Houston, Austin and Dallas: For One Brief Shining Moment...

USA - Houston, Austin and Dallas, Texas.

I feel bad that Texas was not given a fair crack of the whip. After the emotional peaks of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, lingering doubts remained in the minds of Dean and I, as we hit the I-35W towards the Lone Star State. Texas is a large state, full of impressive metropolises and interstates, rolling in oil-based money and proud of its heritage as one of the last bastions of the frontier west, a pioneering land that today acts as one of America’s most significant political and economic republics. Much to be excited about, then, not to mention the fact that Texas is famous for good steaks, excellent music and cowboy hats. Nevertheless, as we left Louisiana behind, Dean and I questioned whether we should have moved on from Baton Rouge at all. It was trying and dare I say even emotional coming to the decision to leave, and then to stick with it, but after sound advice from old friends, the road trip remained. Westwards we travelled. A rendezvous with Dallas would be our ultimate target, but before that we had two other major urban zones in Houston and Austin to look forward to.

Houston:

Due to our indecisiveness in Baton Rouge, we did not set out for Houston until later than we would have originally anticipated. Driving through the night and across the border into Texas, we arrived at our downtown hotel dazed and tired, both in need of a good night’s rest that would, we hoped, set us in more positive spirits for a full day’s sightseeing in America’s fourth-largest city. Houston, perhaps unsurprisingly, is rather big, surrounded by freeway mergers that loop around each other in increasingly tall flyovers in a multitude of directions: more Spaghetti Western than Spaghetti Junction, but certainly confusing to navigate through, particularly with six lanes of traffic in either direction. Our trusted GPS helped us through many a tricky situation, but while satellite navigation did its job with aplomb, the weather sadly let the side down. For the first time on our trip to America we were met with genuinely poor weather. Low clouds descended over the city, a wind came in from the Gulf, and patchy rain drizzled down in a very London-esque manner, as if completely decided to be awful weather, but not totally committed to a torrential downpour. The foggy haze cut off the views of many of Houston’s skyscrapers, and prevented us mooching through the streets as had been our tradition until that point. There is, nevertheless, much to recommend about Houston, Texas. Its space heritage will be discussed later, but it also remains a major cosmopolitan conurbation, bringing together peoples of all races under the American and Texan flags. In particular, Dean and I noticed a definite rise in the Hispanic population when compared to where we had travelled to previously. This was also obvious through the main Houston cuisine, which merged meat-based Texan comfort food with traditional Mexican offerings. No surprise, then, that ‘Tex-Mex’ was created in Houston.

Determined not to let the weather get the better of us, and putting to good use our stiff British upper lips that we have naturally grown up with in London, Dean and I headed towards the Houston Museum of Fine Arts. Here, inside this sprawling building, we found countless exhibits that were genuinely informative. The Native American collection was particularly impressive, telling the story of the original settlers in this vast land, and their creeds and practices of many thousands of years. It is an area of history and society that I sadly no little about, and I was therefore pleased to be able to take the time to learn a little more. After all, the first people in America were the native races that today, in some areas, struggle to find either political acceptance or an alternative way to sustain their age-old ideology within their own communities and the nation at large. It is a sad tale, and one which must not be forgotten, lest America completely divests herself from her heritage, a vital and cogent link with the land that stretches back way beyond Britain’s role in America’s story.

Another dazzling exhibit in the Museum of Fine Arts was in the corridor of lights. This mesmerising rectangular space, with a door at either end, and shafts of laser-beamed lights criss-crossing each other at different angles, created optical illusions that made us hesitant underfoot and curious to explore further. Out came the cameras, unsurprisingly, as we took full advantage of this light show. Facebook profile pictures will no doubt follow. At the other end of the vast museum building, Dean and I were fascinated by scale models of housing developments that had been deliberately smashed to pieces on one side, and left untouched and undiminished on the other. There are, I am sure, numerous socio-political points to be made from the creation of scale-model conurbations, perhaps enforcing upon the viewer the fact that America remains fiercely divided, particularly in terms of governmental housing policy, but as a mere bystander, and indeed a foreigner, it would perhaps be out of place of me to lend too much of a critical eye to our viewing experience. Nonetheless, if you find yourself in Houston, Texas, and you fancy doing something a little different for a few hours, this museum is a must. Well spaced and signposted, it certainly helped while away the time as it rained outside.

“Houston, we have a problem.” There was no need for Dean and I to utter these words during our sojourn in this sprawling city, but it is a phrase known the world ever after immortalisation in the film ‘Apollo 13’ – the cinema account of the true story of NASA’s ill-fated 1970 lunar mission. Houston will always be synonymous with America’s space programme, and while the rockets may blast off from Cape Canaveral, Florida, mission control is most definitely in Texas. With boyish hopes of letting slip the surly bonds of earth, dancing across and above light-splintered clouds and touching, with outstretched hands through the stratospheres and the great beyond, the very face of God, Dean and I went boldly where no Radlett citizen has gone before, to the very heart, the epicentre itself, of America’s heralded space centre. Some criticise NASA for wasting money that could be spent on schools and hospitals and troops, while others simply argue that space travel is an irreverent irrelevance. Yet beyond the political infighting there remains something romantic and magical about exploring beyond the known world. President Kennedy summed it up when he explained that America would choose to go to the Moon “not because it is easy, but because it is hard” and because “the Moon is there, and the planets and the stars are there, and with them new hopes for mankind.” With these inspiring words in mind, the windscreen wipers in the Jeep moving at full speed, and the satellite navigation aimed at NASA HQ, it was one small step for man, and one giant leap for Dean and Sammy.

Which is why I am a little concerned to report that, having spent a good few hours at NASA, I am now reasonably convinced that there is more to the conspiracy theories regarding lunar fakery than meets the eye. Supposedly the main headquarters for NASA, the Space Centre seemed to lack any form of control, security, organisation, and basic management. We were waved into the $10 car-park, told we could leave the Jeep for free, and then somehow worked our way in to the centre itself without having to part with any money for a ticket. This culminated in getting aboard a monorail train that would take us through the many NASA sights, again supposedly for a nominal fee, but, in a neat twist of fate, completely free for Dean and I, ignored as we were by almost everybody in a position of authority. Our tour guides seemed bewildered, tired, haphazard, lacking much information about, for example, the mission control room, apart from to point out which seat the Queen had used when she once visited the centre. Questions on how the space shuttle works (and, to be fair, the exact replica size practice shuttle is an impressive specimen to view) were waved away with mere shrugs, and one supposedly senior NASA scientist appeared to drop his accreditation and security cards on the floor, in the middle of the viewing public, with the sort of carelessness that one would expect from a schoolboy, and not a salaried member of the world’s most pre-eminent space programme.

When it reached six o’clock, a janitor whose face resembled a skull emerged from the shadows and started shouting alarmingly loudly at small children to vacate the area and go home. It appeared to Dean and I that when this place closes for business, they mean it. “Get out!” shouted the man at Dean, who was enjoying playing with an exhibit where you can pretend to power up the lunar module all by yourself. Dean and I responded with a series of pranks and gestures across the main lobby floor of the centre, finding as much slapstick comedy out of the exhibits as possible while the janitor, always a few steps behind, desperately tried to make us, and the many screaming, shouting, crying children, leave the centre so that all the miserable employees could similarly go home and forget that they have to work there. What an odd place it was. Part awe-inspiring, part ridiculous; occasionally fascinating, often bewildering, and most definitely, for Dean and I at any rate, completely free of charge.

Please do not let this put you off visiting Houston, a city with real cultural appeal, big steaks and a cosmopolitan mix of interesting people. It’s just that for some reason the people at NASA had obviously not heard Kennedy’s speech, or familiarised themselves with why space exploration is important and exciting and wonderful, and why Houston is lucky to have the space centre in its environs. Perhaps Sam Seaborn from the television series ‘The West Wing’ sums that up better than I can:

“Because we came out of a cave and we made fire. We put wheels on the ground, ships on the sea, and planes in the sky; we gazed up at the heavens. The history of man is hung on a timeline of exploration. And this is what’s next.”

Austin:

We drove through the night from Houston to Austin, the state capital of Texas, and noticed the weather stat to clear as we made our way west. Arriving late at the motel, a decent sleep was in order before exploring this beautiful town over the course of the next day.

The next morning was bright and sunny, a return to form after the singular aberration of the previous day’s rain and gales. Throughout our trip to the United States, neither of us were particularly homesick. I had been concerned about missing Spurs matches, but thanks to the wonders of Fox Soccer Channel had actually managed to see more of my beloved side than I would have done in London. However, that Sunday morning in Austin made me miss home more than at any point on our trip thusfar. Why? Because Spurs had decided to wait for me to go to America before scoring a sensational nine goals in one game. Yes, I watched it. Yes, I was beyond elated. Nonetheless, when your team wins 9-1 you really do want to be there in person.

Still, if there is a way to put English football to the back of one’s mind it is to travel around a new city, and Austin duly obliged, with its tree-lined roads, impressive civic buildings, well-kept parklands and squares, and imposing state structures, including the state Capitol Building. Texas is, of-course, a large and important state, both politically and economically, and duly has an administrative and governmental building befitting the state’s role within the nation. With a domed roof and columned front, at the end of a long boulevard that itself is lined with statues and sculptures, flowers and well-spaced oak trees, the Capital Building can be seen for some distance around. The dome roof itself is particularly attractive, and inside a painted mural across the ceiling helps cement the fact that Texans are proud of their state and heritage, and are happy to display the state’s history in its central building. Large scale prints and paintings adorn the walls, featuring battle scenes, local politicians and frontiersmen at work: the men and moments that helped sculpt and form the republic of Texas, from Native Americans to the Spanish, the French, the British and then the revolutionaries, the pioneers, the oil men. Politically, we may be far removed from the sensibilities of Texan attitudes (though perhaps not so much in the major city centres), but there is no denying that they are proud of their ideals and culture, and the state’s standing as a key electoral battleground. We may rudely and disproportionately scoff at the politicking of Texas’s most famous son, President George W. Bush, a former Governor of Texas also, but he and his father (not to mention President Lyndon B. Johnson also) illustrate the power this state can have if you achieve high office here first.

Across from the state governmental buildings is the University of Texas campus – beautifully crafted and laid out, with its own mock Roman buildings and centres, glorious palm trees and finely cut grass quadrants, around which book stores and coffee shops lend a sense of organised bohemia to the otherwise Deep South sensibilities of the rest of the citizenry. Feeling at home amongst the scenery and the sunshine, Dean and I relaxed in a roadside café, dipping in and out of the New York Times Sunday supplement, planning the evening ahead, and enjoying a short interlude to our walking tour of the town.

By nightfall we were ready to head downtown. After our Halloween experience in New York, the word ‘downtown’ will forever be associated with our good friend Dylan Viner’s atonal rendition of the song of the same name, and taxi cab drivers across many states will no doubt have been bemused by the jocularity which Dean and I frequently linked to it when we asked them to take us there. In Austin’s case, downtown means the famous 9th Street, and the roads off of it, where live music and food outlets line the boulevards, complete with neon lights and hard-working tradesmen attempting to escort us into their establishment above any other. Although a Sunday evening, there was still a decent vibe and Dean and I enjoyed burgers, drinks and live music in an iconic setting before the fatigue of so many weeks travelling began to catch up with us. Inevitably our attentions turned to the past few fabulous weeks, and how much we had managed to achieve during that time. We still had Dallas to come, of-course, but as Sunday night turned into the early hours of Monday morning in Austin, Texas, we could not help but feel the first pangs of emotion at the prospect of returning to London. Determined to enjoy our final couple of days, we headed back to the hotel, aware of a long drive the next day towards a city famous the world over: Dallas, Texas. Forget who shot JR, a far more important murder mystery occurred here, in November 1963 – a moment and time in history that will live in infamy.

Dallas:

Like Houston, Dallas sprawls for miles around, encroaching into nearby Fort Worth and gobbling up the surrounding countryside with its miles of interstate and flyover systems. In the city centre, skyscrapers abound, but with architectural differences in style and structure that are synonymous with Chicago. These impressive buildings were not only tall; they looked fabulous, with varying angles, materials, and designs sitting close together in the financial district. The lack of uniformity, beyond their obvious height, made walking and driving around Dallas a pleasant experience, particular as the central roads and avenues are wide and pedestrian-friendly, inviting tourists to take a look around as they go about their business.

Dallas is an important city, and is the home to many international organisations, predominantly oil-based and with far-reaching economic capabilities. Like Houston, it is proud of its heritage, and deferent to the tragedy of November 1963 and the assassination of President Kennedy. Dallas is a real southern city, with cowboy hats, knee-high boots, and silver-buckled belts, all around. Politically to the right of centre, it still boasts rich cultural traditions and ethnic mixes, and is clearly an affluent urban zone, complete with large, gas-guzzling cars, giant portions in restaurants, and imposing buildings. Sam, who you will remember from Baton Rouge, told me that “everything is bigger in Texas.” She was right, certainly with regards to Dallas. On our first evening in the city, Dean and I ordered two of the largest steaks you are likely to see, complete with a side-order of potato-skins that would have been enough for five or six people. This was after enjoying our hotel’s complimentary milk and cookies reception.

Earlier we had travelled out of the centre to the largest shopping mall in Dallas, in order to finish off buying gifts for our families and perform a final, futile search for some Major League Soccer jerseys. Amidst American Eagle, Abercrombie, Hollister and Dean’s beloved Urban Outfitters (I believe Dean made at least one Urban purchase in every city we travelled to), we found a bonafide cowboy shop, similar to the beautifully crafted independent store that we popped into in Dexter, Michigan, with Adam Jacobs, some weeks previously. Amidst the belts, the spurs (!), the checked shirts and boots, the gunslingers and holsters, we found a bewilderingly large display of real cowboy hats. Jacking up my own jeans as high as they could go, and placing my thumbs into my pockets, I paced up and down the store in different cowboy hats, perfecting a southern drawl of an accent, and preparing to draw my pistol at the slightest interference. Dallas is the start point of the age-old Wild West, and I was determined to look the part with a cowboy hat of my own. It was a battle between my financial budget and my fashion sense. The town wasn’t big enough for the two of them. I bought the cowboy hat and presented it to my Dad at Heathrow Airport, having insisted on wearing it on the plane. It makes saying “Howdy ya’ll” all the more rewarding.

That night Dean and I found a specialist steak joint and toasted our adventures. We’d come a long way: literally and metaphorically. As the vodka flowed, and we delivered talking heads to the camera about our feelings on what we’d seen and experienced, and the people we had met, it dawned on both of us that returning to London was going to be difficult. In order to stave off the blues we moved to a number of different bars and, true to form, found the locals to be friendly and accommodating, so much so that a waitress in one bar came over and informed us that a businesswoman at the other side of the bar wanted to buy us a drink. Dean chased up her name and number. What came of it? You’ll have to ask Dean.

Dallas has a congenial air about it, friendly and engaging, where the people (true of Texas in general actually) are pleased to talk and listen, and keen to often their opinions on a multitude of subjects. Particularly interesting was to hear political opinion that goes against the grain of British views on US politics, without resorting to the sort of bigotry or ignorance that we in the UK like to pretend characterises much of the south. The reality of course is much different, and Dean and I found intelligent and informed Republicans who offered a diverging view with clarity and insight.

The social transparency of Dallas was maintained the following morning as we made our way to the Texas Book Store Depository, just a few blocks from our hotel, in beautiful Texas sunshine. To the naked eye this rather uniform building may seem irrelevant, but within its confines, in the corner room on the sixth floor, Lee Harvey Oswald loaded a gun and fired numerous shots towards President John F Kennedy’s presidential motorcade as it travelled through the centre of Dallas. Kennedy, and his wife Jacqui, were in the car, with Vice President Johnson, native of Dallas, in the car just behind. Waving to the crowds in his open-top Cadillac, Kennedy exuded optimism and hope in a new America, a shining new era of Camelot. In the ensuing confusion and fear, the anguish and terror, part of America’s soul was taken, lost on that fateful day as a young president in his prime was gunned down by a crazed assassin. Whether conspiracy or the actions of a singular mad man, the impact of this event resonated across the world. Big Ben, in the heart of London town, chimed once every minute of Kennedy’s funeral while the Queen’s guards stood in silent salute. The attention of the planet was on Dallas, Texas.

Forty-six years later, and outside the building on the road that passes it, a simple ‘x’ can be found: the exact spot where the bullets hit. Across the street is a memorial to JFK, a permanent plaque, statue, water feature and walkway leading towards the fated road and the infamous grass knoll alongside. Inside the building a museum and exhibit goes through, in minutiae detail, the events of 22 November 1963 and what it meant to America and the world at large. After coming through a revolutionary battle, a civil war, two world wars, and in the midst of civil rights struggles, the murder of JFK changed the United States of America indelibly. It scarred a nation, knocked its confidence and focussed minds on healing what Kennedy’s brother Robert later called the ‘mindless menace of violence’ that stalked the streets. Decades later this work is not finished, despite the political therapy of President Johnson’s social reform bills, or President Reagan’s inspiring oratory, or President Obama’s historic election.

People refer to the Kennedy administration wistfully, using the phrase ‘for one brief, shining moment’ to illustrate its beauty, its ambition and its tragic temporary status. Is Camelot back in America today? From what Dean and I saw and experienced there is certainly a new sense of civic pride and hope and enthusiasm in a more tolerant and socially inclusive land, despite its still evident polarisation. Kennedy would argue that the work of America is never finished, that the pyramid on a $1 bill is deliberately not completed because the point of this nation, and the real sentiment behind America’s fervent ideals, is that the American dream is continuous. It is not an end goal or a place or a specific: it is a state of mind, and one encapsulated by John F Kennedy and his own era of Camelot. Yet look at what has happened here since Kennedy’s epoch was halted all too early by the bullet rather than the ballot: the end of segregation, man on the moon, economic upturns, the election of Obama.

It may be perplexing that Dean and I found this part of Dallas, Texas, to be a fitting end point for our trip: a place of carnage and chaos, of bloodshed and disaster, yet the beauty of America is how this nation deals with its challenges, as the fictional President Bartlett reminds us: “Every time we feel we have measured our capacity to meet a challenge, we look up and we are reminded that this capacity may well be limitless.” Everywhere we travelled we saw hopefulness and friendliness and great pride, so to be taken to the scene of a great American tragedy having just witnessed America’s present confidence and positivity was an important and rewarding experience, filling both of us with an immense sense of pride, hope, happiness and our own spoken and private ambitions: emotions that made a long journey back to London seem a little less trying, a little less difficult.

From Boston to Dallas, with everything that came in between, Dean and I lived America: from the skyscrapers of New York and Chicago, to the plains of Louisville, Nashville and Memphis; from the stunning campuses and people of Ann Arbor and Baton Rouge, to the dividing lines of Birmingham, the colour and vibrancy of New Orleans, the sprawl and confidence of Houston, colourfulness of Austin, and importance of Dallas.

For a few spectacular weeks, Dean and I were in America. We’ll be back, of course, but for both of us the American dream is no foreign and imagined concept: for one brief shining moment we lapped up this magnificent country, yet we will live the American dream forever.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbour that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Emma Lazarus, ‘The New Colossus’, New York City, 1883, now adorning the Statue Of Liberty.

US Road Trip - Video Diary: Baton Rouge

Baton Rouge: What Is Happening Now?

USA - Baton Rouge, Louisiana

I envisaged the big cities posing me the most problems. Fitting New York, Chicago, New Orleans, et al, into manageable blogs would be tough tasks, given their size and attractions, not to mention our close friends who live there. Yet now, as I type this in the Jeep heading away from this wonderful town, I feel no words I choose can do justice to our four-day sojourn here, a stay that saw us arrive and meet new people, and leave having made good friends. It was exciting, it was funny, it was emotional, it had a million-dollar tiger. We planned to stay one night; we went home four days later. Baton Rouge, you are in my heart now and always.

Before I explain the emotional effect of this Mississippi river town on both Dean and I, perhaps it would help to describe how we ended up there in the first place. Rewind two years or so, and Dean is searching Facebook for the popular actress Katie Holmes. It will come as no surprise to you to learn that Dean was not successful in befriending Tom Cruise’s wife. What Dean did manage, however, was to become friends with a girl from Louisiana called, wait for it, Katie Holmes. Studying at Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge, Katie and Dean’s friendship was integral to the two of us visiting this town. This is the beauty of the revolution we live in today. The world is smaller than it ever has been, broken into manageable pieces by new media and technology that allows a boy from London and a girl from the Deep South to become good friends, chatting most days, without ever meeting each other. If Dean had not decided to find a Scientology celebrity on Facebook, we may never have wound up in Baton Rouge and, in turn, I may not have had an amazing week there, a week which included one of the best days and nights of my life.

Returning to the present, Dean was excited about meeting Katie face to face for the first time, while I was simply interested in sampling a new city in America. As we drove up to Baton Rouge, in pleasant sunshine, we had the car stereo turned up high and became increasingly excited about a stay in a University town. I could never have guessed that I would be feeling so utterly dejected about leaving, just a few days later. Reading this, you may find it hard to understand why this is the case. Baton Rouge is not exactly famous, or commercially important to anybody from Britain. They say that the people make a place. For Baton Rouge, this is especially true. So, Sam, Katie, Ashli, Katelyn, Megan, Emily and Dominique (and everyone else we met), thank you making our trip to America that little bit better.

Before explaining what Dean and I actually did in Baton Rouge, and why that contributed to the amazing time we had, a word or two is due about the cityscape. With palm trees and oak-lined avenues, beautiful lakeside walks and impressive colonial mansions, Baton Rouge looks fabulous, particularly on a sunny day. The State House (Baton Rouge is the state capital of Louisiana) was particularly grand, with a towering structure supported by the State Senate and State House of Representatives on either side of it, reached by a walk up step that bare the name of every state in America. Built by a rather narcissistic and egotistical Governor, it bestrides the town, visible from a fair distance, and yet strangely fits perfectly despite its gargantuan size (the tallest State Capital building in America).

The Mississippi River is also prominent in Baton Rouge, which also enjoys the position of being America’s fifth largest inland port. A key moment in our stay was on the banks of the river during the early evening of our second day in the city. Sam was keen for Dean and I to watch the sun set over the opposite bank of the river, and Katie and Dean, and Sam and I, standing at slightly different viewpoints, were not disappointed by a glorious Magic Hour, with red lights sparkling over the water, and a crescent moon slowly emerging from the darkening sky like a half-finished halo high above our heads. Drawn in by the peaceful sounds of the lapping water and Sam’s engaging conversation, the dramatic vista and her passionate explanation of her life, interests and future plans, there was no other place I would have wanted to be.

Louisiana State University (LSU) is the dominant infrastructure in Baton Rouge, and adds to its aesthetic appeal. Sorority Row, for example, with its colonnade style houses looking out on to the lake, and marked by well-grown oak trees and the flights of local pelicans, was a particularly attractive part of town, both for the view and, of-course, the lovely Sorority girls who lived there. Looming large over the university campus is the main football stadium, home of the LSU Tigers, and housing over 90,000 people. Next to the stadium is a one-million dollar dwelling for the Tigers official mascot: Michael the Tiger, a fearsome beast who stalked his cage and regarded his British photographers with initial resentment and subsequent indifference. It is certainly a million miles from the University of Nottingham, who have no stadium, let alone a tiger. We knew already that college sport is huge in America, and LSU was no exception. The colours of purple and yellow were everywhere to be seen, and students and alumni alike take pride in their institution’s sporting success.

The campus itself is staggering, with impressive columned buildings (particularly the union building, plus the Music and Dramatic Arts department and the Law building), bustling quadrants, neat coffee shops and retail outlets, and expansive parkland where students relax, sunbathe or play pick-up games of Frisbee, football (ours and theirs), or baseball. It was hard, when walking around, not to feel like studying here would have been inspiring and a lot of fun, and consequently be jealous of those that do have that opportunity. Certainly there was something about LSU that Dean and I feel very much at ease with and at home. No doubt the girls we became close friends with aided that, but the campus itself had a feel of familiarity: Nottingham uni-park, with beautiful women and palm trees. And a tiger.

Comfortable in our surroundings, then, Dean and I already forewarned our hotel reception that we may be extending our stay from the initially booked one night. Our first few hours in Baton Rouge helped us come to this understanding. We were picked up by Katie and her friend Ashli, who has such an enthusiastic attitude about her, constantly energetic and interested, keen to learn and chat, with an impressive turn in comedy, that we were already laughing and enjoying ourselves within just a few minutes. Less funny was Ashli’s driving ability, which was frankly terrifying. We visited the State Capital building, posed for photos in the Senate and House of Representatives, and then headed for the girls’ Sorority, Chi Omega. Dean had visited a Sorority before, but this was my first experience. Obviously there is something appealing about going into a beautiful house, full of wood-panels, lush sofas, grand pianos and, well, women. Within a few moments of being inside Chi Omega, we had completed two girls’ crossword puzzle for them, and befriended two new girls in Emily and Dominique, before then being introduced to Megan, whose soccer shirt was obviously the subject of some interest for Dean and I. A huge fan of both ‘Harry Potter’ and ‘Friends’, Megan and I went round-for-round on key trivia from both of these cultural institutions.

Reluctantly leaving the house (admittedly, we had not eaten all day), the girls took us to a bar-restaurant called Chimes. This was a busy bistro, with sports on television, loud music, and good food. It was here that I tried my first po’boy, with the famed local catfish inside. Ashli impressed us by ordering alcohol with the frequency and tenacity of the very best British chavs (in-joke), Sam became the first American I have ever seen order a salad, and Dean and I settled in to our first night in the city. Excited by what lay in store, our hotel room turned into a rock concert as we prepared ourselves for the evening plans. There may be, somewhere in the vast entity of digital technology, a video of me dancing around the room to ‘Thunderbirds Are Go’ by Busted, but sadly this is restricted viewing.

Katie and Ashli picked us up again from our hotel. Mercifully, Katie was driving. We were taken to a trendy bar called Tsunami, situated on the top floor of the Baton Rouge Art Museum, and featuring a balcony looking out over the Mississippi. Tsunami would fit in well with any fashionable London nightspot, with its ambient lighting and music. Made to feel so welcome by the girls, we enjoyed debating the finer points of modern music, art, film, television, cultural and political differences between the UK and the USA, and observations of the awkward first date taking place between the cigar-smoking man and high-heeled woman at the table next to us. Following on from Tsunami, Sam, Katie, Ashley, Dean and I headed on to Happy’s. This was a rather different bar, with a digital juke box, sticky floors, and one drunk man with a dog. Feeling the warmth of both the company and the drinks, conversation flowed freely, videos were captured, photos taken, and music enjoyed (provided by Sam’s $15 dollar coup d’état of the juke box).

Even later, as the night turned into early morning, we were taken to the Baton Rouge institution that is Louie’s café, a joint that served full portions of food into the small hours, including a supersize portion of burger and chips for Dean and one of the larger plates of hash-browns in culinary history for me. The girls bemoaned their early starts the next morning; Dean and I toasted our lack of any need to set an alarm (despite a brief flirtation with attempting to organise a morning coffee meet-up). Perhaps it was because we were back in a student environment, slipping into our university ways like old friends greeting each other at an airport arrivals gate, but Dean and I were more relaxed than at any other part of our trip, safe in the knowledge that we had good friends to show us around, and a picturesque town within which to get to know them all better.

Wednesday, then, and with a blazing hot sun shining down on Baton Rouge, we emerged bleary-eyed in our Jeep, heading towards the central campus area to meet Katie, Sam and Ashli and look at a giant tiger. Michael, the tiger in question, is housed in an enclosure that took millions of dollars to build, and is brought out on to the field alongside the cheerleaders at every Louisiana football game. Once, we were told, Michael managed to remove himself from his bindings and run with glee through the stadium, while cheerleaders, marching band members and spectators alike, panic-stricken and bemused, raced for the comparative safety of the exits. The image, of a rampaging tiger and screaming American sports fan, still makes me chuckle days later.

Katie, Ashli and Sam were enthusiastic tour-guides, showing us where they live and work, taking us into their world in a friendly and personal way, allowing us glimpses of real life in this part of the world, introducing us to their friends and teachers, their classrooms, coffee joints and quadrants. After much working, we returned with them to the Chi-O house, where we lounged on sofas or at the piano, planning the night ahead and getting to know this lovely group of girls even better. Our progress from strangers to close friends was interrupted only by Dean and I heading out to the front lawn, looking glorious in the late afternoon sunshine by the tranquil lake, to kick a real, proper, British football around. If I had one criticism of America, it would be their complete lack of understanding of the beautiful game, that steadfast grip they refuse to yield up for stop-start sporting pursuits like American Football and basketball. It felt good to wrap my foot round a bonafide ‘soccer-ball’ once again, even if it did delay our trip to the riverside to watch the aforementioned sunset by just a few minutes. Eventually, however, and after Sam stepped in to stop us bending it like Beckham any further, we headed for the river’s edge. In one’s life, there may only be a few moments of near-perfection, where the place you are in and what you are feeling merge together in unison and harmony, where everything and everyone fuse together in a symbiosis of symmetry and synchronization. That’s how it felt on the outpost overlooking the river, with the sun slowly setting.

Another period of hotel-based reflection and preparation followed before Sam and Katie took us to meet Katelyn and Ashli at The Bulldog, a pub-bar close to the university that had cheap beer and shots, combining flowing booze with genial company and a bustling trade. It was here that the girls taught us a secret Chi-O chant regarding the drinking of shots, which alas I cannot commit to paper as to do so would break an impressive dedication to preserving the secret sacraments of Sorority life. Sororities, for all their Hollywood-ised sexual motifs, actually exist as important traditional communities, where girls can enjoy university safely and securely, where they can more easily make close friends and partake in both academic and charity work. They are like large, residential societies, and as such come with their own rituals, conventions and initiations, alongside philanthropic efforts that UK colleges could certainly learn from. Many of these traditions are secret, protecting a bond between members of the Sorority that, in some cases, stretch back many years. In this way, there is a code, a sense of honour, duty and companionship that is admirable and should be noted. Certainly, the Chi-O girls we met were well-mannered, interesting, intelligent, kind and fun. The girls we became such good friends with illustrate all these attributes and demonstrate why Sororities (and Fraternities, I suppose) work.

We lost track of time in The Bulldog, and eventually only myself, Dean, Katie and Sam remained out of the initial group. From the campus walk to the Chi-O lounge chat, from the Mississippi sunset to the subsequent Best Western Hotel sunrise: it was a perfect twenty-four hours.

Our travels in America have provided us with so many wonderful moments and places and people. We have slept little and partied much, driven far and walked extensively. Consuming food and alcohol and culture and new sights as much as Dean and I have, it is not surprising to learn that in an epic adventure there will inevitably be moments of epic fatigue. The sheer wall of tiredness that hit us later the following day, after an almost unbroken twenty-four hours, was immense, and it was only with a supreme effort that we made it back on to campus by the early afternoon, for a few hours of football and guitar playing, not to mention snoozing, on the main parkland of the University. That night, the majority of the girls had booked tickets to see British star Robert Pattinson pout his way through the latest ‘Twilight’ film, leaving Dean and I in the capable hands of the beautiful Sam, who took us to Bogie’s. I can only describe Bogie’s as the most ‘college bar’-looking college bar in the entire United States of America. Think ‘American Pie’, think red cups and short skirts, think loud music and strange fashions. Dean, of course, was in his element, and began speeding down a road to all-out intoxication, working his way through a number of introductions set up by Sam, even managing to find coordination within his inebriation to dance with complete strangers. Sam and I enjoyed Dean’s descent into utter ridiculousness, observing his antics from the relative safety of general sobriety (give or take a vodka-water with extra lime or two). How much Dean remembered the next day is a question for the great man himself. I can only tell you that, during the course of the evening, Dean made near perfect strangers shout famous quotes from the London Underground at our camera, posed for photos wearing a tiara, and convinced two sets of girls that he and I really were the Jonas Brothers.

You will have noted that I have described three nights in Baton Rouge. It was initially only meant to be one. I cannot explain how pleased I am that we stayed for longer. Indeed, we even considered driving back to this safe haven of laughter, friendship, romance and sunsets after just one night in neighbouring Texas. In hindsight, however, it is better to leave wanting more. Certainly, I know that Dean and I will spend time with all the lovely people we met in Baton Rouge once again. A European travelling trip is in the offing for many of these girls, and we will be counting the months until we can join them in Paris and welcome them in London.

From a personal point of view, I was able to get to know someone’s lifestyle, geography, culture, their hopes and fears in the town where they live, and remain excited to reciprocate in a few months time. It is hard to meet people and leave them, to say goodbyes that mean ‘see you soon’, to drive away (at 7pm the next day, rather than the intended 1.30pm) with so much unspoken and yet so much experienced. We kept hearing the song ‘Fireflies’ by Owl City throughout our few days in Baton Rouge, but it was only after leaving that I fully understood the lyrics. These girls were our fireflies, and our trip to America has been enhanced in so many ways by being with them. We’ll be ‘calling Baton Rouge’ forever. Trust me.

“I’d like to make myself believe that Planet Earth turns slowly,
It’s hard to say but I’d like to stay awake when I’m asleep,
Coz everything is never as it seems.

To ten million fireflies I’m weird coz I hate goodbyes,
Got misty-eyed as they said farewell…”
Owl City, ‘Fireflies’.

US Road Trip - Video Diary: New Orleans

US Road Trip - Photos: New Orleans

Click here to see photos from New Orleans.

New Orleans: See You Later, Alligator

USA - New Orleans, Louisiana

New Orleans: there is no place like it. Not in America. Not on the planet. Tennessee Williams set his stage play ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’ in this city, and drew constant attention to the ethnic history of the region, a story of French, Spanish and British control and American expansion, of post-war immigration, of Bauhaus, Caribbean, Latin American and European architecture, language, culture and energy, combining together at the Mississippi’s end. Williams was right. This is a city of the world, cut off from the rest of mainland America by a series of rivers, canals, lakes, levees, marshes and swamps, and allowed to grow and ferment into the vibrant, verdant New Orleans of the twenty-first century. Crucially, despite the melting-pot of nations and influences, there remains a fierce local identity, crystallised in the aftermath of the devastating Hurricane Katrina, but subsisting already before then.

We arrived from the temperate climes of Birmingham, Alabama, to a warm, sultry evening in the French Quarter. Palm trees lined the avenues, crickets bleated their nocturnal notes, and the air was thick with noise and music and excitement and a million scents, from cypress and slow cooking meat, to the musky Mississippi river and alcohol. Boutique hotels and independent art galleries lined the narrow, cobbled streets, where colourful houses with beautiful shutters and pot plants stood side by side with bustling bars and Catholic churches. Feeling like we were in a European market town, but with the Stars and Stripes waving merrily, Dean and I agreed within just a few moments of arriving that New Orleans was our kind of town. Perhaps it was the European-esque mood of the city, the meanderings of people down pedestrianised streets and the warm breeze rushing in from the Gulf of Mexico, that helped us speed through the usual process of familiarisation, but on that first Saturday night in the heart of the French Quarter, down Bourbon and Chartres Streets, we both felt a million miles from the modern America we had thusfar encountered. With little energy, however, after a long drive from Alabama, and a strong desire to soak up this wonderful place afresh in the morning, we settled on a quick meal and drink before returning to our bed & breakfast joint on Esplanade Avenue, which itself was inside a beautiful colonial style building, family run with a genuine sense of care and attention.

Sunday, then, was a busy day, and our cameras were out in force, snapping away at every enviable vista inside the French Quarter. It is hard to explain it in words, or do it justice in pictures, but the French Quarter looks, sounds and smells amazing. People mooch around at a pleasant pace, taking in the incredible architecture and scenery, noting the French road names and Spanish villas, enjoying the live music on every street corner, or just sitting on the roadside reading or smoking, or lying in the sun in the exquisite gardens by St. Louis Cathedral. Dean and I gulped it all in, almost overwhelmed by it all. Never before have so many photos of so many buildings been taken by so few. In New Orleans, it is possible to experience the city without even going into any of the fabulous buildings. It is enough just to criss-cross through the grid of the Quarter and observe what is happening. Particularly appealing to us was the cuisine. A blend of Creole soul food, Southern slow-cooking, and French seafood delicacies, the menus in New Orleans eating establishments feature bizarre concoctions that somehow seem to work, alongside the usual staples of American dining. A number of options are synonymous with the region, however, and Dean and I were keen to sample them. They include jambalaya, which is a rice dish served with vegetables and chicken pieces, alongside shrimp and sausage, mixed together in a hot sauce and left to brew for as long as possible. Another favourite is catfish po’boys, a sort of sandwich-cum-burger that includes fried catfish in batter as its central feature, while a variation on this theme is the mufaletta, where a variety of cured meats are piled high between bread that also has olives and melted French cheese on top. Finally, New Orleans is probably the best place in the world to eat alligator. You may recoil at thought of eating the meat of a dinosaur-era reptile, but if you get the opportunity to sample some gator, do not hesitate: eat it with reckless abandon. Alligator tastes good. Particularly as a filler for sausages.

Buoyed on by the incredible weather, we ambled the streets like the good tourists we are, stopping only a few times to rest our weary legs. One area of great beauty, with places to relax, can be found in the main gardens outside the front of St. Louis cathedral, and just behind the streetcar track that sits next to the Mississippi delta upon which New Orleans developed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. St. Louis Cathedral is the oldest cathedral in the United States and, while it may not compare to some of the great (and older) European versions across Spain, France and Italy, is still worth viewing from inside as well as its obviously impressive exterior. Interestingly, a British flags hangs proudly inside the main lobby. New Orleans is keen to preserve its mixed heritage, and so places the iconography of its history in central and prominent positions. As a result, while the American flag is obviously visible, at every turn there is a French, Spanish or British flag waving merrily in the humid breeze. It added to the cosmopolitan feel of the city. It may be called the French Quarter, and obviously France has influenced New Orleans more than any other outside source (bearing in mind that France owned the whole state of Louisiana until the mid-nineteenth century), but in reality it could have been justifiably named the ‘European Quarter’. After all, many of the buildings are in a Spanish classical style after a fire in the late eighteenth century tore down many of the original French dwellings. Later, when the French seized the territory back (before America purchased it from them and then fought off the British who patrolled the Gulf of Mexico beyond), it was too heavily populated to recreate a Parisian cityscape, leaving New Orleans with the odd but welcoming distinction of enjoying British civic organisation, French cuisine and language, and Spanish architecture, all in the wonderful American state of Louisiana.

Back in the cathedral gardens, Dean and I marvelled at our good fortune, escaping any major tropical storms and waltzing through the town in eighty degrees of warm, cloud-less sunshine. Palm trees and hot air just a few weeks before Christmas in London is certainly an alienating, but liberating, experience. At the tip of the gardens, by the steps to the cathedral, dozens of artists, musicians and palm-readers set up stall and wait for passing trade. It was like Covent Garden, only warmer, with palm trees. The quality of the street music was a joy to behold, particularly from the trumpet and saxophone players, who have helped give New Orleans music its distinctive jazzy, soulful tone. This is the city of Louis Armstrong, after all, and his legacy remains in the skilful and talented musicians who now line the roads of the French Quarter, playing for the love of the music and the odd tip from tourists, rather than any loftier ambition. It is music from the heart and the soul, like so much of the folkloric South of America.

The next morning, after another enjoyable meal sampling the local cuisine and some French wine (rather than our usual drinks so far on our trip of beer or vodka mixers), Dean and I woke up a little early for our liking. Somewhat surprised at our total inability to function properly at half past seven in the morning, despite both beginning jobs early next year, we immediately sought out the caffeine boost that would get us up and running. A busy and exciting day was in store, and this was no time to be sleepy. Coffee obtained, we waited outside our hotel in seventy-five degrees (at eight in the morning) of heat for a coach to pick us up. We were off on a tour of the Plantation and Swamp land that lies outside New Orleans itself, an excursion that would include riding on an air-boat, the sort of famed water vehicle from ‘The Waterboy’, Indiana Jones films, and the memorable Martin Sheen cameo in ‘Hot Shots Part Deux’, where a fan-assisted motor helps the craft glide over the water and marshes of the Mississippi delta at impressive, and occasionally scary, speeds.

Our first stop was the plantation, knows as Laura Plantation after the first owner of the land, who helped farm and produce sugar cane and turned the plantation into a family business in the early nineteenth centuries. Plantations are important aspects of America’s economic and social development during the pioneering years, helping to manufacture and export goods across all the states and beyond, while engineering new techniques in building and farming. They also played a significant social role in the history of America. Slaves were bought and sold by plantation owners, herded around like cattle to work the land, often in abysmal conditions compared to the wealth and affluence of the owners and their large Creole mansions. Our photos will no doubt demonstrate this, but only by visiting a plantation can you gain a sense of the great hardship that slaves endured, and the inspiring job they did. Even after the abolition of slavery at the end of the American Civil War, former slaves were forced into employment contracts that essentially formalised the conditions of slavery into contractual form, thus maintaining the resentment between white land-owners and slave descendents for decades to come. It is easy, as you walk around the grounds of a plantation such as Laura, to enjoy the beautiful scenery, the lush grass and colourful flowers, the ancient oak trees and swopping butterflies, but a darker history also unfolded here. Nevertheless, the plantation we visited still functions as a cane producer today, and the tour guides were helpful in pointing out, with full disclosure, just what life was like for both the owners and the slaves during the plantation era’s heyday. The story of the owners of Laura Plantation is particularly illuminating, and potentially has the making of a major motion picture, with its controversial family dynamics and internal politics, of strong female leaders picking their successors ad hoc, of a sense of familial duty passed down through many generations without necessarily following the primogeniture of English land owning. At Laura Plantation, now as then, the family was the business and the business was the family.

The opportunity to explore inside the main plantation house, where the owning family would live and work together, was interesting not only in terms of learning about the history of the plantation, but also how the family made great strides in practical areas, from having the kitchen in an out-building away from the main house to prevent fires, to lifting the house onto brick stilts in order to prevent flooding during hurricane season. The lessons they learnt were repeated all over the region and into New Orleans itself.

After a quick lunch, we moved on to the swampland to begin our airboat tour. This proved to be one of the highlights of our entire trip to America. Our guide was an entertaining and energetic host, we were joined by some Canadian siblings, and were in the mood to have fun and learn at the same time. What a lesson was in store! We covered everything from the biology and ecology of alligators, to the civic failures behind the Katrina disaster, with information on the water type (salt, fresh and brackish), the vegetation, the other animals of the region, and the colloquial history of the swamps thrown in for good measure. Particularly illuminating was our guide’s description of the events of Katrina, and the role the government is now playing in protecting this area of incredible natural beauty, not just for people like Dean and I to enjoy, but predominantly for an altogether more serious reason. The swamps and marshes, we learned, essentially act as speed bumps when there is a hurricane, slowing down the onrushing water from the various sources around New Orleans, including the Gulf of Mexico itself, the Mississippi river, and the numerous other brackish lakes. As oil companies have chopped away at the swamps, however, many of these so-called speed bumps have been reduced in size. Our guide felt it was no surprise that the levees were breached in the aftermath of Katrina: there was nothing to stop the flood, nothing to slow down its treacherous advance. A lack of understanding of this basic ecological point, and a desire of successive governments to profit from oil, caused this malaise in responsible organisation, yet the irony exists in the fact that Louisiana exports and imports much of America’s oil, and needs the swamps to remain healthy in order for this to continue. Now, therefore, state and federal agencies are taking better care to preserve the region. It is a double bonus for us, as the swamps are truly magnificent spectacles to behold, as well as providing all-important cover to the towns and cities of Louisiana should another category five hurricane strike the locality.

Like the French Quarter, the swampland is unspeakably beautiful, rich in colour and texture and bending, varying lights and shadows, full of narrow lanes of shallow water, where vegetation and evergreen willow trees hang over the waterways, and then larger stretches surrounded by bigger shrubbery and trees (now sadly damaged post-Katrina) that allowed the air-boat to run at full throttle, aquaplaning between each stunning point of interest. We will both remember the thrill and sheer exhilaration of being buffeted around on the air-boat at top speed, with the high sun’s light bouncing off cool blue water and the refreshing wind in our hair and across our faces. Later, during one of our stop points on the excursion, our host presented (in a hilariously dramatic fashion and much to the sheer terror of the Canadian sisters) a baby alligator to observe and even hold. I was amazed at how cold she was, despite being obviously cold-blooded. Trying not to get my face too close, we posed for photos and tried not to think about how tasty alligator sausages are. It was an added bonus to an already exciting trip out of town.

That night Dean and I returned to New Orleans for our last night in the city, after a well-earned rest by the pool at our hotel. Walking around the Quarter for a final time, I was struck by how impressively upbeat and proud the residents were, despite the ravages of Katrina and the initial feeling of isolation after it. Shame on those politicians back in 2005: New Orleans is one of the world’s most unique cities, a place unlikely any other in America, and adds to the integrity of Louisiana as a jewel in the American crown. Our love affair with Louisiana was about to continue in Baton Rouge, just an hour or so from New Orleans up the Mississippi river. Famed for its sunsets, we set off in the Jeep Patriot for the next stage in our adventure. As we drove, I could not help but think of Blanche Dubois, the central character in ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’, who constantly reminds us of her upbringing in Baton Rouge. Later, as the emotions of New Orleans life take their heady toll, she exclaims: “Sometimes there is God so quickly!” Natural beauty, friendly people, stunning weather: divine inspiration in the state of Louisiana is alive and well.

US Road Trip - Photos: Birmingham

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US Road Trip - Video Diary: Birmingham

Birmingham: A City, But Not A Community?

USA - Birmingham, Alabama

“We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.” Robert F. Kennedy, 5 April 1968.

“Take me to a bar,” said the Englishman.
“Which bar?” replied the taxi driver.
“Any bar. Just a regular American bar.”

The evening in Birmingham, Alabama, did not start with those exact words, and the astute amongst you will notice the paraphrasing from the film ‘Love Actually’, but in reality the experience for Dean and I was not too unlike the hapless Colin in Richard Curtis’s Christmastime treat. We had driven a long way from Memphis, Tennessee, towards Alabama, a southern state so deeply ingrained in the national consciousness for its role in the civil rights struggle that we felt it only right to pay a visit to its largest city. Birmingham may not be grand or even that big, but it has real significance in the story of America. It would have been easier to set a course straight down the line of longitude towards Mississippi or Louisiana, but how often do two travelling Brits find themselves in the Deep South of America with a little time to kill? To comprehend the modern United States requires a detour off the beaten tourist track. At the frontline of a conflict that still resonates in America today, even with Barack Obama in the White House, Birmingham, Alabama, crystallises both the history and social lessons into one conurbation. With that in mind, our first night in the city came as something of a surprise.

In hindsight, we should have remembered it was a Friday night, but when you have been travelling around like Dean and I the days of the week become fairly irrelevant. A Friday night in Birmingham, in particular the Five Points South district of the city, is a big deal amongst the town’s student population at the University of Alabama. Our guide book told us that Five Points South was a decent area for restaurants and bars, so we set off in that direction with the aim of finding some food, a quick drink, and a reasonably early night after a long drive and a busy weekend ahead. What we discovered was a small street corner with three bars and no food outlets at all. On empty stomachs, we joined a queue for a bar called Inisfree (incidentally, it was not free in any way) simply because the girls in the line looked particularly attractive. These Southern Belles were out to party their way in to the weekend, and who were we to stop them? Ignoring the hunger pangs, and even resisting the temptation to watch too much of David Beckham’s Los Angeles Galaxy side live on the television in the bar itself, we launched into a Vodka-mixer frenzy in an attempt to achieve a state of inebriation that would allow us to walk around unfazed by the jocky guys and undaunted by the lovely ladies.

I can only assume it was the alcohol that helped break the ice, because after about half an hour in Five Points South, Birmingham, Dean and I found ourselves in some frankly bizarre conversations with a wonderful mix of people. It began with our new pal Dave attempting to lick the outdoor patio heater in a show of gallantry for our video camera, before focussing on his friend, Brigham, and the story of how she moved from Texas to Alabama, and why her first name is normally a surname. Before long, our accents were detected by others, and a crowd began lingering near us, perhaps confused as to why two Jewish boys who apparently resemble The Jonas Brothers (three times now we have been asked this) with British accents were holding court in their student bar. Dean began chatting happily with Courtney and Candice about the band Incubus, while Sean (resident acoustic guitar player at the bar) went through a succession of English pop hits, including a rousing rendition of ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ that made us feel right at home. I was still locked in conversation with Dave and Brigham when I heard the familiar introductory notes of ‘Pardon Me’, an Incubus song that Dean enjoys to play on his own guitar. I looked up towards Sean, impressed at his repertoire. Except Sean no longer had the guitar. There the imposter stood, Sean’s guitar in his hands, the strap around his shoulder, with a wide stance of confidence and statesmanship, staring out at his audience with a Gallagher-esque intensity, bestriding the stage like a colossus of the music world, master of all he surveyed. The imposter was Dean.

At some stage, somebody must have requested ‘Pardon Me’, and Dean, upon hearing that Sean did not know the guitar part for this track, must have offered his services. Dean played, Sean sung, we enjoyed. Dean was not finished there, however, as he proudly grabbed the microphone away from Sean and declared to the bemused Americans, in his finest Borehamwood accent, “Sean is incredible!” Well, Sean was no doubt delighted with the ringing endorsement, and the girls were certainly impressed with Dean’s musical skill and British tongue. It aided my evening also, as I was able to be a hanger-on and pose for photos with lovely looking Alabaman girls, as well as coax a round of shots out of Dean’s original contacts, Courtney and Candice. I have loved every moment of this trip, and will no doubt take back to London with me many happy memories that will last a lifetime. One slightly more odd memory will be of the double-take I took when Dean appeared on that Inisfree stage for the first time. Undoubtedly a highlight of our trip so far, it helps illustrate the randomness, and also the greatness, of that Friday night.

We spent the rest of the evening chatting away with just about anybody who came near us, while getting to know the lovely Dave and Brigham a little better, so much so that Dave even offered to drive us back to our hotel in the downtown area, after a stop-off for some well-deserved hangover-banishing fast food, where Brigham stole some hummus. A measure of our drunken state is best demonstrated by the fact that Dean and I, locked in conversation, entered the lift in our hotel and forgot to press a floor number for a good ten minutes before realising. Congratulations, University of Alabama. You guys know how to make British boys welcome.

Saturday morning was spent in a haze of aching heads and limbs, but we eventually pulled ourselves together enough to brave the streets of Birmingham in search of some brunch. Alabama is famous for its soul food, which includes combining meat or poultry that has been ‘southern fried’ and heavily sauced, along with slow-cooked vegetables like peas and eggplant, with what the Alabamans call ‘candy yams’, and we at home describe as sweet potatoes. Birmingham was known in the 1960’s as ‘Bombingham’ (more later), so we expected to find a run-down city with little amenities. On this bright, sunny Saturday lunchtime, however, Dean and I were pleasantly surprised to find wide avenues and parkland, clean streets with flowers and trees lining the roadsides, and impressive courthouses and other civic centres. We ambled upon a local soul food café, ordered some grub, and ate it on some tables outside. It all sounds very sophisticated and Parisian, but in reality much of Birmingham’s appealing modern aesthetics papers over the cracks.

When Dr. Martin Luther King Junior was shot and killed in April 1968, Senator Robert F. Kennedy (brother of slain President John F. Kennedy) was running for the White House. The day after King’s assassination, Bobby, as he was affectionately known, delivered a powerful speech on what he described as a “mindless menace of violence” stalking America, angrily denouncing those who sought to tear down the walls of society. The speech talked of strangers inhabiting the nation, of people “living in a city, but not a community”. Just a few short weeks after the death of Dr. King, at the Ambassador’s Hotel in Los Angeles, Bobby Kennedy was also shot and killed. His words, of a polarised America lacking direction, moral responsibility, trust and hope, of a nation divided between men and women of different creeds and colours, races and religions, still ring true today. Behind the obvious and encouraging improvement of an increasingly progressive nation, of an African-American inside the Oval Office, of new money being invested into deprived communities, there remains divisions, hatred, misunderstanding and resentment. This is most pronounced on the streets of Birmingham, Alabama, a city which was at the heart of the civil rights movement of the 1950’s and 1960’s, which saw prolonged bus boycotts and street riots, which witnessed state troopers denying black Americans access to white schools and shops and restaurants, which saw marches and demonstrations.

Today, the Civil Rights Museum stands just one block away from a church which white supremacists bombed in 1963, killed four little girls. The museum is impressive, featuring a plethora of information and exhibitions, harrowing data and eyewitness accounts of a turbulent time. It is impressively designed, with tricks of light intended to place you, the ticket-holder, in the midst of the action, as if posing the scary question out loud, in your face, in the year 2009: “What do you think?” “Who do you agree with?” We learnt about Birmingham’s rail links, and the slaves who worked the lines, about segregation and how it pushed back the economic, political and social development of an entire people, about municipal and state law that kept a whole community separate, as an underrepresented, underfunded, underappreciated underclass.

If you go to the South today, you could drive through and fool yourself into believing that the civil rights struggle was overhyped. You could deceive yourself into thinking that today, all across America, whites and blacks and Asians and Hispanics and Jews and gentiles and gays and disabled all live together in harmony. No society is perfect, but in this part of the world, just a few decades ago, racism was essentially legally institutionalised. It has since seeped down through generations, from original slaves to their great-grandchildren, from plantation owners to their modern-day descendents. Mistrust and misunderstanding has slowly ebbed its way through to our stormy present, creating a social drift, a political divide, an economic chasm between groups, along with a near-medieval mentality of anger and resentment between them all.

So while the Civil Rights Museum is a must-see, offering so many important lessons to all of us (and goodness knows we in the UK could learn something), the real picture is at street level. For many, the Civil War is not over and the civil rights movement remains. As Dean and I ate our brunch, for example, a black man asked a table of white southerners sitting next to us for some money to buy food. They refused. This is not out of the ordinary. Very few of us randomly hand out cash on the streets of London, and I am the first to put my hand up and say that I am not a massive fan of on-site, on-demand philanthropy. Yet in London we largely ignore each other. In America, people like to talk, and so began an argument between the begging man and the affluent family. It ended with some harsh words. “You don’t know how hard it is for us”, said the Birmingham resident. “Well, we’re all Americans,” countered the father of the family sitting next to us. “Yeah but you all don’t understand how hard it is,” was the reply.

Meanwhile, on our way to the museum, Dean and I were accosted by another gentleman who clearly had nothing going for him. Living on the streets, with no prospects, no job, no qualifications, completely let down by successive governments, and I suppose in some part also by his own attitude, he tried to get our money by becoming an unofficial tour guide. Attempting to be as safe as possible, we obliged with a few dollars and made our way inside, when another man came into the ticket centre to berate us for giving him money, before he then did the exact same thing. The problem, the bitterness, the dissection of the community, runs deep.

It is perhaps wrong to pass judgment, as mere observers from another country, and one at that which has also experienced social upheaval and misapprehensions, and today suffers from a nationalist evil disguising itself as a decent political entity to impressionable down-and-outers. Yet it is also impossible to ignore civil rights in America. It is as much the story and comprehension of this magnificent country as remembering all the good points, the friendliness towards visitors, the helpfulness of its service sector, the awe-inspiring natural beauty of this vast land, the inspirational, aspirational can-do attitude of its founding ideas and ideals, bringing together in a great ethnic melting-pot the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free”.

Like much of life, we take the good with the bad, and pray for progress. In America in the twenty-first century, huge strides have been made, but much needs to be done. It is why President Obama called on the nation to enter into a new era of civic responsibility. It is why the back of a $1 bill contains a picture of an unfinished pyramid, bearing the inscription ‘Annuit Coeptis’ (‘he favours our undertaking’). The real American dream is, and always will remain, unfinished, but like The Great Gatsby himself, stretching his arms out further towards a new, fine morning, the point is to continue to strive for and work for those ideals. The alternative, the disaster, is in what Bobby Kennedy spoke about, and what is sadly crystallised still on the streets of downtown Birmingham, Alabama: cities that are not communities, borne back, as F. Scott Fitzgerald put it, “ceaselessly into the past.”

“We can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfilment they can. Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again.” Robert. F. Kennedy, 5 April 1968.

US Road Trip - Photos: Memphis

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US Road Trip - Video Diary: Memphis

Memphis: They Got Catfish On The Table

USA - Memphis, Tennessee

Memphis creeps up on you. After miles of interstate and little to report of any note, the city suddenly emerges from the roadside shrubbery, all motels, shopping malls and diners at highway exits as you approach the city. Memphis is not as big as Nashville, but certainly punches above its weight in terms of influence in proportion to size. Home of Elvis Presley, and the city where Dr. Martin Luther King Jnr was fatally shot in August 1968, it remains a key part of the American story, existing as both a civil rights pilgrimage point, and a major music industry town. After the delights of Nashville, and the country rockabilly style of music played there, Dean and I were eager to experience the real Memphis music, the authentic blues, and not just Cher’s version of ‘Walking In Memphis’, even if we did feel like we were walking ten feet up in the air down the city’s famous Beale Street.

Some have suggested that Memphis is a moth-eaten relic, relying on its former glories to bring in residents and tourists alike. To some extent this is true, as many buildings present a façade that belies a shabbier nature inside, particularly the hotels. Ours seemed grand, with a large central chandelier and extravagant carpets, but in reality it felt like nothing had changed since the 1960’s. Perhaps, however, this is no bad thing. After all, the steadfast ‘southern’ attitude towards tradition, and maintaining age-old values, may well play badly on a political and even ethical level, but in terms of sustaining a cultural identity it works wonders. As a result, while Memphis may not appear to change, it instead helps focus its historical importance, to politics and music especially. Memphis can also be used, therefore, as a microcosm of the South more generally, steeped as it is in fabled customs and conventions, whether they be right or wrong, admirable or disgraceful, by any modern standard.

After familiarising ourselves with our surroundings, Dean and I felt it was only right to try and witness these customs for ourselves, and attempt a proper Memphis experience. We headed straight for Beale Street from our hotel on Union Avenue (both mentioned in the famous song). While we did not literally see the ghost of Elvis, his spirit pervades the entire town, with his voice crooning out of open shop doors and his face adorning roadside murals and posters. Down Beale Street, similar in length to Nashville’s Broadway, Presley songs juxtaposed against classic blues from key residents of the town and surrounding region, including legends like BB King, Jonny Cash, W.C. Handy, Booker Jones, and Carl Perkins, all of whom also cut their songs in Memphis recording studios. It was an exhilarating strip to walk down, and the first time on our trip that we discovered bonafide ‘southern’ architecture, as low-rise buildings with large windows and shutters stretched out down the street, some with the sort of ‘Main Street’ bunting that you would normally see in Disneyland mock-ups of the real thing.

We settled on a bar-cum-restaurant on the corner of Beale for some dinner and local cuisine. Being Tennessee, this was still prime rib country, although Dean came close to ordering catfish. Dean’s quest for a decent catfish dinner was fast becoming a hallmark of the trip. It is a story that will stretch down through Tennessee, into Alabama and Louisiana beyond. In Memphis, despite wavering towards this most ‘southern’ of fish delicacies, Dean sided on a more staple meat offering, with the largest plate of nachos I have ever seen (and, frankly, would ever want to see again) sandwiched between us, just in case we felt the portions were a little small. Across the room, on the stage, a blues band started up, alternating between 12-bar structures, complete with warbling trumpets and honky-tonk pianos, and more soulful folksy numbers that were delivered with gusto by the lead singer, a man who barely pronounced his consonants when he sang and yet articulated everything far clearer than any of us could.

Dinner consumed, it was time to walk back up Beale towards the legendary BB King’s bar, for another round of drinks and more live music. I have not been to two cities with so much free live music on display in so many places as I witnessed in both Nashville and Memphis. Tennessee has got its priorities right: lovely looking women in cowboy hats and tight jeans, glorious music on every street, and hearty food. BB King’s maintained this perception, as the live band launched into a variety of tunes, from the traditional styles of the region, to even an impressive version of U2’s ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’. So inspired were Dean and I after our evening out in central Memphis that the final thing we did before returning to our hotel was to buy some harmonicas from a nearby store. There is a decent chance we may return to London with a full Dick Van Dyke-esque one-man-band set-up on our backs.

A further coup for the south is the weather (hurricanes aside). Yes, it can be sticky and humid, but Memphis is already far enough south for November to feel like spring back in London and, with the promise of even warmer weather to come, it was time to get the sunglasses out and abandon the parka that served me so well in chilly Boston. Our first stop the next morning took us to the second most visited site in the whole of America (the White House comes in a number one): Graceland. Famed all over the world, and travelled to by devoted Elvis fans from every part of the planet, Graceland exists today as a shrine to the King, who lived in the house for much of his adult live, and is buried there today. I was expecting a tacky American nightmare, full of blazing neon, awful tour guides, unwarranted superlatives at every turn, and random foreign people crying in the hallways, wailing at the loss of one of music’s greats. I was instead greeted by a genuinely pretty (and not as large as you might imagine) house, incredibly well maintained and run, and with a very informative tour. There were no histrionics, just a dedication to showing you where one of the twentieth century’s key icons lived and worked, and what he managed to achieve.

The house itself is postcard perfect, with a long, winding driveway past the fabled gates, up to a two-storey house complete with large windows and classic shutters, steps leading up to the front-door, and significant grassland to both the front and rear of the property. Inside, we both felt that the majority of the rooms were remarkably normal, with neat furnishings and a homely touch that most of us would no doubt be comfortable with. The excesses of global iconography, like at Michael Jackson’s Neverland in California, were absent from Graceland. It really did feel like an actual family could live in the house. The only exception to this was the Jungle Room, a bizarre concoction of carpeted floors and walls, with fake palm trees, statuettes of monkeys and elephants, oddly positioned and carved fountains, and green leather seats. That, friends, is what a lot of prescription drugs will make you do.

At the back of the house is a small swimming pool, a racket-ball building, land for horses to graze, and the graves of Elvis and his family, positioned a little weirdly at the foot of the swimming pool. Only here were there signs of his mass appeal, with flags of different nations strewn about, and messages in a variety of languages left close to the memorial, as well as a newly erected building designed as a more general Elvis museum, featuring his platinum disc sales certificates, numerous touring costumes, movie memorabilia, and much more. Beyond Graceland, back at the reception centre across the street, were two other exhibits of note: Elvis’s car collection, and his private plane, donated back to the Graceland Centre by Lisa-Marie Presley. The car collection is quite astonishing, featuring an impressive number of classic models, from Rolls Royce Silver Clouds to a convertible Mercedes and black Ferrari. The private plane included a bar, living room and bedroom: a far cry from British Airways economy.

Graceland, then, could have been a disaster. Somehow, the Trust that leases and operates the site has managed to tone down the excesses of a brilliant but bizarre man enough for genuine information about his life and music to filter out. Presley’s influence is enormous, even today. To set the tone of the scale of his popularity, more people across the globe watched the live televised broadcast of a touring stop in Honolulu, Hawaii, than the footage of man landing on the moon in 1969. Some say Elvis is still alive. These people are delusional. All that lives on is the music. Yet what music it is, and what a voice! Effortlessly crooning through a succession of hits, that Tennessee drawl will outlive any piece of real estate, even if Graceland is a genuinely (and surprisingly) informative and pleasurable way to spend a few hours.

From Graceland, situated just a few miles out of town on the aptly named Elvis Presley Boulevard, Dean and I travelled to Sun Studio. The story of Sun Studios reads like a who’s who of early modern music. Sam Phillips founded Sun Records in 1952. He would travel around with a portable (and hilariously massive) recording system, before settle down in Memphis and leasing a studio. Although in a major music venue, Phillips struggled to get people through the door to cut their records with him and faced financial ruin. A number of performers were in Memphis at the time, including a young Elvis, as well as Jonny Cash, Roy Orbison, BB King, and Jerry Lee Lewis. Elvis himself used the studios as an eighteen-year-old amateur, telling the receptionist he wanted to record a song for his mother’s birthday as he was too shy and polite to say that he wanted to record music as a career. Sam Phillips was not impressed with what Elvis recorded, and continually rebuffed the young man’s attempts to get work as a vocalist for different groups that Phillips assembled to record various tracks. Eventually, a year later, and simply due to the fact that nobody else was available, Phillips brought Elvis in. It was a disaster, as Phillips hated the ballads Elvis was singing. He told the band to pack up, and headed back for the editor’s suite, while Elvis, in a desperate and final attempt to get noticed, began singing a rocked up version of ‘That’s Alright (Mama)’. Finally, Phillips was impressed, and saw in Elvis’s odd dancing style and swooping vocals an opportunity to fuse early blues with the ultra-modern rock’n’roll of the time. Signing Elvis was a masterstroke (for all concerned). It helped Phillips pay off his many debts, especially when he sold his contract with Elvis to RCA for a then astronomical figure. It released funds for Phillips to bring in to Sun Records a whole host of Memphis-based unsigned artists who went on to have worldwide hits for the label, including Jonny Cash.

Sun Studios is still a functioning studio to this day, but also runs tours, and Dean and I were excited to stand in the same room that Elvis himself had stood in all those years ago. The walls, tiled floor, glass partition to the producing suite, indeed the entire set-up was exactly as it was back in the 1950’s, even down to taped marks on the floor for where musicians and vocalists were required to stand. We were able to position ourselves at the same spot Elvis was in when he achieved his big break, and even played around with an original microphone from that time also. This helps illustrate the idea that the King lives on. Elvis may well have left the building, but you cannot help but feel connected to him and his contemporaries when you stand in the very room that started the story.

Our day of musical inspiration was rounded-up nicely by a trip to the Gibson guitar factory, just around the corner from Beale Street. As an owner of a cherry red Gibson Epiphone Riviera, this was obviously rather exciting, and our tour took us deep into the main factory warehouse where the guitars are manufactured. It was bizarre to look at the hollow, wooden shells that would soon become musical instruments, and my respect for Gibson has only been enhanced by witnessing the dedication that goes into making a guitar. It is a painstaking process, sped up by modern lathes, but still requiring a steady hand (and musical ear) by individual workers who test and re-test the final models, and paint on the legendary Gibson colours (sunburst, black, cherry red, and white) by hand, one guitar at a time. From learning about music and musicians earlier on in the day, it was only appropriate to finish off with a guide to how the instruments needed to produce such sounds and create such genius are made.

It was also a fitting end to our tour of musical America (apart from a sojourn in New Orleans to come). We had the razzmatazz of New York, with its show tunes and modern indie rock, the motown of Detroit and surrounding Michigan, the jazz and urban rap of Chicago, as well as Tennessee’s big three: country, blues and rock’n’roll in Nashville and Memphis. Singing our hearts out as we left this remarkable, inspiring and exciting state, Dean and I set a course for an even deeper southern landmark: Birmingham, Alabama, with its controversial socio-political history and divided present. From music, to politics and society: we’ll be teaching American Studies at universities across the UK upon our return.

US Road Trip - Photos: Nashville

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US Road Trip - Video Diary: Nashville

Nashville: Hoe Downing To The CMA’s

USA - Nashville, Tennessee

I have written in a number of unconventional places before: on a beach in Italy, on a train heading towards New York, in a plane heading over mainland Europe. However, no location comes close to the utter randomness of my current literary situation, sitting in a Jeep Patriot, driven by Dean, with my laptop connected to the car’s panel power supply, driving through the night in rural Alabama. Quite literally nothing exists in between the cities of this state, save for signs reminding drivers to watch out for crossing deer, an F15 fighter jet positioned by the side of the road for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and the occasional hillbilly stopping to fill his truck up with petrol before returning to his swampland dwelling, where he no doubt lives with his sister who is also his cousin, mother and wife.

Right here, right now, we are in the middle of nowhere. Not so long ago, however, Dean and I were in the state of Tennessee, and what a state it is! With two large cities in Nashville and Memphis, it has major urban zones, coupled with gentle rolling hills and beautiful farmland for countryside. We arrived in Nashville on a Tuesday, late in the afternoon, and a little tired from the drive through Kentucky to our destination. We had been forewarned at the Jim Beam Distillery in Clermont, Kentucky, that Nashville would be a busy, bustling metropolis over the days we were visiting, due mainly to the 43rd annual Country Music Awards. Nashville certainly did not disappoint, dishing up two nights of incredible music in a city with a rich heritage for the infamous country style of southern states. Nashville is described by many as the capital of American music, and it lived up to this billing admirably. A blaze of neon greets visitors to Broadway, with a mile strip of live music venues, bellowing out their gospel and blues, country and western, rockabilly and popular styles to the pedestrians. Signposts to famous recording artists who have indelible links to Nashville are everywhere to be found. Even the zebra crossing boxes on the sidewalk play music. Artists like The Everly Brothers, Buddy Holly, Hank Williams, Elvis Presley, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Dolly Parton, and many more, all came to Nashville to cut their records. It was genuinely inspiring to be in a city that so inspired them in turn.

First impressions were good, then, and the view that we were now truly in the ‘South’ was further enhanced by the number of cowboy hats and boots worn liberally by the men and women of the town. Most of the men had cowboy hats and blue jeans; the women wore knee-high boots made of exotic leathers and alligator skins. After checking in to our hotel, Dean and I headed towards the main part of downtown, predominantly Broadway and the roads off of it. Nashville is famous for music, but Tennessee also has a burgeoning reputation for slow-cooked pork, either as ribs or as a succulent shoulder joint. Abandoning our previous commitment to a strict kashrut-based trip to America, we devoured our cooked swine with glee. The rib joint had a relaxed vibe, with western music setting the tone. Soon the beers flowed and Dean and I, suitably full up on meat Moses would have frowned at, headed on to some live music bars. What a spectacle unfolded! Each bar had a live band of impressive quality, with guitar players and pianists combining with fiddles and vocals to produce sublime music. Forget spending thousands of pounds on a band for a wedding or Barmitzvah; just come to Nashville and take one of the many talented groups here, all of whom play for the love of the music rather than a desire for monetary recompense (although the tips flow heavily at the end of each set, and rightly so). Equally exciting to experience was the reaction to the music of those gathered in the bars. It is clear that the locals of Nashville grow up with live music. They grabbed their partners and either danced in a traditional two-step, or alternatively bopped solo, moving their legs to the rhythm in a sort-of Charleston manoeuvre, only with a sharper kick at the end. Cries of “Hell yeah!” and “Alright now!” were heard over the top of the vocals, as the folk of Nashville sounded their appreciation. To be in such venues, alongside the musicians (who would later mingle with everyone else like mere mortals) and the people they play to every night, was thrilling, and made us all the more determined to enjoy our next full day in Nashville, which would take us to the Musicians’ Hall of Fame, the Country Music Hall of Fame, RCA Recording Studio B and the Country Music Awards.

Content with our first night, and beginning to grow accustomed to the music lifestyle of the South, we were greeted on Wednesday morning with beautiful blue skies. Nashville glinted in the late morning sun, and was made to look even more impressive due to the huge number of uniformed military officials walking around the town. It was Veterans Day, or Remembrance Day back in the UK. On this day, Americans come together to give thanks to those who have fought wars in her name, to remember those who died in battle, and those who still serve today. Much like in the UK, it is a time for reflection and respect for genuine heroes. In America, military personnel are regarded with a reverence that shames our own attitudes back home. For a few brief moments that Wednesday morning it was hard not to be caught up in the emotion of the proceedings, especially with the Stars & Stripes (so common all over every town in America) suspended at half-mast.

Nashville contended with both a Veterans Day parade, and numerous road closures as part of the city’s preparations for the CMA’s that evening. As a result, our route through to the Musicians’ Hall of Fame, just outside the main downtown, was a little more complicated than first anticipated. Nonetheless, it was worth the walk, as we were greeted by a museum that perhaps does not get as much attention as it should. Dedicated to the men behind the stars, to the session musicians who helped form the greatest records of all time, the Hall of Fame contains eyewitness anecdotes, archived film footage, voice recordings, photos, artefacts and musical instruments belonging to some of the great unsung heroes of music. It also helped us learn more about the stars as well. Hearing how Elvis Presley warmed up, or how many takes it took for Dolly Parton to record ‘I Will Always Love You’ helps develop a greater knowledge of the legends of country music, which in turn influenced much of the music we take for granted today. Listen to an early Everly Brothers record, and you will hear just how similar early records by The Beatles sound, or how Simon & Garfunkel harmonies have a near-identical feel.

Moving on from the Musicians Hall of Fame was a trip to Nashville’s top attraction: the Country Music Hall of Fame, which includes a museum and exhibition honouring the very best of country music, and later rock and pop stars who cite country as a defining influence, as well as a tour of the legendary RCA Studio B, where Elvis himself cut some of his finest records. For two young men who had spent many a Haberdashers’ lunch hour playing on the guitars and pianos of the Habs Music Department, this was like manna from heaven (ironic, given the pork consumed earlier). We boarded a tour bus and were greeted by Anita, our guide. Anita was a fan of our accents, as she pointed out on a number of occasions. Interestingly, she had less time for the Welsh accent, articulated by the moody Welsh couple who left the tour early and seemed less than enthusiastic in their response to Dean and I saluting them as fellow Brits abroad. That minor disappointment aside, the bus ambled its way towards RCA Studio B, still used occasionally today as a recording space, and sitting like a behemoth bestriding the music industry. RCA Studio B, alongside Sun Studios in Memphis and Abbey Road in London, has left an indelible mark on the history of music and popular culture. It was here, often at strange hours of the early morning, that Elvis Presley cut records like ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight’, and where Hank Williams once brought Paul McCartney, and subsequently George Harrison, to make music. The sense of history, then, is palpable, with microphone stands left in their original positions, gigantic four-track recorders (nowadays easily placed in the palm of your hand) sitting heavily on the tiled floors, and stand-up pianos waiting to be played (not allowed, unfortunately). The closest we got to actually playing music was a brief F#-minor chord by me on a celeste. We also enjoyed some classic music as the tour progressed, and were fascinated to hear the development of basic gospel sounds into twelve-bar blues and close harmonies that would later become the foundations of rock’n’roll.

Back at the Country Music Hall of Fame, Dean and I also enjoyed four floors of music and popular culture memorabilia and exhibitions, with real manuscripts, recordings, instruments, photos, interactive zones, and much more, detailing the careers of all the great country music artists and their impact. Hank Williams, understandably, was given plenty of attention, given his prominence as perhaps the first country artist with mass appeal, only to give in to drink and drugs before his career could reach the legendary status of other artists who took on the baton from him.

Meanwhile, outside the actual Hall of Fame building, a sense of expectation and excitement was growing by the minute. Flashbulbs flickered in the Magic Hour evening sky, laser and light beams shone high up above the skyline, girls were screaming in high-pitched wails of energy, men and women were dolled up to the nines, either walking along, or gazing agonisingly at, a long, red carpet, while military personnel in dress uniform paraded up and down. Dean and I, stumbling out of the Hall of Fame in a musical reverie already, found ourselves right in the middle of the Country Music Awards pre-game. Pushing our way through the crowds, we found ourselves by the barriers to the red carpet itself, taking in the excitement and intrigue of high-profile celebrity events, straining our necks forwards at the sight of each limousine, launching into a paparazzi-style frenzy of photography skills at each sight and sound. In front of us were two girls from Indiana who were actually attending the awards. So excited were they about taking photos of the red carpet that they forgot they actually had to walk down it. Away they scuttled to change and reappear as bonafide ticket-holders, entrusting Dean and I with the awesome responsibility of taking as many photos of Taylor Swift as possible for them. Taylor Swift is nineteen years old, has already sold millions of records, and has broken the top ten in the UK alongside a succession of number one hits in America. She was pretty much the only celebrity at the CMA’s that Dean and I had even heard of, let alone recognised. We simply could not let Maggie and Alex, our two new friends from Indiana, down, so there we stood, as the daylight faded into a slightly colder evening than we had been experiencing recently, waiting patiently for Taylor Swift to grace us with her presence. As the most famous celebrity at the awards, naturally she arrived last, before schmoozing the rope line with admirable staying-power, providing Dean with a number of excellent photo opportunities with his new Nikon telephoto lens.

After a brief return to our hotel room, we emerged back into the Nashville night, mingling with the crowds pouring out of the awards. The main streets were thronged with people, and music was everywhere. We ended up in a bustling joint called Rippy’s. Meat and drink was consumed, and it was not long before the obvious female attention came our way. A girl called Courtney introduced herself to us, claiming we were dead-ringers for American pop outfit The Jonas Brothers, famed for their big hair and celibacy wristbands. Well, Dean and I both have big hair, but perhaps that is where the comparison should end. Nevertheless, we chatted with Courtney for a while as we listened to a number of performers on the main stage in the corner of the bar. The system for live performances in bars and clubs in Nashville is neatly communal. The core members of the group, usually lead guitar, bass and drums tend to stay the same throughout the evening, but others take guest spots on guitar and vocals during the set, while meandering through the crowds with tip jars when not on stage. For happy punters like Dean and I, it was a great opportunity to talk to those who had just been performing, questioning them on how much practice it takes to get that proficient and who they draw their inspiration from. One guitarist in Rippy’s was from Scotland, and was really quite remarkable. He moved his fingers up and down the fret-board so quickly they were blurs of light. Rippy’s is a fine example of the Nashville social scene, drawing in a crowd of all ages, from older couples in cowboy hats and boots who dance close together in probably the same manner they have done since their High School prom decades before, to young twentysomethings who want to sample a night out without the hip-hop of the northern cities. You do not have to be a country music fan to enjoy Nashville, just a fan of music itself, of how it is used to bring people together and, in the case of this entire region, shape communities and dreamers alike.

Sad to be leaving Nashville, but exhilarated from the experience, the next morning we loaded up the Jeep once again and headed out for the open road. From one music capital to another: we’d be walking in Memphis by the end of the day.