Knoxville: Summer 2009

I looked out over our fair city and thought about James Agee.

We were up in the Sunsphere, from the vantage point of the observation deck, and I remembered his lyrical "Knoxville: Summer 1915." I wondered what it looked like nearly 100 years ago. And, I tried to make my peace with this place, to which I have this love-hate relationship.

It looks so beautiful at night, the dimming light mixing with the glow from the houses and places of business. We pointed out the L&N, a ghost from a bygone era; Neyland Stadium, where I've wasted a lot of needless energy rooting for that blasted team; the old UAB building with its glass windows and, finally, to the river that flows through Knoxville town. Shades of the Louvin Brothers.

It was pretty and it was romantic and it was a perfect way to spend a perfect Friday night.

So it is in the Old City, in that eccentric old warehouse that is often my end of the weekend haunt. I will be there tonight. Robin is off, but her ex is filling in, and he's pretty darn good, too.

The place is marred by some signs of decay, by the panhandlers roaming the streets, by the occasional belligerent drunk. But, I like it on lazy Sunday nights. Plus, I'd walk a country mile to hear Robinella.

But, on this night, I drank a particularly good Porter, and enjoyed particularly good conversation with an old friend I hadn't seen in a mess of Friday nights.

And from the fourth floor of what used to be irreverently called Jake Butcher's Erection, I gazed upon our fair hamlet and was glad to notice that summer nights in Knoxville can still be poetic and lyrical, even if James Agee is no longer around to write it.

'These dreams of mine'

I honestly don't think she knows how good she is.

Sat at the bar tonight. Hadn't planned on coming, but I didn't want to go home. And somehow, for some reason, I just needed to hear her sing. Maybe it was that terrible shooting, I don't know. I just felt like I should be here.

So I sat at the bar, watched the girls, talked to Mike, who's here all the time, and to Andrea, who came later. Robinella did her thing, as she always does, the beauty of a thousand summer sunsets encapsulated in that voice.

Andrea wanted to hear "Dress Me Up, Dress Me Down," so Mike asked for it. Robin sang "Left, Right, Back, Together" and I swayed to and fro, amazed that someone this talented lives right here in our neck of the woods.

"You know, Mike," I said, "I've paid $65 to see people sing before, and here I pay 5 bucks. I feel like I'm ripping her off."

Mike nodded. I lost myself in the beauty of Robin's voice.

Wanted to hear something sad, so I walked up to ask her to sing one of her originals, "These Dreams of Mine."

"So are we going to sing tonight, or what?" she says.

I grin, absolutely amazed, and say, "Well, yeah, if you want to."

So we did. I had to pinch myself, still unable to believe I am on the same stage with this kind of talent.

After "Amanda," she sang my song, and I floated away somewhere, that place to which I always ascend when she makes her music. I tried, as always, to stop time, but it ended, as it must.

I walked out into the summer night, thanking God for bringing this special soul into our midst, for giving her the voice of an angel.

Thanks again, Robin. You're the best.

A clean, well-lighted place

Often, when I duck into Barley's on Sunday nights, I think about Hemingway.

Well, let me back up. I don't think so much about Papa himself, but rather about his short story "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place."

I've always loved that piece. Hemingway was at his best in the short story format. His tough, terse prose lends itself to it.

I often encounter a few seemingly lonely people, sitting at the corner of the bar, taking in the music. Sometimes I wonder about their lives, who they are, where they're headed. And, like the old man drinking his brandy, I too am warmed by it all.

Oh, of course a big part of that is Robinella, I know that. She was in rare form last night. I swear, she sings those sad songs better than anybody. I felt sorry for the folks who left to see Tom Waite. They missed the show.

Got to sing Don Williams' "Amanda" with her again. Made me feel like a million bucks.

Andrea, Chris and Drew took in the show, too. The conversation was good; it warmed the night.

When I got home, I pulled Hemingway off the shelf and read about the old man drinking his brandy. And I thought about how special it is to forget about life for a couple of hours, enjoy the company of friends and hear an angelic voice create her art up on the stage.

But, you see, that's what often happens on Sunday nights, in the Old City, at a clean, well-lighted place.

Now I'm crowdin' 30 (and still wearin' jeans...)

Wow.

That's an understatement I know, but it would take the talent of Shakespeare to describe how wonderful it all was last night at Barley's. Best birthday I've ever had.

Been a little ambiguous about turning 30. Just because, you know? But with the new condo and everything, uncertainty has given way to anticipation.

Then last night I celebrated early with my best pals at Barley's, which of course on Sunday nights means RobinElla. If you haven't yet caught her set, rearrange your schedule and do so soon. Very soon. Cause she's just so darn good, folks.

The best part? Well, it's hard to say. Don Williams' "Listen to the Radio" is always a favorite. Robin soars on Merle Haggard's "Natural High" and touches your heart on the weepers "Anymore" and "These Dreams of Mine."

But my favorite had to be "Teardrops," hands down the best song I've ever heard, especially when Robin dedicated it to one of her biggest fans for his birthday. I still haven't come down from way up there in the ether somewhere.

Life is good, folks. This precious, wonderful, crazy roller coaster ride contains such joy, divinely simple moments that make you glad to be alive. I couldn't have scripted a better night if I had written it myself.

Here, let me sing these lyrics while I still can, but don't let the melancholy fool ya. Turning 30 will be OK. This party's just getting started.

I'm leaving the last word to Don Williams...

I got my first guitar when I was 14, now I'm crowdin' 30, and still wearin' jeans...

Out of sync

NASHVILLE -- The thing that strikes you, after a few minutes, is the absence of a band.

No noise to make during time outs. No "Rocky Top." (Which, upon reflection, may be a blessing.) In short, an NFL game can be mighty boring, especially when Vince Young and the offense are out of sync.

My mind wanders as I look around the stadium. It's a big place. Don't think I've seen thousands of people this quiet since that Florida debacle back in '94. I've forgotten the score. All I remember is the Vols didn't ever find the end zone.

I'm restless. Don't care much about the game.

The guy beside me is a friendly enough fella. So we chat. But he's all into the Titans and doesn't talk much. At the end of the day, when Jacksonville clasps victory firmly in its grasp, this fella looks like he's lost his best friend. I say good-bye, tell him we have to drive back to Knoxville, pat him on the back, see you later.

Nobody's on the road as the sun sets on the colors of autumn. We get back in time for supper and tunes at Barley's.

But, guess what? Even "Listen to the Radio" and "These Dreams of Mine" can't shake me from this spell. When the sweet sounds of RobinElla can't cure what ails you, something's up indeed.

I'd like to tell you she's the last song I heard tonight. Either Robin and "Mistakes" or Frank Sinatra and the losers on the iPod during the 15 minute jaunt home.

But, no. Something else shuts my thoughts down tonight. And, as incredulous as it seems, the song seems to fit, the one thing that makes sense on an otherwise out of sorts kind of day.

How do you keep the music playing/How do you make it last???

Pure, simple, sincere joy

If, in the course of human events, all of my dreams turn to smoke and life falls completely apart, I can say that I once had a perfect night.

It was one of those moments when the moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter aligned with Mars. The words and the music --- yeah, it all came together. And the disappointments of a lifetime, the heartache and the lies and the unkept promises, none of that mattered.

I don't know much about anything. I don't understand why little boys have to die on their way to Friday night football. It blows my mind why anybody would ever try to break another's heart. I simply can't figure out why you love somebody with all your being and that just doesn't seem to be enough.

Call me naive; I don't care. If I don't wear my heart on my sleeve, I'm not being honest with you. And that's the worst sin I could commit.

Dean and Ally and I ducked into Barley's about quarter of 7 tonight. I didn't care about Boomsday. What have you gained by watching a ton of fireworks explode anytime other than our nation's birthday?

I'm not knocking it. If you love it, more power to ya.

Anyway. I ordered a Carolina Blonde and had to wait on it and my pizza. Dean and Ally had Southwest wraps. Jaci was supposed to be here, but she had to head home. I just hope she's safe.

Robin showed up about 7:30 and started singin' about 8:15. I promised myself I wouldn't request a song. I don't want to mess up an artist's set list. Didn't want to be some jackass.

But I couldn't help myself.

"Sing 'Teardrops,'" I yelled.

She did.

I held back the tears and fought the sadness that wrapped its way into my throat. It's been a rough week. I won't lie.

But somewhere in that song, buried amid that talented dude's wailing steel guitar, and Robin's beautiful voice, lies one hell of a powerful truth.

I can't explain it. It's like that with music, or movies, Hemingway's prose or a beautiful woman's eyes. The feelings just happen. It's magical. It's wonderful. It's real.

I think I know why. It's the vulnerable honesty that lies between the lyrics of a line like "Love me for all that I lack." That's a sincere pleading we all can understand, if we tell the truth to ourselves.

I don't want the night to end. But of course, like all the others, it does.

Seems like I'm only happy anymore when I'm writing. Or watching baseball. Or listening to Robin sing.

I just hope she knows how special her talent is. How thankful I am she's here to brighten up the lonely night.

I hope she knows that she once gave a fan something more precious than silver or gold.

She gave her talent. Her voice carried me high and far, fast and strong on that silver eagle, rolling through the night.

When she sings, it's all so simple. There is a God in heaven. Two plus two equals four. Nice guys finish first. Evil is punished.

And for once, for one beautiful shining moment, I feel nothing but pure, simple, sincere joy.

Thanks, Robin.

Drowning my soul

I know I won't make it if you don't love back, please love me for all that I lack..

OK, I admit it.

I cheated.

Couldn't help it. I love this girl's voice; I love this song even more.

If you know me well, you know of whom I speak. Yes, it was Sunday night. Yes, that means Barley's and RobinElla.

Once or twice in our lives, if we're blessed, or fortunate, or just plain lucky, a song comes along that plants itself smack dab in the middle of your soul. It touches you in a place that only the stars in their courses can possibly understand. It makes you forget about life and death, love and hate, heaven and hell and how the weather was.

All that matters is you, the singer, the moment, and the song.

For me, the singer is RobinElla. The moment was at Barley's, a Sunday night several moons ago. The song is "Teardrops."

Funny how my teardrops don't make a sound, when they roll down my cheeks, and they fall to the ground...

We ducked into my favorite joint a little after 7. It was muggy, oppressive, one of those hot summer nights that make you wish this was Knoxville, Alaska.

I'd have been content to hear anything. But I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't have been disappointed if Robin didn't sing the song.

I couldn't bring myself to ask for it. Part of me is just shy; I admit it. The bigger part of me figures musicians get hit up for songs 24/7. I didn't want to be another jerk begging for a tune.

So I struck a deal. My sis knows no fear. I agreed to do a favor for one of her friends. She went to talk to Robin.

Robin looks up after a moment and waves at us. We wave back. My sis said later she wanted to know where our table was, and asked why we wanted to hear something so sad.

I don't have an answer for that. All I know is this song, and this singer, speaks to my soul.

See my tears in the moonlight, reflect what I'm feelin' inside...

There's something about this angel's voice that makes me wish I could land in the middle of that "Twilight Zone" episode and make time stop. Just for a moment. Just for awhile.

First time I heard her sing, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, or some such place. No, really. The music was honest, a little sweet, with a touch of sadness thrown in for the hell of it.

Tonight Robin mixes her two sets well. She jumps from country to bluegrass to funk to folk and back again with ease. I feel my spirit fly high up into the ether. It stays up there a good long while. When it hits the ground, I'm refreshed, rejuvenated, ready to head back to reality after this two hour detour.

But it's the song, man. It's the song. She sings it as if she's walked around in my heart awhile, touched its scars, felt its pain.

It's almost religious and when the moment's over I force myself to leave it behind.

Hold me, I'm fallen and I can't stand upright...

I remember the woman I can't forget.

You say that we're stuck with nowhere to go, look in my eyes and you'll know...

The memory wafts away like the ash from the cigarette the girl at the end of the bar is smoking.

Seems like I've finally drowned my soul...

It's you, the singer, the moment, and the song.