This started out as a blog about the illness of John Prine, but, tragically and not unexpectedly, he succumbed the other day to COVID-19. It’s a major loss to us as a nation when a humanist who also is a true artist is gone.
And hell, I’ll just miss him as a guy. But I’ve spoken of this before, so no sense revisiting.
A lot has been lost in this COVID world.
Today, maybe I’ll talk about CMA Fest. Gone for this year. Will it ever return?
I was more concerned about Prine, of course, but I came out on the losing side.
But the death of Fan Fair -- it’ll never be CMA Fest to this old newspaperman who lost too much sweat and sleep over at the Fairgrounds -- of course, is terrible news for the city. But then as my old pals would have said, given the state of things these days “It can’t get much worse.” That’s about when Nashville’s Mayor Mister Fluffy Eyebows … aka John (My brother is a congressman) Cooper announces the need for a hefty property tax increase.
I don’t want to comment on that other than to say the fool on the hill sees the sun going down.
Anyway, back to Fan Fair and its demise for now and perhaps forever and ever, Amen. I really hope not, as this is a massive tourist draw, filling up the hotels and motels and restaurants and bars and whorehouses of Music City. But apparently none of the taxes from that $65 million annual “take” by the city goes to help property taxes? Help schools? Pay for lunches? Get the mayor an eyebrow trimmer?
Actually, the trimmer probably comes from city coffers. But all the tourism dollars from Fan Fair and from all of those drunken, puking, lovely-when-they-turn-over-and-skirts-drop-over-their-faces bachelorettes apparently do not go to support the city. Bachelorette babies, keep coming. Someone needs to keep buying those three-for-one boots. Well, actually, bachelorettes, please return, come back to us, when this virus leaves.
Unless we’re all dead. I told my wife to throw my ashes in the backyard or in the stream that runs through it. Maybe do one of those Lord Jim sendoffs. A flaming raft going down Seven Mile Creek might draw unwanted attention by the time it gets to Mill Creek, though. I’m hoping I have time to figure out other details and the truth.
Truth? What is the truth? I’ve been a so-called coward and a so-called hero, and there’s not the thickness of a piece of paper between them. Maybe cowards and heroes are just ordinary men, who for just a split second do something that is out of the ordinary. That’s all. At least according to Joe Conrad and Peter O’Toole.
Longtime entertainment editor (defrocked, though seldom naked) and columnist for local newspapers – I now write some for Nashville Ledger – I’ve covered a lot of what I still refer to as “Fan Fairs” during the last few decades.
Hell, I was there when Garth Brooks, then a humble and thin guy who may have even had hair, stayed at his Fan Fair booth for 24 hours, signing anything, living or dead, that fans would put in front of him. His wife, Sandy, a fine songwriter and nice woman, often was there at his side. With Trisha. Joking here. I love Garth, who refers to himself in third person “Garth is very unhappy with you Tim. Garth thinks Tim needs to shave his skull and give Garth some of his hair.”
I also love Trisha and thought it piss-poor judgment that when the CMA Awards were held last fall, she was not onstage for the female icons segment. Oh, I like that hockey-loving little girl from American Idol fine, but Trisha opened doors. Like Reba. And me, if a lady is coming and needs to get inside. I may not be “old-fashioned” but my mom trained a gentleman.
Of course, that Garthfest was out at the old Fairgrounds, same place I saw George Jones and Tammy Wynette reunite for their fans and produce new memories. George later became a friend and he died still owing me a steak dinner. I should go down and tell that story to all the pilgrims at his grave at Woodlawn…. Except no one is out there these days. COVID-19 robs even the dead of their glory. I’m sure the Possum’s grave is lonely. Course, Paycheck is nearby.
Anyway, I also saw the Fan Fair debut of Billy Ray Cyrus and his Presley imitation “Achy Breaky Heart.” Still a catchy song, though I like “Old Town Road,” his pairing with flamingly hot, pink suited and cocksure Lil Nas X, better.
Back in those days, before the CMA Fest became a huge banner event for Korporate Amerikan greed, I really loved it out at the Fairgrounds, also the world headquarters of the dream to be an international soccer hub when we don't support an over-priced Minor League baseball team.
Everyone from Beach Boys to Jo Dee Messina and Garth Brooks and Trisha (they were otherwise engaged back then, as I noted above) came out to the Fairgrounds back then. Helter-skelter in the summer swelter. Oh yeah, I did spend a couple of hours there with Jo Dee one summer. She was hot (literally, figuratively and otherwise).
What happened to her? I mean she was nice and could sing fine. Well, there were some major health issues.
And, of course, this is a flavor-of-the-month world. Jo Dee’s far from that.
For her, it’s a long way from the edge of the center ring filled with groomed hopefuls in Nashville to the Gobbler Theater in Johnson Creek, Wisconsin.
Of course, she’s still talented and, without going into details, she is a survivor, and I wish her well. Hell, I’d rather be at the old Gobbler myself these days. Speaking of which, wild turkeys since have begun to populate the hill behind my house. Got deer, fox, raccoons, skunks, opossums and coyotes. And turkey till the coyotes find them.
As for Jo Dee, she was a kinda star on that day as we hung out between a security guard and a porta potty – I visited with both -- talking country music, Fan Fair dreams realized and just about being people.
I liked her and the Fairgrounds Fan Fair guard and hope this summer is fruitful for them both. The guard’s probably dead by now. I hope he had a nice life and enjoyed my company. If he is alive, he’s old and I hope hiding from this fucking virus.
At the old Fan Fair, I also got to interview the quadruple amputee who was with his buddies from Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, or somewhere. They were anxious to get inside on the day that Billy Ray shook what then was something of a Springsteen-patterned tush. I really liked the guy in the wheelchair. A lot. Hell, he was handicapped, but he was driven to keep up with his buddies and have fun. And he swore like the proverbial drunken sailor. I was able to keep up just fine.
While on the subject of Springsteen -- who is as country as Florida-Georgia Line, actually would blow all the country “rock” pretenders off the stage if he was to participate in what I still call “Fan Fair”-- I looked up his web page to find out he and his wife are doing well, riding horses and singing songs, while waiting out the virus at their spread in New Jersey while trying to raise money for the New Jersey Pandemic Relief Fund.
Speaking of Bruce, man do I miss Tom Petty. All I need to say there, but Tom has been with me a lot these last few months. And now, well, I feel like we’re all free-fallin’ baby. And I’ve been a good boy.
Let’s see here. I was talking about the CMA Fest. See I did it. I didn’t call it Fan Fair. I hope it’s back next year.
Course I hope a lot of things are back next year. I love the NFL above all sports, though back when I used to hang out with Muhammad Ali, I preferred boxing. And I like baseball because my Grandpa Champ used to listen to the Detroit Tigers on the radio back when he was collecting admission to the beach at Walnut Lake, Michigan.
And he smoked pipes all the while. He died almost a half-century ago. I’ve got his pipes in his office. I don’t smoke tobacco or otherwise anymore. I also have a War Is Over! (If You Want It) sign from John and Yoko’s web site. And I know war isn’t over. I saw it on Homeland Sunday night. Damn, that Carrie sure is a character, isn’t she?
Series almost over, so I think Saul will kill the weak-kneed fucker who is the president in the show.
Happy endings. Happy endings.
Oh yeah, back to the Tigers for a second. See a blog I wrote earlier this week about the death of Al Kaline. In today’s “all-for-me” sports world, he’d have been a supermillionaire thanks to marketers of ED medications, four-wheel drive cars that never leave the highway and appearances on Jimmy Kimmel. But most people didn't know who he was when he died. What in the hell is a "K-line?" asked an adviser to Mitch McConnell.
Before I move on, I should say I like Jimmy Kimmel. I'd like to have coffee with him sometime.
I’m going upstairs to watch the news, where some kid who never really paid his or her dues as a journalist by learning how to write obits or take box scores or ask unbiased questions or learned how to use the AP Stylebook or read the Constitution will tell America how to think.
I am cheering for Cuomo. This pandemic is shitty.
It killed John Prine.
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