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Juliet singing at
Nashville's Commodore club |
I've I just got back from
Nashville, which sounds like a song in itself.
It was, and is. It’s a warm and wonderful town
where the air is thick with music, music, music.
I was lucky to get tickets for the Grand Ol Opry,
one of those legendary places that just have to
be visited.
For somebody like me who doesn’t
do, let alone like, much country and western,
the place is seductive, but also extremely
businesslike. I realise there is a code and a
formula that must be learnt. If you want to make
it, you pummel away, song after song, day after
night after day, no room for doubt,
collaborating, refining, rewriting and
collaborating again.
And I heard some good guitars,
and even bought myself a twelve-string to
celebrate. A right beauty, a black beauty, but I
had forgotten how hellish they are to tune, a
whole new skill to be mastered. As the Americans
say, it is pre-owned, and I’d love to know who
by. It is so intriguing to know that the vehicle
that once transported someone else’s dreams is
now mine. Inspiration will surely follow.
I sang a couple of nights and
made some glorious new friends. I like the size
of the city; it’s both big enough and small
enough. For those of us who easily lose our way,
how kind of them to put all necessary muso
facilities in one or two streets so that the
likes of me can avoid doing 25 mile detours down
freeways the wrong way from the ocean as I did
on previous trips to Los Angeles whilst in
search of the lost meeting.
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