natural gas. “I been comin’ here for six fuckin’ years! You know how much money I’ve spent in this place?” I turn away. Corey’s on his feet. “Man, this is fuckin’ unbelievable. I’ll never fuckin’ come back to this place-“
“Okay, see ya,” Jason says.
“I’m fuckin’ leavin’ and you guys are pieces of shit!”
“Great. Have a nice night.”
Corey heads to the door. The man screams something from outside I can’t make out. Corey says, “Come on. Come on in, man. I’m right here.”
Calm returned, I joke, “Happens about every fifteen minutes, I imagine.”
Corey shakes his head. “Not like that.”
Chapter 1: New Orleans, Louisiana
The streets of New Orleans are quiet. The rain is constant. In New Orleans, we drink Sazerac and Strawberry Abita. We must find jazz. We swear we will not go to Bourbon Street. We go to Bourbon Street.
But first I go to Frenchman Street. They say Frenchman is where the locals go, but all the many locals who hang out there disagree. Live music on these few blocks of lovable hovels is unpredictable but nearly always great.
I watch a few local bands at dive bars (in the best sense) a block apart from each other across Chartres St. Many of the legendary spots on this block like the Spotted Cat and the Apple Barrel are shuttered, whether from the hurricane or COVID or a combination of both is unclear. But the small venues that remain open more than make up for it with a killer assortment of local indie bands of various flavors. Watching them in a nearly empty room actually makes it even better.
A group from North Dakota stumbles down the block. They are looking for progressive punk metal. They are in a band called Trance Monolith. Local culinary specialist Will volunteers to escort them to a “raw” venue a few blocks away. I ask him what’s happening in New Orleans these days. “Fuckin’ nothin’, man,” he slurs, giving me the finger. I film this.
RULES OF THE ROAD
1. Never arrive at your destination with an empty tank of gas.
2. Always keep a large empty resealable plastic bottle. Yes it’s gross but you will thank me.
Outside Cafe Negril, the slight leather-clad bouncer, Ramone, who proudly declares he has “sworn off vagina”, points to the stage. “See that guy? Up there singing? Man, I was just checkin’ his vax card a second ago and now he just jumped up there. With that voice!” I listen for a minute. He’s right. The singer is killing it, amazing. Guy just walks in off the street a total stranger, jumps on stage with a band he’s never met and they sound like they’ve been together for years. New Orleans.
I have a few Strawberry Abitas and bounce back and forth between the two clubs. Pointing to a scruffy man at the bar, I say, “Hey, look, it’s Seth Rogen. I’m gonna go tell him I loved Step Brothers.”
This amuses Ramone and he greets me warmly each time I return. He grabs a pen from the bar and tells me to watch, snaps his wrist or something and the pen is gone. “Oh yeah,” he says, “I’m also a close-up magician. Check it out.” He gets out some props and does a few tricks for me.
Everyone in New Orleans has a scam for the tourists. Up the street, a man introduces himself as Byron. “I’ll never forget it,” I tell him, “That’s my mayor’s name.”
And so begins my incredible and agonizing relationship with Byron.
He’s an older man with a shaved head and a shifty manner. He glances around a lot, checks his watch nervously, and laughs at inappropriate moments. His scam is that he wants to sell me some variable quantity of an unnamed drug. I tell him I appreciate the offer but I’m really not interested. “Instead,” I say, leaning in with a wink, “Let’s go to brunch tomorrow.”
Something about the word brunch sets Byron off. “Why you keep saying brunch?” he repeats over and over. I can see it’s bothering him so I talk constantly about where we’re going for brunch, who has the best mimosas, what time we need to be there, etc.
Byron promises to call me in the morning at 10am but he refuses to say the word brunch. I say, “Good enough,” and we part ways.
Up the street I see the singer from Negril going into the bar. “Hey, man,” I say, patting him on the back, “You’re that singer. Great job up there. You’ve got a killer voice.”
“Not me,” the guy says. I swear he looks just like the singer but it’s not him.
A few minutes later I see the same guy standing outside and chuckle to myself how weird that was. But I glance at the bar and that guy is inside. His doppelganger, the singer, is now present. “Hey man,” I say, “I saw you singing up the street. Great job. You’ve got a killer voice.”
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Clint Johnson,” he answers. Not Clint. Clint Johnson. Like he knows I’m asking because I think he’ll be a famous rock star someday. Awesome. Remember the name, I tell myself, making a note on my phone.
Two days in New Orleans feels like two years but in a coma. Memories are lost. Many a lonesome traveler loses their merry way on this hazy road. But not I.
I pop into Bernie the Haircutter’s for a little trim. Bernie is a 750-year-old Jewish man born and raised in the bayou. He uses only scissors, never any clippers, working like a concert pianist with swift but purposeful movements. Bernie’s shop is a closet on Camp St. with a polished wall mirror. At first, you think there are twin Bernies. But there could never be two Bernies. He’s an old-school barber warrior of the gods, the last of his kind.
“It’s never the same after COVID,” Bernie says, watching a passing car. “At first it was really weird. All the lights in the city shut off. I mean you could walk down Canal St. Saturday night and it was total darkness. It’s like, Katrina was bad, but the lights were on…” He trails off.
My phone rings. It’s Byron. He launches into a tirade. “Thought we were going to brunch, motherfucker.” I’ve ignored several of his calls already so he’s come around on brunch.
“I had to get a haircut,” I say as Bernie chuckles and chops away. “Brunch later.”
“Well, I got that thing,” he mumbles.
“What thing?”
“I got that thing you wanted.”
“I didn’t want any thing,” I say flatly. Bernie raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, the thing, you know. It’s all ready for you.”
“There’s no thing, man. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I want nothing! I’m getting a haircut!” I hang up on him and apologize to Bernie. “Some guy is trying to sell me some thing.”
He chuckles knowingly. “Well, you better be careful what he’s selling you.”
“Oh, I know,” I say with a wink.
I make my way to the Mahogany Jazz Hall, a newer club for New Orleans specializing in cajun jazz, absinthe, and craft cocktails. The glitter and beard faced bartender tells a wonderful history as he pours my absinthe and lets the water jug drip seductively over a suspended sugar cube. The band begins and I hunker down for the long haul.
I’m putting up a video from my phone when the band starts talking about some local celebrity in the audience. They invite him up to the stage. “Richie G-String, ladies and gentlemen,” they say. “Come on up, Richie, play a few tunes.” I’m only half listening.
The drummer grabs his mic and says, “He’s not paying attention. He’s on his phone.” I look up.
They are staring at me. The whole club is staring at me. I turn around and look behind me but there’s no one else there. They’re talking to me.
Before I can jump up on the stage and impersonate whoever it is they think I am, they start the next number. But the mood is changed. People shoot furtive glances. A distinguished gentleman nods at me. The bartender becomes more deferential. Another patron moves to the bar, muttering, “Richie G-String, man. It’s G-String in the house.” He says it louder and louder until he’s sure I hear him. “G-String, man. Yeah, motherfucker!”
For the rest of the night, I AM RICHIE G-STRING. It’s time to go to Bourbon Street.
Byron calls. “What’s going on, man?” he pleads. “What are you doing?”
“I’m on Bourbon Street,” I tell him.
“Where?”
I look around the bar halfheartedly. “No idea.”
“Come to the bar. Ramone’s here.” I hear Ramone laughing and telling him to shut up. “We’re at Chartres and Governor Nicholls.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I amble the few dark and forlorn blocks over. There’s no sign of Ramone, but Byron is waiting for me in his full glory. Tonight he wears a tiger-striped sweatshirt, far too warm for the conditions.
“What’s going on, man?” he says warmly as he grasps me in a bear hug.
“Not much,” I say. “Took in some jazz earlier. Then I wandered over to Bourbon. Good times.”
“Well, I got that thing,” he says under his breath.
“There’s no thing, man. I don’t know what scam you’re trying to run on me but I want no part of it.”
“It’s no scam,” he protests, indignant. “It’s good shit. You think I want to scam you? Motherfucker. I don’t need your money.” He flashes an unruly wad of cash.
I glance at it and say, “I want my five dollars back.”
“Shit, man,” he laughs. “You got a lighter?”
I hand him my lighter and he grasps it in the wad of cash. “Let’s go,” he says, “I need a beer.”
Inside the bar, Byron orders a beer and looks over the crowd with a predatory eye. “I need my lighter,” I say. He ignores me. “Byron, I need my lighter. Give me my lighter, Byron.”
He looks around as I glare at him. Finally he hands me the lighter and walks toward the back of the bar. Seeing my chance, I jump up and run out the door.
The next day I’m loading up and getting some lunch before I leave New Orleans and the legend of Richie G-String behind forever. A long-haired hotel maintenance guy looks me over in the elevator. “You doing good?” he asks pleasantly in a difficult Bayou/British accent. He looks at my coffee. “Got that, so you’re doing good.”
“I need a hangover cure,” I say with a raspy chuckle.
“Oh yeah,” he says knowingly. “Burger and a beer. Throw a bunch of tabasco on there and you’re good. Hey Mandy,” he calls to the front desk, “You look so beautiful today.”
Mandy rolls her eyes. “You too, Louie.”
Byron calls. I don’t answer.
We’ve gone as far west as we’ll go this round. It’s time to turn east and head across the Gulf Coast into the heart of the Deep South, Mississippi.
Chapter 2: Ocean Springs, Mississippi
The “Birthplace of America’s Music”, the Mississippi Delta is where it all started. Blues, the only truly original American music, gave birth to all the rest, Rock, R&B, Jazz, Hip Hop, Rap. Everything starts with the blues and the blues started here. The King himself, Elvis Presley, began his life in humble Tupelo. Just up the street, Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads and changed music forever. So it’s fitting that as I leave New Orleans I head for the heart and soul of American music.
Scenic Route 90 runs along the Gulf Coast, skirting bayous and winding through beach towns like Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Gulfport, Biloxi, and Ocean Springs. The Mississippi Gulf Coast is a Certified Retirement Community. Along the way, I pass the Jefferson Davis home, Beauvoir. This is the Deep South and the Confederate flags are flying. We are from the North. So we must mind our manners.
RULES OF THE ROAD
3. Kindness. Don’t speed excessively. Pay attention to the speed limit. Never drive angry or aggressive. Let people cut you off. We’re in no rush. When someone does something stupid, cuts you off and slams on the brakes for no apparent reason, giving you the finger as they do it, whisper one word to yourself: Kindness.
Kindness.
Kindness.
Then give them the finger.
I stop at a gas station and notice they have Cheladas. It’s my rule to always buy a Chelada if I see it. They’re hard to find. You think everyone has them. But then you try to find one and you realize they are like the wind.
RULES OF THE ROAD
4. If you see a Chelada, buy it. Especially if it’s mango.
As I’m checking out, the clerk whips out a small paper bag and expertly drops in the Chelada. “Ah,” I say with a devious grin, “Take it right to the beach, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” he says with a knowing wink.
Davis Bayou National Park is a collection of barrier islands along the windswept beaches of southeastern Mississippi. Home to an array of wildlife and choice destination for devoted fishermen, the park is verdant and humming with the fall insects.
I find a restaurant a few miles up the coast and take an outdoor table on the water looking over the bayou. The sun is setting and a light breeze picks up as the humid air cools. I order the local specialty, the Catfish Basket. Note that I think that would make a great band name. Think about it. Catfish Basket.
I notice a velvet rope tied to one of the docks and ask the waitress about it. “Oh,” she says with a scoff, “That band was there. They had this huge beautiful boat tied up and wouldn’t let anyone get on. I asked if I could come out and they said no. I’m like, how am I supposed to bring your drinks?”
The stage on the deck is a behemoth of plywood, rickety and strewn with rumpled bras. “Yeah,” another waitress sighs, “The bras…”
Everyone I encounter in Mississippi is exceedingly kind and laid back. I’d love to play a gig at this place. I bet they get down.
“Is that Marshmallow?” she asks the other waitress.
“Naw,” she drawls. “She got scared ’cause of the big one. It’s over there.” She points to a spot about 20 yards away. “He’s just sittin’ there.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “What are you talking about? I don’t see what you’re pointing at.”
“Gators,” she says. “They’re all over here. Usually, we feed ’em steak, but they done run off ’cause of that big one.” I still don’t see it. “Might have to stand up,” she says.
I walk to the end of the dock and sure enough, there is an enormous alligator that’s been sitting mere feet away staring at me the entire time. It’s a monster. “My god,” I mutter, at a loss, “Look at that beast.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “I was gonna feed Marshmallow some leftover steak but she’s gone.”
“You feed them steak?”
“Aw yeah,” she laughs, “Just the little ones. They like the steak. And the chicken. They won’t even eat the fish out there no more. Marshmallow just eats steak.”
“You gave them names?”
“Some of ’em, yeah. The little ones. There’s Marshmallow, Pete, Sticky Ricky, a couple a others.”
She makes a clicking sound with her teeth. “See? That’s how you call ’em in.”
I retire to my campsite and spend a wary night watching the picturesque but now sinister bayou. The water is behind my site, a few feet away. People put tents here. People braver than I. I sleep in the car.
Chapter 3: Mobile, Alabama
I follow Scenic Route 90 into Mobile, Alabama. The live oak-lined streets are a thing to behold in the picturesque Garden Oakleigh district.
I want to stop and get some barbecue, but the block is closed off. Workers are delicately trimming the ancient mammoth trees to protect them from trucks and strengthen them against storms.
I don’t mind parking and walking a few blocks through this lovely neighborhood to Saucy-Q Barbecue. It’s a beautiful day and the walk is more than well worth it. Saucy’s is a straight-up-old-school-sit-down-and-praise-Jesus barbecue joint. One of the nicer ones I’ve seen. It’s well-manicured and clearly loved. I order the smoked sausage with a side of potato salad and baked beans and I am overcome.
The staff is happy to see me. With the parking lot blocked, their business is totally dead for the day. “We should jus’ close,” one of the servers says, walking past me.
I enjoy the fantastic meal and as I’m leaving I notice a big bell on the wall and a sign that says, “RING the bell if we did well.”
I give it a solid ring and the staff, camped out in the back dining room because there’s absolutely nothing to do, erupt in cheers. Everyone thanks me on the way out. They are supremely kind and their establishment is world class.
Historic Mobile is a charming city of long provenance. The downtown scene thrives on a Friday night. But these are not tourists. Lifelong resident Trey, a tidy young man with a beard and patterned button-down, explains, “We like our cities down south. We like to have fun. We make nice cities and we don’t have to leave. We just stay. I mean, I thought about leaving a couple times. But I always just stay. I love it here.”
It’s true. In Alabama, you see only Alabama license plates. In Mississippi, you see only Mississippi license plates. They stick close to home so everyone’s neighborly. I’m sure there are mask mandates like everywhere down here. But no one gives a fuck.
“I get it,” I tell him. “It’s a great city. Really has that kinda small-town feel. Reminds me of Buffalo in a lot of ways. People are very laid back. I’ve found that a lot in the deep south. Everyone’s been so nice. But also I feel like this is a very underrated city. I didn’t expect much but it’s really cool. You know, the trees, the buildings, the music. Very unique.”
“That’s because it goes back so far,” Trey explains. “With the elevation, we’re 50 or 60 feet above sea level. So unlike New Orleans, when there’s a storm we have some protection. There’s also some outer barrier islands that protect the bay. So a lot of the old buildings are still here. Many of them go back 200 or 300 years because this city goes back to the Spanish. It was originally the capital of Spanish Louisiana.”
“Wow.”
“This building we’re in right now is over 200 years old. A man named Noell Broughton owns it. He’s done a bunch of venues around town.”
Noell Broughton opened his first venue when he was only 23. Since then, he’s taken on a variety of ventures, including the Brickyard, a packed venue along the busy downtown Dauphin Street strip where I find myself settling in for the night to check out some live music. Once they get going, Lee Yankee and the Secret Stash absolutely tear it up.
However, no one in the bar seems to notice. There’s a big crowd of people hanging out but they’re talking, having drinks, and playing pool. No one even claps at the end of the songs. I can’t believe it. Lee is incredible.
The bartenders come to know me as the weird man in white, the only person actually listening to the music, as the night goes on. I make some notes on my phone that I now struggle to decipher. Here they are:
I am the man in white
Sea of faces
Planted at the bar
Their beer is like moonshine
I may never walk again
Agony
Bliss
It comes in waves
“So,” I say, quite obviously, “There’s a lot of history here.”
“Oh yeah,” Trey says, picking up the thread. “Like I said, Noell owns this building which is awesome because he’s a big enthusiast of original music. And that’s why you have Lee. But most of the buildings down here are owned by the Catholic Church.”
“Really?” I ask with a laugh.
“It’s funny,” he says. “There’s all these bars down here. And they’re all paying rent to the Catholic Church. Because it all goes back to the Spanish. Mobile is a deep water port, still the 12th or 13th largest in the country. And it’s changed hands more than any US city. It started out Spanish, then French, then United States, then Confederacy, then USA again. But the Catholic Church owned all the property the whole time. And the Lebanese. There are many old Lebanese families in Mobile. They own whatever property the church doesn’t own. And whatever those two don’t own, Noell buys.”
The bartender screams, “Hey, jackass! Hey, jackass!” A passing customer steps over and high fives him. “Yeah, man. Tell jackass I love him.”
A rumpled man in a jersey sidles up next to me as I distantly watch football highlights. “That guy changed the whole division,” he offers, pointing at Lamar Jackson on the screen. “Changed the whole league. It’s like Michael Vick, but…he can throw.”
“Haha yeah,” I agree, finishing my beer and just about ready to plant my face in a pillow.
“But, Michael Vick, you know…” he says, shaking his head. “The dogs and all, that’s horrible. But that guy was fast.”
“Man,” I say, cocking my head, “Josh Allen’s faster than that. There’s 10 quarterbacks starting now faster than that.”
He grabs the bartender by the elbow and commands, “Give this man a beer.”
And so my night continues. At some point, I realize I’ve been in a different time zone for a while now. Then I learn Mobile is one of the few municipalities that has a relaxed open container policy, joining such luminaries as New Orleans, East Aurora, and lovely Savannah, Georgia, an upcoming destination.
I take my beer and hike back to the hotel, ready for my next adventure: A pilgrimage to the home of my all-time favorite musician, Tom Petty.
Chapter 4: Gainesville, Florida
The thing about scenic highways in Florida is that they always lead to other even more scenic highways. And those highways lead to the beach. And, as they say, one beach is like one cocktail. It just gets you ready for the next one.
My introduction to the Kingdom of Weird is a breezy 4 hour drive that I drag out to a 12 or 13 hour Voyage of Discovery. I swoop down from Alabama on Scenic Route 98, passing beach after beach with whimsical names like Oriole Beach, Tiger Point, Woodlawn Beach, Fort Walton Beach, Miramar Beach, and Mexico Beach. The Pensacola Dragon Boat Festival is happening. I hear the siren call of the waves and sand and find myself at the very out-of-the-way Blue Mountain Beach.
The GPS says 4 hours to Gainesville. It has already been 4 hours.
Blue Mountain Beach is a breathtaking white-sand marvel that reminds me of the Riviera Maya. “As you go east,” Trey explained in Alabama, “The beaches get nicer and nicer. They start out kind of gray-brown and then turn white. Once you hit the white sand, that’s where you want to stop.”
I heed his advice and drop onto the sand to soak in the sun. After all, I can’t pass through Florida without hitting a beach. That would be inadmissible.
After a healthy hang with the great waters, I’m ready to eat but I feel I must avoid the ubiquitous chain/touristy places. Even at this relatively remote beach, everyone is packed in on an agreeable Saturday afternoon. I venture up the 30A in hopes of finding something local.
RULES OF THE ROAD
14: Avoid tourists. Never eat at chains. Always go local.
The Grove is a smart haven tucked away in the jungle along 30A. I almost don’t go in because it looks too nice for a traveling musician who’s been in the car for a week. But something about the outdoor booths complete with individual fans beckons.
I’m glad. It’s an inventive place in design as well as in cuisine, from the ahi tuna tacos to the TV cannily projected against a large white wall. Well done. Unfortunately, it is empty. The bartender shakes her head and sighs as I thank her for a lovely meal. “I don’t know how long it’s gonna last,” she says. I’ll never understand how a place like this couldn’t make it. Just a little too far out there for the tourists, maybe.
I check the GPS. It says 4 hours to Gainesville. But I wonder how much time it would really add if I took the scenic route down the peninsula past Panama City and on through little towns like Port St. Joe, Apalachicola, Eastpoint, Carabelle, and the wonderfully-named Panacea.
I cruise the coast slowly for a few hours as night falls. The GPS no longer insists that I abandon the scenic route and go to Interstate 10. It has resigned itself to our fate. The time to Gainesville is now, finally, 4 hours.
Tonight I reside in a shared condo with college students. I’ve told my rental host I’m 4 hours away, every 4 hours, for the last 12 hours. But he doesn’t seem to mind.
After a quick crash I make my way to the destination for this leg of the quest, the birthplace of hometown legend Tom Petty.
First ballot hall of famer and rock legend Thomas Earl Petty was born October 20, 1950, in the quiet Duckpond neighborhood of Gainesville, Florida.
(Author’s note: I write this chapter in Troutman, North Carolina at the Lake Norman State Park Campground. In the distance, I hear the yelping of some strange animal. It is sorrowful yet terrifying. It is pitch black in the middle of the remote North Carolina mountains at 7:30pm. I roll up the windows. The creature wails.)
Tom Petty is easily my favorite musician of all time. And it’s not the greatest hits era, although I do love it and especially many of the early B-sides, it’s the later music that really gets me. Timeless albums like Wildflowers, Mojo, Echo, The Last DJ, She’s the One, all of them, really, have been hugely influential and inspiring to me as a music listener and lover. I greatly respect and admire the man’s songwriting style and ability to continue to crank out top-notch music for 50 years, much of which genuinely speaks to me.
And so I find myself at a sort of turning point here, a crossroads of my quest. I’ve found the home of soul and the birthplace of music, but here I find the birthplace of my music. I think about that as I stroll Tom Petty Park, dedicated October 20, the great one’s birthday, in 2018.
I can’t say it’s really a fitting tribute to this God of Rock, here in his hometown, but it’s nice. Shaded walkways wind through old oaks full of buzzing cicadas and the thick Florida air. There are tennis courts, a playground, a large dog park, and a group doing Tai Chi.
I’m not sure quite what I expected. Mary Jane’s Last Dance blasting out of hidden speakers throughout the park? A Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers tribute band performing 24 hours a day? Mike Campbell and Steve Ferrone playing tennis, waiting to greet visitors warmly?
I walk back to the car and gear up for my journey to Savannah, Georgia. But something pulls me back. This is Tom Petty Park. And here I am, on this musical journey seeking inspiration. I start to wonder what this is all about. I’m here and I’m glad I came, but there’s more I need to do before I go.
I whip out my guitar and harmonicas and head back into the park. It’s quietly baking in the fall sun. There aren’t many people around. Maybe, I start thinking to myself, I could head for that corner over there. It’s shady and far enough away from the path that no one will hear. I don’t want to bother anyone at 10am on a Sunday morning.
But a little voice inside me says, “Hey, man, this is Tom Petty Park.”
“Yes, it is,” I agree.
“So ask yourself, what would Tom Petty do?”
Sounds good to me. “What would Tom Petty do?” I wonder.
The Voice of God Himself Tom Petty fills my ears. “Take it to the people, man,” he says.
“That’s right,” I say. “There’s no need to hide.”
“Hey, man,” he says, “That’s why we’re here, right?”
I blast out a couple of my favorite of his tunes. I’m oddly nervous. It’s like I have a one-man audience and it’s Tom Petty. And he’s half-listening, looking around, sometimes dropping in little critiques. “Yeah, nice solo there. Oh, you’re doing Face In the Crowd? Always liked that one. Way to bring it back. A little improv, huh? Improving on my song?”
“No, Mr. Petty,” I say (I always call him Mr. Petty in my head), “I could never. I just had to rearrange it a little since I’m solo acoustic.”
“Yeah, man,” he says, “Do what you gotta do.” I bust out Yer So Bad and botch a few chords. Mr. Petty is generous. “Yeah, that wasn’t too bad. Took it your own way there a little bit.” He checks his watch.
Tom Petty is my spirit guide.
“I don’t mean to keep you,” I say.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I like it here. I grew up here, playing in this park.” He chuckles. “Anyway, I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Thank you, Mr. Petty.”
Chapter 5: Savannah, Georgia
Lovely Savannah is a charming city full of Southern hospitality and a long history of showing it off. From the distinct architecture and hanging Spanish Moss to the touristy but very worthwhile River St., Savannah is a town I always enjoy. I decide to head that way and finally break away from the scenic route to the dreaded racetrack, Interstate 95.
Along the way, I space out on some music until I realize that it is Game Day. The Bills game is starting, I have my Josh Allen jersey in the back, and I need to hunker down somewhere friendly to enjoy this spectacle. This is not the year to miss a game.
I find the Official Bills Backers bar outside of Savannah, Tailgate. It’s a big place and they have all the games going on, so I search the line of TVs looking for my beloved Bills.
A Miami fan nods at me as I pass and says, “Hey, man. Your people are in the back.”
I raise an eyebrow and say, “Ok, thanks.” As I turn the corner I see the Bills Backers have taken over an entire corner of the bar. They have actual turf from the Ralph covering the floor and Bills flags on the tables. Every other team has one, maybe two jerseys in attendance. The Bills Backers section proudly boasts five. And now six.
They see my 17 jersey and greet me warmly, welcoming me to the corner they’ve staked out. We watch the game, a brutal shutout as the Bills defense continues to utterly dominate, and talk about where we’re all from in WNY.
“I’m from Buffalo,” I say, eliciting some impressed nods. “The city,” I add.
They’re from Rochester, Syracuse, New York City, and Amherst. The fan from New York has a long time friend/antagonist, a Jet’s fan, along for the ride. He watches the Jets game halfheartedly, turning to watch the Bills deliver yet another punishing blow. “You guys are just bullies,” he says, shaking his head sadly. No sympathy for the devil. Remember that.
I celebrate the victory and make my way to downtown Savannah’s historic river district. The streets are quiet on a Sunday night but I find some live music. It’s not hard, it’s the same bar I go to for live music every time I come to Savannah, the Warehouse. I get rooted and watch the solo acoustic act rip through some choice covers. He plays Muse’s Madness, a song from one of my favorite bands that you never hear covered.
The strip shuts down early and I try out an after-hours club. It’s karaoke night. A drunken man in a snug t-shirt belts out an off-key rendition of Under the Bridge as his wobbly entourage cheers him on. I leave. A busker on River St. plays an emotional Amazing Grace on a trumpet.
Down the street, a group of revelers stops me for some cheesecake. The baker is a local and his friends are visiting from out of town. “I made two cheesecakes,” he slurs. “And I covered them with strawberries. It’s somebody’s birthday.”
“Sure, I’ll have a slice,” I say. The baker pulls a picture-perfect cheesecake out of the trunk of his car. A man with an enormous American flag on a pole rides past on a bicycle. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” I mutter. Savannah.
I’ve saddled myself again with a far later night than intended. But the cheesecake is superb. I thank the crew and amble down the river walk. Savannah has come through again.
Chapter 6: Greenville, South Carolina
“Walk softly and carry a cold drink.”
-Robert Young
It’s a weird morning in Savannah. The trip is taking a toll. How long can I do this? How long can this funky locomotive keep chugging? Thankfully, I’m heading north to visit an old friend, the man, the myth, the legend, Mr. Rob Young.
Rob and I go back to about 872 years ago when we played in a band together. It was a cover project, if I recall correctly, but the details are hazy. We formed as entertainment for our company Christmas party and then kept that weird locomotive chugging along.
For a time. “Yeah, I remember,” Rob giggles, “It was when you said, ‘If you hit that kick drum one more while I’m talking…'”
Ah, yes. The story of our falling out and the resignation of my duties as Frontman. I recall it well. I don’t remember Rob’s version ever actually happening, and it’s definitely not why we broke up, but I’ve heard him tell it several times.
“Not how it happened,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he says, unbothered by my claim, “You said if he hits it one more time, then he goes BAM BAM BAM BAM and you walk out the door, never to be seen again.”
I’m bent over in laughter. “That is not what happened. That never happened. But I like your story better, anyway. We’ll go with it.”
Rob’s not paying attention. “Let’s get some beers,” he says, heading off to the bar.
A talented musician and craftsman, Rob is a biker dude who used to have waist-length hair. We both had long hair when we played together. For our second set, we used to “let our hair down.” He reveals to me that his first instrument is drums, which blows my mind because he’s never mentioned it before, so we decide to team up for an open mic set, eight songs between us.
We’re reminiscing and laughing. Rob asks me what the heck I’m doing with this journey.
“It all goes back to this idea I had twenty years ago,” I say.
“Stop,” he interrupts me. “I don’t want to know.”
The sound man sidles up to us and says, “Hey guys, do you think you could keep it down?”
Rob is taken aback. “What? Are we too loud?”
“Yeah, man, a little bit.” He pinches his fingers together. “Can you keep it down? You know, we want everyone to be quiet for your set, too,” he passive-aggressively adds.
“I don’t,” Rob shoots back. “I want everybody up and rocking, man!”
Chastened, we try to keep it down. We fail. “That guy was kind of a dick,” I laugh.
“He’s the sound guy,” Rob says, shaking his head. “We’re guaranteed to sound like shit, now.”
“We just have to rock extra hard, man,” I say, resolved to win the bar over. “We’ll make some announcements, let them know that we want them to get loud. We like it loud.”
“Nah,” Rob says. “No announcements.”
“Well, I was hoping to say something about Gainesville.”
“What’s in Nashville?”
“Gainesville. It’s the birthplace of Tom Petty.”
“Tom Petty is from Nashville?”
“No. Tom Petty is from Gainesville. Florida.”
“And his house is still there? In Nashville?” Rob is only half listening at this point. Or probably all along.
“No, man,” I say, laughing. “The house he was born in is in Gainesville.”
“Oh, okay,” he answers distantly.
“I went to Tom Petty Park to do a set of his songs and-“
“Stop,” Rob says, cutting me off. “I don’t care.”
Finally, my name is called. Actually, they call Corny Hagstown to the stage. But no matter, Rob and I have agreed he will go first. “You have to introduce me, though,” I tell him.
“No way,” he says, tuning up his guitar.
“Hey, man, you have to.”
“Fine,” he sighs. We work out what I want him to say. He blasts out a few tunes and calls me up to the stage. I stand to the side and eye the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Rob announces, “From New Orleans, Richie G-String!”
The response is surprising. The Richie G-String effect seems to be universal because the crowd goes wild. I spread my arms wide and absorb the love.
I bust out my usual opener, one of my songs called The Long Haul, and they seem to really love it. I decide to make an announcement. These people are ready for it, I think. “Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen,” I boom, far too loud for the small room and sparse customers. The patrons at the guitar-shaped bar turn to watch. “I am Richie G-String, from New Orleans!” They erupt in cheers. “It’s great to be with you. You know, a couple days ago I was in Gainesville, Florida, birthplace of Tom Petty, my favorite musician. So I’d like to do one of his tunes for you now. And please get up and get loud out there. This ain’t no listening room! This is a Rock Bar!!!”
I break out You Don’t Know How It Feels. The people are grooving. Rob jumps on the drums and comes in perfectly like we’ve been rehearsing this. We haven’t. Ten minutes ago I tried to remind Rob of the song, singing the hook for him, but he doesn’t know it, he says. He can’t remember it at all.
Then he breaks out Steve Ferrone’s beat and it’s spot on, surprising me and himself a little, too, I think. We rock out the ending and Rob goes a little progressive, but it all works out and it brings the house down. For the last song, Rob gets back on the guitar and lets me Frontman it up for Mary Jane’s Last Dance. Our chemistry is on display like we never stopped playing together.
That number sets the crowd off again. They really dig it. The mood is changed. The sound guy doesn’t angrily eye us anymore. A man at the bar orders us a round of shots (always Jack for Rob, always tequila for me) as a young dude in a baseball cap hands me a wad of cash. We’ve won them over with the Power of Rock.
A young woman with a dynamite voice gets up for a second round, but this time she dispenses with the folky stuff. She grabs a pickup band and tears off a ripping cover of Smells Like Teen Spirit. We’re slapping backs and banging heads. Rock has won the day and everyone is loving it.
Back at the ranch, we jam a few tunes and share a few more laughs before we call it a night. I’m enjoying the best sleep of this whole trip when a noise wakes me. It’s awful, like a bear being raped by wolves.
But it’s only Rob, barfing his brains out. I’m impressed at the house-shaking power of his vomiting. I chuckle to myself and in the morning I tell Rob it will be in the Story.
Greenville, South Carolina is one of my new favorite cities. From the large verdant park studded with public art to the waterfalls, fountains, music and food, it’s an enchanting place to spend some time. I’m fortunate on this leg of the journey to have visited several of my favorite cities, and I’m made a few new favorites too. But the corner has been turned. We’re heading north and leaving the great cities of the South behind us. It’s time to venture into the remote hinterlands of North Carolina.
Chapter 7: Troutman, North Carolina
RULES OF THE ROAD
72: Charge your devices.
Known as the “inland sea”, Lake Norman is the largest manmade body of water in North Carolina, according to Wikipedia. Tonight I camp in the remote but still somehow overwhelmed with traffic Troutman, in Lake Norman State Park. The many peninsulas the park skirts around Lake Norman allow for incredible views as well as birding, fishing, swimming, and various sorts of boating activities.
The park is also alcohol and tobacco free. “You guys are a barrel of laughs!” I announce to myself. But the facilities are excellent, probably as a result of shutting out the drunkards. And they lock the gates at 8pm sharp with no reprieve to any higher authority. Oh, I think, I’d better find some dinner and get back here.
I find a restaurant that I’m not sure is open because there are no customers. But it’s a beautiful waterfront deck, a great spot for dinner that reminds me fondly of Mississippi. They are indeed open and I settle in to watch the sunset.
RULES OF THE ROAD
17: Brush your teeth.
Sated, I return to my lovely campsite. I need to catch up on my Florida and Georgia chapters and in defiance of the Law, I’ve brought a six-pack of local ale. I kick back and settle in to kick out some jams.
As noted in an earlier chapter, once things get dark, shit gets weird. Although October, it is muggy and hot, 76 degrees and holding after dark. I sit writing with the windows down, enjoying the breeze and the forest darkness. I’ve chosen a spot with no one else around, hoping it’ll be quiet enough to catch some sleep.
In the distance, a creature wails. It moans. It sounds like it is one side of a killing, but which side I can’t be sure. The lake is only 30 or 40 yards behind me and the campground is at the very tip of a peninsula. So if this beast gets rolling there isn’t much walkable ground between us. Two trails run behind my site, but they are now closed. As are the gates.
I listen intently, trying to gauge the distance of the suffering. An owl hoots. The lights of the bathhouse, the RVs, and the cabins are so far off. I hear footsteps running through the forest. They are very quickly getting closer. I roll up the windows, lock the car, block all the windows off, and hunker down for the duration.
I can’t run the car all night, but I need to. In Breach of the Rules, I have forgotten to charge my devices. After five or ten minutes, my car shuts off automatically. I’ve purchased a small battery-powered fan to make some background noise and cool the interior while I sleep. It has two settings. On the first, it emits a high-pitched squeal akin to ringing ears. On the second, the pitiful styrofoam flaps helplessly slap against the cheap plastic frame, making a horrible jarring sound.
My devices are dead, but it doesn’t matter because there is no service. I write what I can and spend long moments waiting to update before I give up and tuck in for the night. It’s hot. I crack a window. The fan slaps away. It starts to rain.
I love rain. I love the sound, I love the feel of it, I love everything about rain. It might sound silly but when it rains I feel like it’s a good omen. Things are going right.
Then it starts to pour. I pathetically try to block off the window somehow but everything is getting soaked. I admit defeat and shut the window.
The fan purrs. It gets hotter. It gets downright steamy. There will be no sleep tonight, I admit.
In the morning I load up the car, stumbling around, cursing the gods. I hear a buzzing and wobble around looking for it. It gets closer and closer until finally, I see a gigantic murder hornet buzzing around the bed in my car (see photo, maybe you can spot the little devil). I jump in and tool out of there as fast as the Great Black Beast will take us.
I know I must find coffee or I will die. I have stupidly forgotten to purchase a can of some horrible espresso thing to quench my need for caffeine. Up the street I find a wonderful gas station selling “The World’s Best Homemade Pimento Cheese”. I grab a few cans of some horrible nitro coffee thing and head into the office (see pic above).
We have never taken the easy or well-trod path on this endeavor and we can’t start now. I drive the few miles down to the beach to take in the sights. The beach like the rest of the park is attractively well-maintained. A mom watches her son splash around the shallow waters. I see a boardwalk at the corner and cross over to it. A regal blue heron perches on a log across the gorgeous purple waters.
I run into a chatty couple from West Seneca. It still amazes me how many connections to Western New York you find anywhere you go. There’s this widespread diaspora who have left through the hard years, settled and repopulated in other parts of the country. They all say they’re from Buffalo. They never are. They’re from West Seneca, Amherst, Rochester, Tonawanda, or the like. Never the actual city.
They tell me about their life in the Buffalo area and their decision to move south. I’m reminded of the Bills Backers. Good people who have a love for Buffalo but a need to leave. They all talk about the snow. “It really doesn’t snow that much in Buffalo. It’s a popular misconception,” I tell them. “Syracuse gets way more snow than Buffalo,” I told the guy from Syracuse in Savannah. But they’re not buying it.
I must leave North Carolina and the attack of the animals behind me. My time here is too short, but like everywhere else, I think I got what I came for.
Chapter 8: Wytheville, Virginia
My reason for choosing Wytheville is simple: It is on the way home.
When I started this journey, I had no idea how it might go. My goal is simple: To visit each of the 50 states of the union and write a song for each, come what may. I knew I would spend more time in some states than others due to simple logistics. But even here in lonely Wytheville, a stop-off from the congruence of Interstates 77 and 81, inspiration abounds.
Checking into my hotel, I hear a man asking the front desk clerk, “What is there to do here?”
“Not much,” she scoffs. “We have a brewery now.”
I’ve survived the wilds of North Carolina and the streets of New Orleans. I’m determined to make the most of my stop in Virginia. But it doesn’t look promising for live music. So I drive the few miles to downtown Wytheville to find somewhere for dinner. And maybe that vaunted brewery.
There isn’t much open on a Wednesday evening. I park by a restaurant called Crave on Main but I’m immediately deterred by the chic decor and classically uniformed staff. This time I’m positive it’s too nice for a musician who’s been in the car for a week and a half. I hit the main drag and marvel for a moment at the strange music pumping from the ground.
The town has mounted speakers along the main strip, two of them every ten feet or so, and then elected to play the most monstrous music ever created. It’s inescapable and inexplicable. I stop for a moment in disbelief to film the spectacle. The streets are empty. Buddy Holly’s Everyday begins to play. What is the meaning of this? I wonder. What’s the score here?
Everyday, it’s a gettin’ closer,
Buddy Holly
Goin’ faster than a roller coaster…
And perhaps it is. So there is no time to waste. Yes. That is why we’re here.
I poke my head into the Seven Sisters Brewery. It’s late for them, I guess. The large concrete box is nearly empty except for a pack of roving dogs. The dogs are the only inhabitants who notice me. I quickly duck out.
Back at Crave on Main, I find it’s not the rarified enclave I imagined. The busy staff is friendly and helpful. I chat with a couple at the bar and enjoy a fine meal (steak and red wine that reminds me of the scene in the Matrix when the turncoat says, “Ignorance is bliss”), followed by a flight of local bourbons. I think back fondly about my adventure thus far.
RULES OF THE ROAD
47: Take the rest stop. We’re not getting any younger. Who knows when the next one will be? See Rule 2.
I remember an ad I saw at a gas station: Prevent suicide, get a gun lock! As if to say, yes, of course, you have a gun. Maybe just try a teeny tiny little bit to make sure no one shoots themselves with it.
I remember the story of a classical guitar player who left New Orleans to accept a teaching position at a university. Then he quit and came back. Now he plays every day on the same street corner and every night at a different venue. He makes far more money than he ever did teaching. And he’s happy.
And of course, there is COVID. Like Bernie the Haircutter said, it’s a different world. Everywhere I’ve traveled has a policy, I’m sure. But what people actually practice can be a different story. They have many guns down here, I do my best to go with the flow.
COVID PRACTICES BY STATE
KY: No masks or vax card required. Signs are occasionally posted reminding us to social distance.
TN: Masks and vax card required. At the TN Welcome Center, I forget to wear a mask. The cheerful staff happily supply one.
LA: Masks and vax card required, sometimes. It depends where you are and how late it is. After 2am COVID is forgotten.
MS: No masks and don’t even mention the vax. They smoke in restaurants down here so it’s safe to say they don’t give a flying fuck.
AL: Masks required, if you feel up to it. Vax is politely not mentioned. They smoke in bars down here and the Catholics own the city, so it’s safe to say they don’t give a flying fuck.
FL: It’s Florida, what do you expect? Masks are required but not worn, except by obvious tourists. Masks earn a dirty look most places. Policies are probably as or more strict than in NY, but here they are mainly ignored.
GA: You MUST wear your mask as you walk to the bar, the menacing bouncer will tell you. After that, forget you even have a mask because no one cares.
SC: I don’t think I even had a mask on me.
NC: I was in the woods. Facilities require masks indoors. Park staff adhere to policy rigidly. Elsewhere, gas stations for example, masks are scoffed at.
VA: At this point I can’t remember much about the policies but I don’t think they were followed.
OH: Pretty much the same as MS and AL but without the smoking.
PA: See OH.
NY: Back in the land of Big Brother, we wear masks always and we re-vax biweekly. God help you if the State loses your information. God help you, just in general. Mask up. Welcome to New York, pay toll.
I groggily rise and hit the road one last time. On this, the final day of this leg of this epic quest to find my songs across America, I will return home to Buffalo.
The loop I chose took me through 14 states. I will write a song and a chapter for 8 of them. That leaves 42 others for later adventures.
All told I traveled more than 3,045 miles, spending roughly 52 hours driving over the course of 11 days.
I partied in cities and I cowered in the middle of the woods. I roamed beaches and felt the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic Ocean, and Lake Norman.
I smiled in the sun and I laughed in the rain.
I ate catfish and collard greens and drank local beers and whiskeys. I never once ate or drank at a chain.
I followed the Rules of the Road, mostly, even as I wrote them. These will come in handy in future trips.
I learned a lot about America. I learned a lot about myself.
I stored nuggets of wisdom and patches of character to form song lyrics that will accompany the many melodies bouncing around my brain. These will be my love songs for America.
I slept in hotels, truck stops, the wilderness, a buddy’s pad, and a shared condo.
I became Richie G-String.
Never once in my long journey did I have anything even like a problem. The Great Black Beast performed admirably and returned unscathed. Every person I spoke to or hung with was friendly, kind, and supportive. Not always at first but always eventually. Everywhere I went, I found peace, beauty, and joy. This is the America I went to find.
And that’s a great place to leave it. For now.
Until next time!
~Corey