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One thing we’ve learned about the Nashville music scene is to be on the look-out for any show that suggests the presence of “session pros.” That’s how we found ourselves at Brooklyn Bowl Halloween night for Here Come the Mummies!, maybe the ultimate Nashville session pro pick-up band. It seems odd to call them a pick-up band at this point, given a career that spans more than 20 years with gigs opening for the likes of Al Green and regular appearances on the Bob and Tom radio show. But more than 50 musicians have played in the group at one time or another. So, yeah, it’s a pick-up band. Their own website describes Here Come the Mummies! as “an eight-piece funk-rock band of 5000 year-old Egyptian mummies with a one-track mind.” Buried in the schtick is a hint at the real story. “Some say they were cursed after deflowering a great Pharoah’s daughter,” the online bio says. “Others claim they are reincarnated Grammy-winning studio musicians.” The legend is that they had to hide their identities because some or all of them were under contract to various record labels. But the costumes also made it easier to rotate in musicians at will. (Session musicians often do long stints on the road backing the big stars.) If you haven’t seen them, think P-Funk meets K.C. and the Sunshine Band meets Earth Wind and Fire meets a bunch of zombies from a Scooby Doo cartoon, creating the best party band you’ve ever seen. What sets them apart other than their musical talent is the fact that they play all original songs. Given that they are a funk band, and that most funk music is about sex in all its funky glory, it’s not surprising that this is the thread that runs through the Mummies music, whether openly or in double entendre. One fan favorite describes a suitors excitement over the fact that he will soon be arriving at his lover's house in his finest clothes. "I'm coming in my pants, my shirt It's my best suit baby" So, uh, yeah. Deep poetry it ain't. But they are fully committed to the schtick, starting with their marching band entrance. While rock and roll can handle a little sloppiness, funk music is all about sounding loose by playing tight. That’s where the musical chops of HCTM shine. They look like a ragtag bunch. But there isn't a note out of place. When the horns attack, they hit hard. It’s the difference between a party band that gets everyone on the dance floor with groovy songs, and a party band that seems to lift you off your feet. Go see these guys if you can.

“Let’s see if we can turn a Sunday night into a Saturday night,” Jason Isbell told his band. Then they did. What a pleasure to catch a great artist at the top of his game. Or should I say, a great band at the tops of its game. Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit wrapped up their annual 8-day residency at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville Sunday, and we were lucky to snag two seats. When we first saw Isbell two years ago, it was also on the last show of the residency. Maybe we’re on to something, as both shows were great. Then again, I can’t say I’ve heard any complaints around town from earlier nights. Jason Isbell is the reigning king of Americana country music. But his shows feel more like the tight, greasy southern rock from the early 70s. If you closed your eyes during a several-minute dual solo from Isbell and co-lead guitarist Sadler Vaden, you might have imagined Duane Allman and Dicky Betts at the Fillmore, harmonizing up and down the neck and trading licks. The fact that the 400 Unit even has a guitarist as capable as Vaden says something about Isbell’s commitment to a big sound. An unapologetic and talented guitar shredder himself, it would have been understandable for him to choose a merely capable rhythm player for his band. But Vaden could take the lead guitar in any group. He named his son Townsend, for Pete’s sake. And he always seems to throw a few windmill power chords into the show. But instead of taking the spotlight away from Isbell, he seems to elevate him. It helps that the rest of the band is so strong, of course. Long-time 400 Unit players Chad Gamble (drums) and Derry deBorja (keyboards) were as tight as ever. And while regular 400 Unit bassist Jimbo Hart is on hiatus, dealing with personal health issues, Australian-born, L.A.-based Anna Butterss (yes, that is spelled correctly) filled in nicely. Also joining is Will Johnson, who seemed squeezed into the back of the stage playing various instruments, including guitar and extra drums. Missing from the Sunday line-up was Amanda Shires, Isbell’s wife and longtime collaborator. She plays violin with the 400 Unit when she isn’t pursuing her own career. (Here's a taste of her latest record, which is recommended listening.) Although a microphone to Isbell’s right was set up for someone, presumably her, it went unused. If you haven’t watched the documentary about Isbell – which is really a documentary about Isbell and Shires – I recommend it. It was nice to see that his new material from this year’s “Weathervanes” feels right at home in an already strong catalogue. The show started with “The King of Oklahoma,” about a working man lost down the well-worn path of injury, opiods, and despair. “Doctor took a quick look And I got out the checkbook And left with a pocket full of pills Now my back's still hurtin' And I'm too weak for workin' And I can't keep up with all the bills She used to wake me up with coffee ever morning And I'd hear her homemade house shoes slide across the floor She used to make me feel like the king of Oklahoma But nothing makes me feel like much of nothing anymore” Isbell, a recovering alcoholic and addict, isn’t afraid to write about his own demons. It’s his wheelhouse, in fact. And in “When We Were Close” he remembers the late Justin Townes Earle, his friend. Earle, the son of singer-songwriter Steve Earle, died at 38 from an accidental drug overdose in 2020. Isbell’s song is the lament of the guilty survivor. “I saw a picture of you laughing with your child And I hope she will remember how you smiled But she probably wasn't old enough, the night somebody sold you stuff That left you on the bathroom tiles Got a picture of you dying in my mind With some ghosts you couldn't bear to leave behind But I can hear your voice ring as you snap another B-string And you finish off the set with only five And for a minute there, you're still alive I was the worst of the two of us But Rex's Blues wasn't through with us You were bound for glory and grown to die Oh, but why wasn't I? Why wasn't I?” One of the more powerful arrangements came on Isbell’s “Cover Me Up.” He and the band walked off stage after a jammy version of “Miles,” from the new album. Then Isbell came back alone, with an acoustic guitar. As he worked his way through the first notes and verses of the ominous and romantic song, band members returned to the stage one by one and joined in, adding musical weight. “A heart on the run Keeps a hand on a gun Can't trust anyone I was so sure What I needed was more Tried to shoot out the sun The days when we raged, we flew off the page Such damage was done But I made it through, 'cause somebody knew I was meant for someone So, girl, leave your boots by the bed We ain't leaving this room 'Til someone needs medical help Or the magnolias bloom It's cold in this house and I ain't going out to chop wood So cover me up and know you're enough To use me for good” I’m probably including too many song lyrics in this post. But the lyrics are too good. They are what draws you to Isbell’s music in the first place. The live concerts are where the music steps to the front. Go see this band.

Rhiannon Giddens and her band served up a lot of powerful music at the Ryman Auditorium this weekend. But it was a salty, old-school-country foot-stomper that got me thinking. Giddens’ new album, “You’re the One,” is her first solo project in six years and a departure for the former founding member of the Carolina Chocolate Drops. She’s known for her banjo virtuosity on “old timey” tunes, part of a noble effort to reclaim at least some of the roots of American country music for the African slaves who helped shape it. Her new stuff wanders skillfully among other genres, from soul to torch songs to spirituals to country. Early in the show Giddens noted that, while she has played at the Ryman as a warm-up act or part of a larger revue, this was her first appearance as a headliner. Given that the original home of the Grand Ole Opry remains sacred ground for country musicians and fans, she was clearly proud of the moment, and in the same interlude recalled one of the legends of the Opry stage, Dolly Parton. As viewers of Ken Burns’ excellent “Country Music” documentary can tell you, Parton launched her career in the early 60s as a “girl singer,” a role typically requiring little more than a pretty voice, a toothy smile, and a muscular hairdo. With powerful songs like “Jolene” and “I Will Always Love You,” however, Parton established her chops as a songwriter, bringing a female perspective to the male-dominated genre. Giddens, who was prominently featured in Burns’ documentary, said she was thinking about the "young, salty" Parton when she wrote “If You Don’t Know How Sweet It Is,” a feminist firecracker. “If you don't know how sweet it is Get on out of my kitchen. If you can't tell how good it is Well, you won't know what you're missing. You're good, but I'll find better And they'll be without your bitching If you don't know how sweet it is Get the hell out of my kitchen” It was easy to imagine a Dolly bringing the Ryman crowd to its feet with a song like this in, say, 1965. She’d have been backed by Porter Wagoner and his Wagoneers in their elaborately embroidered, Nudie Taylor-designed stage suits. Giddens, who is of mixed African and European descent, performed in an elegant but understated floor-length black dress with her hair tied back. Her Congalese guitarist, Niwel Tsumbi, looked sharp in a cowboy hat, red embroidered shirt and fancy boots. But it was hardly a Nudie suit. And I don’t think any of Porter Wagoner’s lily white Wagoneers ever wore their dreadlocks tied up in a bun like Giddens' drummer Attis Clopton did. The moment might have been more powerful for me because we went to see Giddens just a few weeks ago at a Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum artist showcase event. On her own for that appearance, she talked candidly about racism and the struggles African Americans still face. She also talked about her own upbringing as a mixed-race child in the south, noting that “there are all different kinds of people in small towns,” a not-so-subtle shot at country pop superstar Jason Aldean. His hit song, “Try That in a Small Town” features images of violence at Black Lives Matter protests juxtaposed against the bucolic courthouse steps in Columbia, Tennessee, notorious as the spot where a black teenager was lynched nearly 100 years ago. The video has been roundly criticized, and was taken off the air by CMT (Country Music Television). But the song also reached number one on Billboard's Hot 100. To me it felt like Giddens’ was offering an answer to the white fragility of Aldean and so many of his fans. Giddens certainly sings - and sang at the Ryman - more directly powerful songs about race and racism. But by channeling Dolly at the Mother Church of Country Music, she was making a statement: Country music is American music, and it belongs to all Americans. At least that's what I heard. Among those more direct songs about race was “Another Wasted Life,” a reflection on Kalief Browder, a young New York man held without trial at Rikers Island for three years on a charge of petty theft. After much delay, his case was dropped without a trial. Browder, who'd spent more than 700 days in solitary confinement, killed himself two years after he was released. Giddens’ telling of his story packed a soulful punch that was heightened by a guest appearance from Demeanor, whose backing vocal rap lifted the song like a Greek chorus. Another powerful moment came with Giddens’ rendition of “Birmingham Sunday,” which she pointed out she was singing on the 60th anniversary of the Alabama church bombing the song chronicles. Written by Richard Farina (and also performed by Farina’s sister-in-law, Joan Baez), the song names each of the four young girls killed in the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church on September 15, 1963. Giddens' operatically trained voice gave the beautiful song the heft and texture it deserves. It was Mary's favorite moment of the show. Giddens is something of a polymath, having most recently shared a Pulitzer Prize for “Omar,” an opera she wrote with Michael Abels. With this new album and this new tour, she’s moving into the world of more mainstream music, without losing her mission or abandoning her roots. Here's an excellent review of Giddens' new album. It’s a long tour. Do yourself a favor and get out to see her.

(Note: This article was originally published in the Chicago Tribune on April 19, 2023.) I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by the responses I got when I told people I’d just completed a three-day bike ride across a large chunk of northern Indiana. “Wow,” most said, with just a hint of surprise and perhaps a glance at my midsection. “Good for you!” Such is the beauty of rail trails — bike paths built on abandoned train lines — that even I, a reasonably active but, um, husky man of 60, with the approximate flexibility of a rusty old tractor, can easily knock off more than 100 miles in three days. And Chicago is teeming with them — rail trails, I mean. Once extolled by the poet Carl Sandburg as the “player with railroads and the nation’s freight handler,” it remains a national railroad hub. That means there are bike paths along existing lines, like the Green Bay Trail beside Metra’s North Line, and trails along the roadbed of long-abandoned lines, like the west suburban Illinois Prairie Path and the city’s Bloomingdale Trail, also known as The 606. Chicago is also home to a stretch of the Great American Rail Trail, a 3,700-mile bike path from coast to coast that passes through northwest Indiana and the south suburbs. Though supported by the national Rails to Trails Conservancy, it is really a network of more than 125 locally backed trails that is still filling out some gaps in the run from Washington, D.C., to the Pacific Ocean west of Seattle. I did a relatively short stretch in Indiana, and it left me wanting to ride more. The magic of rail trails is rooted in the laws of physics. Massively heavy freight and passenger trains simply cannot handle steep grades up and down. That’s why tracks are built up on bridges and artificial berms in some places, and carved into the land in others, leveling out elevation changes to allow trains to move up and down at a gentle rate. The result is that riders can easily get into a comfortable cruise. One can maintain a pleasant speed with a steady churn in the higher gears, pushing hard enough to get the heart beating, without the extreme strains of steep uphill slogs. There is also the satisfaction of feeling the miles click away. When I agreed to the three-day ride starting in my wife’s hometown of Richmond, Indiana, I was nervous. I ride maybe a few days a week when the weather is nice. But I know what it means to be a serious rider, as I have friends who are. I am not. But it was a chance to push myself, and an excuse to visit family. Richmond is in central Indiana along the Ohio state line, and we started at the historic Gennett Studios there. It’s the spot where some of the earliest recordings of American jazz were made by the likes of Louis Armstrong, King Oliver and Hoagy Carmichael. It’s also a few blocks from the church where I got married, so I was feeling both inspired and nostalgic. We headed north and were quickly out of downtown, alternating between wooded areas and working farms. This also made for a pleasing mixture of warming sun and the cooling canopy of trees. I inherited a love of trains from my late father, and I thought of him as I enjoyed simple beauty of small-town railroad depots that still dot the route. The real beauty of these trails is cruising hassle-free, without having to worry about cars and traffic. It’s easy to find a steady, almost meditative rhythm. Some people like to ride with ear pods or headphones, but I don’t think that’s safe. I like to hear what’s around me, from the gentle chirping of birds, to the barking of dogs, to a friendly car horn’s beep beep! at any of the many spots where the trail crosses a road. Since most of these trails are used by locals for shorter rides, and supported by local volunteers and park districts, there are plenty of small parks where one can stop for water or bathroom breaks. Oddly, I found these rests helpful to my confidence. I’d roll to a stop and offer an almost anticipatory groan, expecting my muscles to be complaining. I could feel them, of course. But it was a good feeling — a level of pain that says, “Well done,” rather than, “Please, stop!” And because these trails move from town to town, it’s easy to find lodging and places to eat. We spent one night in Muncie, Indiana, and another about 65 miles northwest in Peru, Indiana, both at national chain hotels for what I consider reasonable rates — just over $100 per night. Both the Indiana and Illinois sections of the national trail are almost fully complete. The Illinois trail crosses the state between Interstate 80 and the Illinois River. Trails along the route include the Hennepin Canal Parkway, the Illinois and Michigan Canal State Park, and the Great River Trail, along the Mississippi. Illinois — and the Chicago Tribune — can claim some history when it comes to rail trails. When the old Chicago, Aurora and Elgin rail line was abandoned in the late 1950s, it was a letter to the editor that led to the conversion of the line to today’s more-than-50-mile path. According to TrailLink, a site maintained by the Rails to Trails Conservancy, noted naturalist May Theilgaard Watts wrote to the Tribune in 1963, proposing that the line be turned into a walking path. This led to the nation’s first conversion of a railroad to a public trail. Another notable rail trail is the Bloomingdale Trail, running through Bucktown, Wicker Park and Logan Square. You can find more options at the TrailLink website. The right equipment is important on a ride of any distance, of course. But that doesn’t mean one has to break the bank on a super-light road bike. My hybrid around-towner is somewhere between the thin-tired racers and the fat-wheeled mountain bikes. It is sturdy and relatively light, and worked fine for me. Helmets are, of course, a must. Even on dedicated bike trails, falls can happen. Bike shorts are also highly recommended on long rides. Mine were built into the lining of more conventional shorts, which I found more comfortable than the skin-tight suits. Many riders prefer cycling shoes with pedal clips, anchoring their feet to the bike. I understand the benefit of these — they keep the balls of the feet on the pedal, and allow both pulling and pushing action — but my bike didn’t have them, and I did fine. I do recommend riding gloves. It’s easy to see the packs of tricked-out cycling clubs churning through the countryside and think it’s an activity reserved for serious fitness buffs. But rail trails make even distance riding accessible to regular folks. Translation: If I can do it, you probably can too.

I counted out a sizable bet and slid it across the green felt toward the three aces face-up in the middle of the table. Then I rested my arms on the padded rail in front of me and tried not to move, staring at a random spot in front of my chips. If anyone had the fourth ace in their hand, I was dead. My bet was an aggressive semi-bluff. I had a hand – a pair of deuces to make a full house - but it was very vulnerable, if not already behind. I was first to act and my first thought was to check, afraid of such a crazy flop. But then I remembered that the other three players had “limped” into the pot rather than raising it – not exactly a show of strength. I decided to try and win right now, or at least learn more about what my opponents might hold. Welcome to Day 2 of the 2023 World Series of Poker Super Seniors Main Event, open to anyone over 60 and willing to pay the $1,000 buy-in. I'd been planning the trip for months and joined more than 3,100 other players who took their seats on on Day 1. Now, after about 16 hours of live play, we were down to 600, and that number was falling fast as players ran out of chips. The money line was 469, meaning everyone busting out before then would walk away with nothing. After that prizes started at $1,600 and worked their way up to more than $350,000 for the winner. If the three players still in the hand folded to me, I knew I’d likely have enough chips to make it into “the money.” If not, I was probably drawing dead and would be fighting to outlast the other short stacks to the bubble. The first two players folded quickly. The last paused and stared at me, then looked at his cards again. He looked down at his very large stack and began to count out chips for a call or raise, then looked back at me for a reaction. Did I want him to call? Did I want him to raise? Did I want him to fold? I was only looking at him in my peripheral vision, still trying to stare a hole in the felt. He looked at his cards one more time and shook his head, then tossed them face-down into the muck. Fold. The pot was mine and I didn’t need to show my cards, since no one called my bet. Indeed, it’s standard practice to not show them, leaving opponents to wonder if they made the right decision to fold. But players will occasionally show, as I did with my deuces before reaching out to rake in the pot. “Now that,” drawled the old guy sitting next to me (think Jeff Bridges in “Hell or High Water” or Tommy Lee Jones in “No Country for Old Men.”) “was a nahhhhce bet.” I’d love to tell you there were more hands like this one, and that I am now $350,000 richer and the proud owner of a coveted World Series of Poker champion’s bracelet. But that was my high-water mark. I grinded for a few more hours, past the dramatic moment when they announced we were all in the money, before getting knocked out in 302nd place. I cashed for $2,000, and was overjoyed. I got a lot of concerned looks when I told people I was going to Las Vegas to pay $1,000 to enter a poker tournament. I suppose many likened it to walking into a casino and dropping a grand on 33 on the roulette table, or to play a hand of blackjack. But while most casino games are played against the house, which must have a mathematical advantage to stay in business, poker is played against the other players. It is a game of skill with an element of luck. Anyone can win a single hand. But skillful play matters, and skillful players win more often over the long haul. You can, for example, win a hand of poker without showing your cards. It happens a lot. A player simply makes a large bet that suggests they have a very strong hand. Maybe they have it and maybe they don’t. But their opponent, unsure and unwilling to risk the large amount of chips needed to call, folds. Bluffing is an integral part of the game, though it is not done as often as people think. Players who bluff too often get their bluffs called and lose. It is exciting when you get lucky, and an unlikely card is turned over that wins you a pot. But it is exhilarating when you win a pot with a bet, knowing that you probably didn’t have the best hand. You can also bluff a good hand, projecting weakness and enticing pot-building large bets from opponents before springing "the nuts" - the best possible hand with the cards available. The World Series of Poker attracts top players from across the country and around the world. And it is structured to reduce the luck factor. Poker tournament strategy is deeply tied to the "blinds," rotating mandatory bets that go up steadily through the tournament. Players who do not work to build their chip stacks - who merely wait for premium hands - will see their stacks swallowed up by the growing blinds. Late in tournaments, players with small stacks are often forced to be "all-in," regardless of what cards they hold, because of the size of the blinds At one-night charity tournaments, blinds go up every 15 minutes or so, reducing the number of hands played and therefore increasing the role of luck in the hands. At the WSOP Super Seniors, the blinds go up every hour. I made it to Day 2, but the tournament lasted four days. (The $10,000 Main Event, where the blinds go up every two hours, typically lasts for six or seven days.) Because of the increasing blinds, the top players are constantly looking for opportunities to "steal" pots, raising when they sense weakness, or when they can catch other players out of position. Top players are good at "reading" their opponents and betting accordingly. Poker is a game of managing risk and leveraging uncertainty. Good poker players also tend to be very good at math, and are constantly calculating things like pot odds, implied pot odds, and expected value. Some of the best scholarly books about Game Theory - the art of extracting maximum value in situations with a variety of data points, many of them not precisely known - are books about tournament poker. Here is an open source course on poker theory you can take at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I am a pretty good poker player, but not a great one. If I sat down every day with poker professionals – players who literally make their living playing poker tournaments and cash games – I would lose far more money than I would win. But in a single tournament, with a combination of smart play and a little bit of luck, I have a chance to win. At the very least I have the chance to test myself against good players. My road to the WSOP began about two years ago, not long after we moved to Nashville. I was playing in a charity poker tournament and got to talking to a friendly guy named Butch, who eventually invited me to join his poker group. It’s called Jackie Deuce, after the favorite hand of one of the founding members, the late Al Bunetta. (If the name looks familiar to some of you music fans, he was the manager of legendary songwriter John Prine, and the co-founder of Prine’s record label, Oh Boy Records.) We play anywhere from one to three times per week. We play both live cash games and online tournaments. (In cash games, the blinds never go up, and the chips represent real money. In tournaments, each player "buys in" for a specific amount, and the last player standing, with all the chips, wins. Also, the blinds are constantly going up, forcing action.) I'm better at tournaments, and play the online game more often. We have a parallel Zoom call for conversation, and it’s a very friendly group of very good poker players. I’ve learned a lot, both about poker and the music business. Several members of the group play in the WSOP each year, and we started talking about it months in advance. When I decided to sign up for the WSOP, I wondered if I would be embarrassed – if I would lose and walk away thinking I had no business sitting at the table with players at this level. It didn’t happen. I held my own and proved to myself that I could at least complete. There is a little bit of personal redemption here that goes beyond poker. As far back as grade school, I’ve struggled with ADD – attention deficit disorder. It wasn’t diagnosed until I was an adult, but the diagnosis explained a lot. I struggled in high school because I didn’t have the patience or focus to do hours of homework or test preparation. I squeaked by because I listened in class (at least in the classes I liked) and could write. My college grades were average, but I found my calling at the student newspaper, where I spent most of my time. As a professional journalist, I did my best work under intense deadline pressure. I thrived covering crime and breaking news, often crafting stories in minutes and dictating them, in the pre-internet days, over the phone. When they put me on the weeks-long projects that most reporters covet, I was unhappy. So it was a little bit of a surprise when I discovered that not only was I competent at poker, I enjoy playing it for long stretches. I lose focus sometimes, and try to step away from the table when I do. But I am somehow good enough, and playing is not only fun, it makes me feel good. I had trouble writing this post mainly because I wasn't sure how much people cared about poker. I guess that's the reason poker players enjoy the WSOP so much. It is filled with people who love poker. Break time conversation is filled with break-downs of hands and woeful laments over bad beats. Breaks are also when you can encounter some of the best players in the world. The WSOP includes many events, including "high roller" tournaments that attract top players. Even lower buy-in events attract pros eying the big payoffs and the coveted WSOP bracelets. On my first day at the WSOP I walked into one of the two massive poker rooms to see what it was like. Sitting at the very first table I looked at was Eric Seidel, a cerebral pro and one of my favorite players. Seidel is perhaps best known for his appearance in "Rounders," the 1998 film often credited with jump-starting the poker boom. In that movie, Matt Damon's character obsessively watches a tape of the final table at the 1988 World Series of Poker, which ended in a heads-up battle between Seidel and Johnny Chan. Chan won. You can hear Seidel talk about the movie and that hand here. Seidel is also featured in an excellent new book about poker, "The Biggest Bluff," which I highly recommend. Running into top players is part of the thrill of playing the WSOP, as the tournaments are open to anyone willing to pay the buy-in. But it is the fun and the challenge of playing that will make me come back. The cost of the buy-in can't be ignored, of course. Given the odds - only the top 15 percent of players who enter a WSOP event actually "cash" - you shouldn't enter unless you are prepared to lose the buy-in. But, having dutifully taken my $2,000 win and paid all my expenses and then some for the WSOP Vegas trip, I have another year to build the poker bankroll. Life is too short not to follow a passion. And, to borrow a phrase from my friend and fellow newspaper refugee, the outstanding blogger Nancy Nall Derringer, I ain't dead yet.

The “in the round” show is a staple of Nashville entertainment. Sometimes called a guitar pull, and often performed in a row rather than in the round, it features artists known mostly to music business insiders and folks who actually read the liner notes - members of the city’s robust community of professional songwriters. Mary and I love them. But truth be told, we don’t always know the songs, which tend to skew mainstream country. We recognize the names – Blake Shelton, Kenny Chesney, Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, etc. But we aren't always singing along like the rest of the crowd. Still, you hear some good stories. You hear a little music biz color. You are occasionally reminded that Nashville songwriters don't only write country songs. And you enjoy a few “only in Nashville” moments that stop you in your tracks. We were gathered outdoors with some friends for a “Radnor in the Round” benefit, raising money for the Friends of Radnor Lake, supporting a park a few miles from our house that is our favorite place to walk. A few songs into the show, Mike Reid was introduced as the next artist, and my friend Dave leaned over to tell me something. “He used to be a professional football player,” he said, nodding at the grey-haired gentleman settling his tall frame in behind the keyboard. "I usually save this for last, but I don't know how much time the weather is going to give us," he said. I should mention that the Sunday afternoon show was delayed by an ominous "lightning in the area" warning that would eventually cut things short. "Also," Reid said, as he began to tickle out a melody I recognized instantly, "I'm sorry if this makes everyone sad." Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” is one of the best songs I know, a sad-as-they-come realization of unrequited love. Who knew that it was co-written - along with Allen Shamblin - by a former all-pro defensive tackle for the Cincinnati Bengals? I sure didn’t. You can't make your heart feel something it won't Here in the dark, in these final hours I will lay down my heart and I'll feel the power But you won't, no you won't 'Cause I can't make you love me, if you don't Nobody sings it like Bonnie, of course. And it seems like just yesterday we were listening to her at the Ryman Auditorium. But it’s another thing to hear it from the writer, and to imagine him going to work like Nashville songwriters do – meeting in small rooms for midday sessions at publishing houses on Music Row, then going home at the end of the day for dinner with the wife and maybe a little television - and writing something like that. Although it was a relaxed evening with a few hundred people spread out on the grass in folding lawn chairs around coolers and picnic platters, the lightning warning added some tension. Event organizer Will Robinson, himself an accomplished songwriter, warned us of the danger, and urged everyone to wait in their cars. Some did, but most stood around and waited until we got the "clear-for-now" from park rangers on hand. Then it was a who’s who of Music Row vets – Reid, Phil Vasser, Cory Batten, Kent Blazy, Rivers Rutherford, Dennis Matkosky, and Lilly Winwood. If that last name looks familiar, it should. Her father, former Traffic frontman and solo success Steve Winwood, lived in Nashville for years and is a longtime Radnor supporter. His daughter joked about her status as a “nepo baby,” but impressed our group of friends with a strong voice and a solid song. Other artists came up, sometimes in pairs, and offered one song each and the story behind it. But the nearby lightning would not give up, and what was supposed to be the finale was moved up in the set list. Ketch Secor, founder of Old Crow Medicine Show and a Nashville resident, walked on stage with his young son to lead the crowd in “Wagon Wheel,” among the latest in a long line of sing-along country classics. Secor, who was prominently featured in Ken Burns' Country Music documentary, lives in the rarified air of songwriters who share a writing credit with Bob Dylan. The chorus of "Wagon Wheel" shows up in a demo tape laid down by Dylan in 1973. Secor found it and finished the verses 25 years later. Darius Rucker had a hit with it in 2013. After “Wagon Wheel,” as safety officers stayed glued to the weather apps on their phones, watching the storm as it approached and waiting to signal everyone to wrap it up, a few more artists hustled up to offer songs. There was time for another “only in Nashville” moment. Dennis Matkosky told the story of the song he wrote after watching a news report about a serial killer. He played it for friends and colleagues, who offered mixed reviews that all ended with some form of suggestion that he seek psychological help. Somehow a demo wound up on a movie set, where the director loved the vibe and asked the music producer, the legendary Phil Ramone, to polish it up and maybe tweak the lyrics to fit the film. Imagine that creative meeting. "We love the song, baby. But we need to fix the words. Instead of a crazed serial killer, let's say we make it about a smokin'-hot woman steelworker from Pittsburgh who dreams of being a classical ballet dancer but instead moonlights as a stripper whose signature move is sitting in a chair getting drenched by water than jumping up and dancing like a, well, you know what I mean." Chris Farley's truncated "Tommy Boy" version may be how younger folks know "Maniac." But Matkosky's song - performer Michael Sambella worked to change the lyrics for the film, earning a co-writing credit - sold more than 20 million copies on the soundtrack of the 1983 movie "Flashdance." Just a brief pause here for a pop culture hat tip to a movie that ushered in not one but two 80s social trends - women's leg warmers and the wet T-shirt contest. When we heard it Sunday, though, the water was merely threatening. “Y’all need to help me out with this one,” Matkosky told us, after taking his place at the keyboard. “I may have an aneurism trying to sing it.”

Not long ago a live-music-loving friend told me that the Avett Brothers were the one band he would still see over and over again. Now that I’ve finally checked them off my musical bucket list, I know why. The Avetts rock hard, which is a weird thing to say about a banjo, stand-up bass, acoustic guitar, cello, and fiddle all swirling around the bluegrassy brother harmonies of Scott and Seth Avett. But it’s true, even outdoors, 90 minutes south and east of Nashville, on an unseasonably cold night for Middle Tennessee in April. I once heard someone describe the sound as “hand-made,” which fits. The songs range from clever to lovely to sad to profound, but all seem personal and from the heart. And they feature beautiful, layered harmonies and mostly acoustic instruments. Bass player Bob Crawford is playing an electric bass in the photo above, but he mostly plays an acoustic stand-up. Likewise Seth Avett will sometimes throw on an electric guitar, but he mostly strums the classic Martin D-35 shown here. And, yes, Joe Kwon has a strap that allows him to play his cello standing up. He explains how that started here. But I digress. I’ve seen them called folk rockers, which seems about right. But a quick perusal of their bio on their website reveals that the first goal of the band was rock stardom. That makes sense when you see them live. They move easily between sweet strummers and foot stompers. Mostly what they do is play with passion. They commit to the songs in a way that makes you want to pay attention. Their first song of the evening was a microcosm of the show. "Laundry Room" is a pleasant reflection on young love that starts off slow with Scott Avett's clear baritone. (Full disclosure: I don't know what the hell I'm talking about when I say "baritone." I looked it up on the internet, which told me that "Scott Avett sings baritone." What I know is that both he and his brother somehow manage to sing with that southern hillbilly thinness - they are from North Carolina - and a kind of a gospelly power.) Most of the song is a pleasant melody with romantic lyrics, occasionally sung with both brothers doubling, or with one responding to the other. Last night I dreamt the whole night long I woke with a head full of songs I spent the whole day I wrote 'em down, but it's a shame Tonight I'll burn the lyrics 'Cause every chorus was your name The song builds and by the end is rocking pretty hard. The audience even knew when they were about to hit the gas, clapping and rising with the band. Here's the video, which also shows you have cold it was. (Was I able to find video from the show we attended within hours of when we attended? Of course I was. Those YouTube camera crews are everywhere!) The Avetts are perhaps best known for “I And Love And You,” which you might recognize from the chorus: “Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in.” A classic "leaving" song in the tradition of Guy Clark's "LA Freeway, it starts with the simple facts. "Load the car and write the note Grab your bag and grab your coat Tell the ones that need to know We are headed north" By the end of the song, you maybe know why. “Three words that became hard to say I and love and you.” It is repeated three times at the very end, the last sung with no accompaniment. At our show Scott Avett stepped back from the microphone for the final repetition, allowing 5,000 or so of us to sing it ourselves. It was a very nice live moment. I’d heard about the Avetts for years, through friends and on the radio. But I put them on my must-see list after watching the documentary “May it Last: A Portrait of the Avett Brothers.” I had tickets to see them just over a year ago, but had to pass because of a family emergency. Indeed, my discovery of them tracks with a difficult two years in which I lost my father and then my mother, and also my father-in-law. This may explain why their final song of the night is my favorite. "No Hard Feelings" stares into the abyss, first with a series of questions. "When my body won't hold me anymore And it finally lets me free Will I be ready? When my feet won't walk another mile And my lips give their last kiss goodbye Will my hands be steady When I lay down my fears, my hopes, and my doubts The rings on my fingers, and the keys to my house With no hard feelings?" It resolves with a simple answer. "Under the curving sky I'm finally learning why It matters for me and you To say it and mean it too For life and its loveliness And all of its ugliness Good as it's been to me I have no enemies. I have no enemies. I have no enemies. I have no enemies." Do yourself a favor and see this band.

Any night you find yourself standing 15 feet from a harmony-singing Emmylou Harris is a good night. The show was Aoife O’Donovan at the Basement East in Nashville, singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Nebraska” song for song. I’ve always loved the album, and Mary was game enough. I’d heard of O’Donovan – her first name is pronounced “EE-fuh” – and associated her with lovely harmonies, which was intriguing given the bleak texture of “Nebraska.” It turns out it was a Covid thing – an album O’Donovan always loved that she decided to perform and live-stream from home during the pandemic. Such was the response that a vinyl version was cut, a tour was planned, and there we stood Sunday night. Springsteen’s sixth album was released in 1982, after “The River” and before he exploded from stardom to global super-stardom with “Born in the U.S.A” in 1984. It was recorded by Bruce himself, at home on a four-track machine, meant to be a demo for the E Street Band to learn the songs. They worked on it. And the "Electric Nebraska" sessions are now a coveted bootleg in the Springsteen underground. But Bruce decided to release the demo as is - literally taking a cassette tape he'd been carrying around in his pocket without a case and turning it over to the engineers. Count me among the many who consider it a masterpiece. As we now know from many interviews and his rightfully acclaimed memoir, “Born to Run,” Springsteen was tortured by his own relationship with his depressed and emotionally distant father, and by his guilt at avoiding the Vietnam war while so many of his contemporaries served and suffered. You can hear these themes throughout his early recordings, especially “Darkness on the Edge of Town” and “The River.” They hit you over the head in “Nebraska,” a 10-song catalogue of dark characters in dark settings looking for redemption and forgiveness. I was a little worried that O’Donovan would put more of an emphasis on “making the album her own,” as artists often do, with mixed results. Her opening act, The Westerlies, didn’t assuage this fear. They are a brilliant, artsy, brass quartet and did a great set. But it wasn’t exactly the set-up you expect for “Nebraska.” Westerlies trombonist Willem de Koch admitted as much, describing a heckler from an earlier show in Chicago who, as a beautiful final brass chord hung in the air, could be heard to say: “I didn’t pay to hear this shit.” (Let the record show the Westerlies were great. Just not what we expected.) But O’Donovan soon emerged with a guitar over her shoulder onto a stage that contained one microphone and one stool. So it looked like she would at least honor the sparseness of the original recording. She talked briefly about her love for “Nebraska,” which was recorded the year she was born. “I first heard it sitting in the back seat of my dad’s car and I was terrified,” she told the crowd. “I was terrified of the New Jersey Turnpike!” Then she told us to “buckle up,” and strummed her way into the ominous lyrics of the first song. I saw her standing on her front lawn just a twirlin’ her baton Me and her went for a ride, and 10 innocent people died The eponymous first track on the album is based on the true story of 19-year-old spree killer Charles Starkweather, and his 14-year-old girlfriend Caril Ann Fugate. Bruce sets the tone for much of the album with the last line of the song, in the voice of Starkweather. They wanted to know why I did what I did Well, sir, I guess there's just a meanness in this world What I liked was that O’Donovan didn’t just try to imitate Bruce, nor did she try too hard to differentiate her versions. She simply performed the songs with passion and commitment, in a beautiful, strong voice. It brought them to life. One highlight was “Highway Patrolman,” which she said she considers the centerpiece of the album. It tells the story of two brothers, one a troubled Vietnam veteran and the other a police officer who avoided the draft because of a farm deferment. It ends with one brother running from the other after a deadly bar fight. The "good" brother finally pulls over his police car and watches the taillights disappear. You could say, as O'Donovan did, that it's about "the power of family." But it's really about atonement, and the pain of scrubbing away at a guilty stain that won't come out. One of my favorite songs on the album is “Used Cars,” the retelling of a child’s shame at his family’s poverty. O’Donovan brought out her friend Sarah Jarosz - also one of her partners in the band I'm With Her - to sing it with her. Now, my ma, she fingers her wedding band And watches the salesman stare at my old man’s hands He's tellin’ us all about the break he’d give us If he could but he just can’t Well if I could, I swear I know just what I’d do Well mister the day the lottery I win I ain’t never gonna ride in no used car again O'Donovan and Jarosz are a beautiful combination. You should check out their other work. The real highlight, though, was when O’Donovan brought out Emmylou. It's not the first show we've been to where Harris, who lives in Nashville, has been called out for a song. O’Donovan called her version of “My Father’s House” her favorite of the many covers of Nebraska songs, and the crowd gasped, then erupted when she walked out. “Only in Nashville,” I heard a woman say behind me. The song first retells a dream of struggling through thick brush to reach “my father’s house,” and falling into his arms. The narrator then wakes and visits the real house, only to be told “no one by that name lives here anymore." Harris’ deep harmony anchored the somber final verse. My father’s house shines hard and bright It stands like a beacon calling me in the night Calling and calling, so cold and alone Shining across the dark highway, where our sins lie unatoned It's a bleak song, but thankfully not the last on the album. And O'Donovan brought back Jarosz as well as the Westerlies for an uplifting rendition of "Reason to Believe." Not to be confused with Rod Stewart's version, it seems to be Springsteen wondering, with a wry smile, how people are hopeful after all the things he's just been singing about. Struck me kind a funny Funny, yeah, indeed How at the end of every hard-earned day People find some reason to believe

We rolled up onto a bridge curving high over the interstate and I looked out at flatness as far as the eye could see, stretched taught under a pure blue sky. “Is this the highest point in Lubbock?” I asked with a chuckle. My traveling companions laughed as well. “Actually,” our driver responded after a moment, “it might be.” Don’t let the flatness fool you. Lubbock is one of those smaller cities that are hanging on and maybe even coming back – the kind of place you like to root for and are lucky to visit, if only for a few days. There’s a lively restaurant and arts scene, fueled by the students and faculty at Texas Tech. There’s a big new performing arts center that would make a much larger city proud. And there is that ultimate hipster adornment for the modern mid-sized metropolis – a thriving craft beer scene. And there is decent wine. I’m not talking about the sweet stuff you expect when you come across a winery in a place where you don’t expect a winery to be. “Texas High Plains” is a real AVA. And while they do make plenty of the six-bucks-a-bottle fruity stuff, a wine-writer friend from California assured me what my tastebuds suspected - several of the vineyards here are doing some very interesting and creative things. James Beard Awards don’t get thrown around lightly. And Kim McPherson, owner of McPherson Cellars, has been nominated twice. Hold on, though. I’ve taken far too long to mention Buddy Holly, who spent most of his too-short life right here. You can’t miss it the Buddy Holly Museum, thanks to the large sculpture of the trademark chunky black glasses that define the “Buddy Holly look”, which younger folks might confuse with the “Elvis Costello look.” Holly was killed at the age of 23 in a plane crash that also took Richie Valens and the Big Bopper, an event immortalized in the Don McLean song as “the day the music died.” The museum is small but well-curated. You can gaze on Holly’s Fender Stratocaster – a sacred relic to guitar nerds – as well as stage outfits, photos, and an informative short film. I knew that Holly was ahead of his time. Now I know why. His first recording session was under the over-producing thumb of Nashville’s Owen Bradley, who churned out orchestrated country hits. Holly had already opened for Elvis and Bill Haley, and wanted a stripped down sound. He is credited with pioneering the two-guitars, bass, and drums lineup. Most towns this size have at least a few decent restaurants. I was pleasantly surprised by the three that we tried. La Diosa is a warm Spanish bistro with a wine-list worthy of owner Sylvia McPherson’s husband Kim’s skills as a winemaker. Nicolett is another excellent option, as is Dirks. For breakfast, try the Cast Iron Grill. Lubbock is home to several craft breweries, including Brewery LBK, Mano Negro Brewing Co., and the Auld Brewing Company. But we tried Good Line Beer Co, where co-owner Sean Phillips explained that all the beers are named after “good lines” from songs, which made me want to order a pint and try and think up some beer names. I particularly liked the Floating in Space pale ale, though David Bowie never seemed like much of a beer drinker to me. When I saw that the “public art of Texas Tech” was one of the things to see in Lubbock, I’m embarrassed to say that my New England snootiness reared its head. My taste in public art leans toward looming statues of historic figures and action poses of popular athletes at ballparks. When I hear “public art” I think of giant steel beams scattered in meaningless random shapes into a piece called, say, "Tension." Let's just say that I was extremely wrong about the public art of Texas Tech, which is outstanding and worth the visit. The trick is that the school long ago decided to set aside one percent of new-building construction costs for art. This has allowed them to commission striking works that make you want to stop and look. With an enrollment of more than 36,000 on the aforementioned Lubbock flatness, the art keeps the sprawling campus from feeling too, well, sprawly. Well done, Texas Tech! Back in downtown, there is also the Charles Adams Studio Project, a privately-owned non-profit determined to help local artists by offering studio space and connections with other artists and galleries. There is a monthly event called the Friday Night Art Trail, which we were lucky to be there for. Hundreds of locals wandered through several blocks of studios and table displays, and to sample food-truck fare and excellent live music. Events like this can sometimes feel strained, as if local leaders have to beg folks to attend. This one felt robust - a well-attended community event enjoyed by a wide variety of people. Geography buffs will also marvel at the pure flatness of the landscape around Lubbock. It sits at an altitude of 3,000 feet, atop the Llano Estocado. One of the largest mesas or tablelands in North America, it covers much of West Texas and the eastern part of New Mexico. We stayed at the Cotton Court Hotel, which is part of a growing, Texas-based chain that is building in college towns. Taking a cue from the once thriving cotton markets of Lubbock, it is built to resemble an old mill. The rooms are comfortable, but the real appeal is a large courtyard, scattered with firepits and outdoor games. Most Southwestern road trippers pass through west Texas in Amarillo, following the path of the old Route 66. Lubbock is a bit of a harder sell. But if you find yourself here, even passing through, give yourself a day or two.

Two days in Florence, birthplace of the so-called Renaissance, and an extra day in Rome visiting St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican, led to some excellent questions from my wife and partner in travel. “Who are our Medicis?” she asked. “Who is our Michelangelo? What will we be remembered for?” It's sobering, especially when the first thing that comes to mind is global warming. But hey, now that I think of it, maybe there will be no one to remember us. These are the kind of thoughts you have after you first look at something as beautiful as Michelangelo’s David, which I truly was not ready for. I'd slotted it into the “check mark” category – something you have to see but you aren’t sure why. It’s a bloody statue that we’ve all seen pictures of. How great could it be? It took my breath away. That’s how great. I’d say it was the perfect human form, but it isn’t quite perfect. The head is a little too big because it was originally planned for the top of The Duomo, hundreds of feet off the ground. Maybe it is the tension – the rock in one hand and the sling in the other, the stance relaxed but on the verge of action, ready to slay the giant. (David killing the giant with a sling-shot was my favorite bible story as a boy.) At the end of the day, David does what great art does. It commands your attention. You walk around it as if looking for flaws. But you are really just looking to see how perfect it is. The act of looking at it gives you pleasure. The effect is heightened by the presence of five unfinished statues in the hall leading up to David. Known as “The Prisoners,” they are all in different stages of emerging from the stone. You think about Michelangelo saying that he did not create the statues, he revealed what was inside the rock. You look at them and it makes you appreciate the craft, the patience, the endless chiseling and polishing. You think: “Even these unfinished things are amazing.” Then you once again look toward the end of the hall, at David, and you catch your breath and think: “But that …” A quick word about Florence: We loved it. If Rome is Italy’s capital city, Florence is its capital town, with a city center that is much more manageable in size. While the Tiber River in Rome is not an especially integral part of the cityscape - it is sunken below street level, bordered by steep, high walls - the Arno in Florence is lovely to walk along, especially at night. Although the city attracts many tourists, we found ourselves less surrounded by them in restaurants, perhaps because we took the advice of our concierge, who sent us to more authentic local spots. At one restaurant, I was pleasantly distracted by the lively, gesticulating conversation of three central-casting older Italian guys at the table next to us. One of them looked very much like the late, Italian-born father of my college roommate, and I mentioned this as best I could when we were getting up to leave. They happily sat me down while Mary took a picture. And what can you say about Italian high speed rail? We got from downtown Rome to downtown Florence, a distance of about 160 miles, in 90 minutes, sitting in roomy, comfortable seats. On the way back to Rome, we were door-to-door from hotel to our Airbnb in less than two hours. Think about that next time you are sitting in traffic in a cab to any airport, where you will arrive at least an hour before your flight departs, and then fold yourself in for a flight to another edge-of-town airport followed by another stop-and-go cab ride. Allow me to join the chorus of people pointing out that it is criminal we do not have a high speed rail network in the United States. They have had it in Europe for decades. Back in Rome, we visited the Vatican, which carries a lot of baggage for a Catholic school lifer like me. At 60, I’ve drifted away from the church, mostly because of the things that have been done by the people running it. But I’ve always found some solace in the act of being in church, probably because it makes me think of so many people I love and miss, starting with my parents. They were both devout liberals and devout Catholics – a paradox many people don’t understand, though I do. (Hint: Be like Jesus.) Earlier in our travels I learned that the Vatican didn’t become what it is today – an independent country in the middle of the Italian capital – until 1929. Before 1870, Popes acted as governors for various parts of Italy known as the Papal States. When the country of Italy emerged, the Popes hid out in the Vatican, unable to come to any agreement with the new leaders. Then came Benito Mussolini, the fascist dictator. Apparently he was the guy the Popes could deal with, so a treaty was signed and the Vatican as we know it came to be - just in time for the Vatican to remain strictly neutral during World War II. “Seems about right,” I thought, after a guide explained this chain of events. St. Peter’s Basilica, as all Catholics know, is on the very spot where St. Peter was crucified by the Romans. Peter is considered the first Pope, and an earlier church was on the spot until the 1500s, when Catholics built the much flashier St. Peter’s. It is breathtaking, like the David, but in a different way. The most overwhelming thing is the size, with every available spot filled with magnificent, larger-than-life art. Not surprisingly, the most stunning works are from Michelangelo. The first is the magnificent dome, modeled after the Pantheon a few miles away. (Hat tip to the Romans, who build theirs 1,500 years earlier.) And there is the Pieta, Michelangelo's statue of the crucified Jesus in the arms of his mother, Mary. A mother’s pain and sorrow are somehow communicated perfectly in chiseled stone. You look at it and you can feel his dead weight, and her sadness. Whatever I may think about the sins of the leaders of the Catholic church, there is no doubt that they knew how to make lasting, beautiful things. Which takes us back to the original question posed by Mary. (My wife, Mary. Not Jesus’ mom.) What is our generation creating? Who are the people making the things we will be remembered for?" “I hate to say it,” she said. “But it’s probably the tech people.” I shook my head in disgust, thinking of Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg. As will happen after 27 years of marriage and a month together on the road, she seemed to know what I was thinking. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. After them it’s just a bunch of fucking babies.” (Author's note: When Mary read this draft, she asked if I was going use "that exact word" at the end. I said I was, and prepared to defend myself. "Good," she said.) (Author's second note: For those of you wondering about the slightly snarky use of the term "so-called" before Renaissance, I am merely being mindful of our next stop - Istanbul - and my Western European-centric view of the world, which I hope to work on.) Check out our other travel stories here.

I’m not gonna lie. We went to Amanda Shires record release show because we’re shameless Jason Isbell groupies and we thought it would be a cool Nashville scene. Yes, he was there. (Shires is married to him, if you don’t know. They are kind of the Tammy Wynette and George Jones of the Americana/alt-country scene here. And we actually had a lovely conversation with his dad!) But we walked out the door at the end of the show talking about Shires and her songs. “Take It Like a Man,” out today, is her first new album since 2018. There apparently was some pain and tension in the Shires-Isbell household during Covid. We know because she sang it to a few hundred of us at Jack White’s Blue Room Thursday. “Fault Lines,” which she introduced ironically as a “light-hearted little ditty,” is an anticipation of who will take the blame when a marriage of two famous people – one of them perhaps a bit more famous - collapses. There’s nothing left to fix You can say I lost my grip Say whatever feels better or whatever You can just say I’m crazy You can say it’s all my fault We just couldn’t get along And so you know I’ll say I don’t know But no one’s gonna be asking me “Everything on the record is autobiographical. I didn’t hold anything back,” Shires said in press notes with the album release. In an excellent article in the Nashville Scene earlier this week, journalist Lorie Liebig, who interviewed Shires, explained the situation in more detail. Shires, apparently, had all but given up on her recording career during Covid, locked down with a husband and young child and exploring painting. Although she’s garnered praise for several earlier albums, and for her work with the alt-country super group The Highwomen, Shires was frustrated by poor results in the studio. And there were bumps in the marriage. “Shires and her husband Jason Isbell hunkered down at home as lockdowns were put into effect across the globe," Liebig wrote. "She mourned the loss of close friend and legendary songwriter John Prine, who died from COVID complications in April 2020, and juggled the daily responsibilities and stresses of motherhood, all while trying to work through marital issues.“ I won’t presume to know anything about the current state of their marriage. But I can tell you that Isbell is credited with playing guitar on all but two of the songs on the album, and co-wrote one of them. And, at the record-release show, he was standing just off stage, holding their 6-year-old daughter, Mercy, on his shoulders. She wore a mask and headphones. But the two of them cheered enthusiastically – he in his distinctive Alabama tenor – after each song. Shires also had a moment Thursday night with Brittany Spencer, who joined her for "Bad Behavior," as she did on the album. Another show highlight a song - I say it was "Take It Like a Man." My wife says it was "Hawk For the Dove" - which took Shires and the band into a surging jam. Shires told the crowd it was the kind of moment, where musicians feed off each other and the band feeds off the crowd, that she strives for every night she plays. "Something magical happens," she said. "It takes you. It takes them. All of us together." Isbell joined her on stage for an encore, heaping praise on the show that had just wrapped up. The song they sang is an example of why both are beloved on the alt-country side of the Nashville scene – aka, the Left - where social justice causes are often front and center. “This song is very personal,” Shires said. “But it is also something we really need to be talking about right now.” They then delivered a searing rendition of “The Problem,” a beautiful song about a young woman, and her boyfriend, contemplating abortion. Although Shires appeared nervous as she took the stage to start the show, describing some butterflies as she prepared to “sing these songs in public for the first time,” she quickly slipped into a friendly and playful stage persona. And she was backed by a solid band, at times including horns and strings for particular tracks. Also joining her for one song was her daughter, whom Shires explained "wanted to come out here and dance." Together they sang and danced their way through "Don't Call Me." Perhaps indicative of the respectful Nashville crowd, I didn't see a single phone-camera out during the song, after Shires asked politely that people refrain from photographing her daughter. Shires is heading out on a three-month tour in September. You can find dates here.: Check out tours in Nashville here.

By John Carpenter (Note: This story was originally published in the Chicago Tribune on March 2, 2020. It has also been published in several other US and Irish newspapers.) I bounced the rental car slowly up the narrow, one-lane road and pulled up near the only other car in the unpaved parking area. My family and I tumbled out and looked up at the very, very long mountain path that disappeared into the cool mist. As I put on my warm coat, my brain wandered back to that lovely little pub with the smoking chimney we passed a mile or so back on the main road. My family was undaunted, however. So we started walking. What unfolded was a lovely 5-mile roundtrip trek on the Pilgrims Path at County Donegal’s Slieve League Cliffs. The soaring sea cliffs are a stunning attraction on the far northwestern tip of Ireland, near the uppermost end of an area dubbed the Wild Atlantic Way. The views of the mountains and valleys, even in the mist, were worth every step. And they made the eventual visit to the aforementioned pub all the more rewarding. Outings like this were at the top of our short list of expectations for an off-season visit to rural Ireland, when daylight is scarce and clouds and rain are plentiful. Our odd timing was driven by the desire to visit our son, wrapping up his fall semester in Dublin. But there’s a certain beauty in visiting a place that is beautiful no matter when you go. Each of our four days in the counties of Donegal, Sligo and Mayo included plenty of fresh air and walking — pursuits rewarded with comfortable chairs, warm fires and equally warming beverages. Would we have seen more and done more if we’d been there in August? Probably. But I bet we would have also spent more time checking off “must-see” boxes, and less time checking in with each other — easier to do on a long, uncrowded walk or in a quiet pub. Accommodations are key in off-season travel, when you long for more than just a clean room at the end of a long day. We wanted places we could settle into. Rathmullan House in Donegal was an easy choice for our first stop. My wife and I stayed here on our inaugural vacation as a couple more than 25 years ago, before we were married. It’s always nice to revisit a place that reminds you of falling in love. The old inn has aged well. Instead of a sprawling, American-style lobby, the public areas consist of a series of small living rooms, most with a well-tended fire, and one with a well- tended bar. After a bracing walk along the waters of nearby Lough Swilly, we freshened up and hunkered down for a relaxing drink by the fire. It was a new parental experience in a country with a drinking age of 18. My 20-year-old son and I sipped a Yellow Spot Irish whiskey, a magnificent discovery for me. And my 17-year-old daughter had her first half-pint of Guinness, gamely turning down the offer of “a wee drop of black courant” to ease the taste. (We were told she could imbibe as long as she was with her parents.) Rathmullan House’s Cook & Gardner restaurant offered a delicious first meal. With the glacial fjord of Lough Swilly just outside the window, we all went heavy on the fish offerings and weren’t disappointed. My early morning walk the next day, while the family slept, was another quiet pleasure. A short path through a stand of woods left me alone on a vast beach at low tide. It’s a popular place for horseback riding. I waited to see if some riders might thunder past on the firm sand, as they did on our visit 25 years earlier. But none came. After a few deep breaths of cool sea air, I wandered back to the hotel for the first of what would be four consecutive “full Irish breakfasts.” My plate was covered with a fried egg, two “bangers” (sausage links), two pieces of Irish bacon (resembling ham more than our traditional strips), one portobello mushroom, a tomato and the obligatory and mysterious white and black “puddings” — sausages made from pork blood, oatmeal and other spices. Breakfast complete, we headed back to the cliffs of Slieve League. While our earlier hike up Pilgrims Path ended in a veil of mist, intelligence gathered afterward at The Rusty Mackerel pub in Teelin pointed us to an alternate route that culminated with a short walk to the top of the cliffs. We took in spectacular views from a perch nearly three times higher than the venerable and more-visited Cliffs of Moher a few hours south down the coast. The next stop was the relatively new Ice House hotel in Ballina. My wife, who has a New Age streak, discovered it in Ireland’s Blue Book of country house hotels, castles and the like. She was drawn to its spa. I was sold on its waterside location and restaurant reviews. Many rooms, ours included, have balconies a few feet from the River Moy. With rain in the forecast and our son back in Dublin for classes, wife and daughter decided on a local hike followed by quality spa time. I fired up the rental car and headed along the ocean road south toward Westport. Devotees of the legendary Chieftains flutist Matt Molloy make pilgrimages to this picturesque village to visit his eponymous pub, a venue for traditional Irish music seven nights a week. It being the morning, I settled for a walk around town and stumbled upon West Coast Rare Books, a wonderful little shop that I did not leave empty-handed. The Wild Atlantic Way is a tourist-attraction name, to be sure, meant to draw visitors west from Dublin and get them to explore beyond the scenic Ring of Kerry in the southwest corner of the island. Spanning 1,500 miles of roads along the country’s West Coast, the area lives up to its wild name. The land is rugged and hilly, alternating between unspoiled fields of heather and thornbush and neatly walled patches of farms, all scattered with roaming sheep. Even on a solitary drive on a cloudy day, it’s a road with views that command you to stop, as I did many times. That night at dinner, the Ice House restaurant was further proof that Ireland has long since shed its reputation for mediocre, boiled-to-oblivion food. My seared hake was outstanding, and my wife and daughter raved about their locally sourced salmon. Afterward we enjoyed another friendly pub in the hotel, teaching my daughter that drinking in Ireland is less about the quantity and more about the quality of conversation. As if on cue the next day, rain started as we left the Wild Atlantic Way on our drive back to big-city Dublin. Our trip was a welcome reminder that while Ireland has modernized since the heady Celtic Tiger economic boom of the ’90s and early 2000s, it’s still a place with vast, beautiful landscapes best enjoyed on foot. Check out our other travel stories here. #Mayo #WildAtlanticWay #IceHouse #RathmullenHouse #Ireland #Donegal