The next day we visit the Country Music Hall of Fame which stands at one end of the incredible cheek-to-jowl line-up of live concerts on Broadway. It is a terrific museum of country which walks you through the whole history of the genre with all the rhinestone-studded guitars and hideous clothing on display, with walls and walls of gold and platinum records. Again, as at Dollywood, I am impressed by the virtual absence of black people, both among the clientele and in the exhibits.

Afterwards we follow up on a recommendation from Mark for a place off the strip for authentic southern cuisine the way the locals eat it. We need a break from barbecue at this point so Mark has suggested a “meat and three” (a meat main and three side dishes, often served cafeteria style).

We line up at Arnold’s, an out of the way place which is very busy with a clientele from all walks of life but apparently utterly undiscovered by tourists. A guy behind the counter uses a knife the size of a sword to shave paper-thin slices off a huge joint of roast beef into a pile for us, served with okra, grits, and cornbread. The fare is simple and incredibly good, the perfect antidote to the overly sweet stuff we’ve been eating. And the total cost is less than the tip we were paying for a meal in New York.

Into the evening I am so enthusiastic about the live music in the bars and my newfound tolerance for country music that I want to hear more. We work up a pleasant buzz on American beer and hop from bar to bar, listening to the twang of steel guitars, dobros, and banjos. As the evening progresses, we get further from the commercial heart of the strip and the bars get a bit seedier and not all the music is live.

At one point, we are stopped by a doorman who demands to see ID. I can’t find my wallet but I’m still determined to go in. In the logical world reserved for people who have had too much to drink, I decided to argue with the doorman. I have been a doorman myself and ordinarily I know that arguing with a doorman about anything is a clear sign to the doorman and everybody else that you are too drunk to go inside. In this case things worked out differently, to my astonishment. I told him I was waaaay over 21, and he said it didn’t matter, it was state law that I had to produce “something with a photo on it”. Thinking I was clever I told him my name was Andrew Jackson. My brilliant plan was to whip out a twenty-dollar bill with a picture of Andrew Jackson on it. But when I pulled out the sad little wad of wadded-up bills from my pockets, all I had was a fistful of singles. So I said, no, wait, my name is actually George Washington and uncrumpled a bill to show him the picture. This must have been the most pathetic ruse anyone has ever used in the history of bar-hopping-past-what-should-have-been-your-bedtime. But it worked! He let me in! Either he thought I was funny or the state of Tennessee has the lowest standards for photo ID I have ever seen. My advice is don’t try this trick in New York.

 

In the end, Egon announces that he is fed up with all the twanging and wants to have a drink in a quiet place and I realize I may have been overdoing my foray into country (I tend not to do anything halfway). We stumble into Merchant’s, which is about the opposite of all the bars we’ve been in. It is much more brightly lit, and you can see that the place is clean and everyone is well behaved. There were no signs of country music; the stereo system is playing the Black Keys at a pleasant volume. The bartender wouldn’t have looked out of place in a stylish bar in New York’s Village. We finish up our evening conversing over some excellent whiskey-based cocktails.