Earth Hour Falls on Lower Broadway

While the Sommet Center disgorged its hockey crowd and a few hundred people lingered while Jo Dee Messina performed on its the arena's plaza, others assembled for the spectacle of a voluntarily dark Downtown.

Talking it over with some friends, I decided a glimpse of Downtown without its nighttime night would be worthwhile.

After witnessing Villanova’s last-second victory over Pitt, I took to wandering thanks to the close-off sections of Lower Broadway. With 8:30 nearing, I decided to watch the darkness hit outside the Ernest Tubb Record Store.

From my view, Tubb’s killed its sign first, then the whole block went on both sides.

A glorious cheer came from the thousands assembled, who quickly took advantage of the now car-free blocks of Lower Broadway (more on that later).

Save for a few wet blankets, the entirety of Lower Broadway underwent a total transformation. All the neon and glitz that birthed the Nashvegas nickname vanished, even as the music continued.

The Lower Broadway honky-tonks weren’t alone – much of downtown went, from the radio tower at the Sommet Center to the spires of the Batman Building. Everyone fell into the dark, seemed to love it.

Only the police barricades at the intersections broke the darkness, assaulting the eyes and making me glad I never experienced their flashing in a less comfortable setting.

An hour later, Nashvegas returned to its usual business of glass-blown signs and thick traffic traversing the Lower Broadway. The music never stopped, nor the occasional musician shoving a tip jar in your face when you only arrived in time to catch half of their bearable Allman Brothers cover before they took their break (sorry guys, I only tip after hearing three songs).

Meandering through the sidewalk and open road, I heard someone yell, “This is just like Savannah!”

Of course, the waterfront does come with the ability to walk around with a drink, but the freedom to stroll without worrying about tank-framed SUVs attempting to shove their way through a crowded crosswalk.

The good message behind Earth Hour aside, it s celebration opens up another argument – closing sections of Lower Broadway to automobiles, whether temporary or permanently. New York City will soon create a pedestrian zone on the streets around Time Square

Now, Nashville merchants would probably cry foul – especially those parking lots and valet services right on Broadway – so I don’t expect a permanent closure anytime soon. While onstreet parking would vanish if permanently closed, the trade-off would be more space for more people plus space for business kiosks on the former roadway. With all the streets crossing Broadway and the cost to close the streets, this won't even get consideration in the short term.

Still, think about the weekends. Thousands hit Lower Broadway, and the ability to wander freely would ease the pedestrian congestion. Motorists refuse to accept the dominance of pedestrians in the area. The idea of a leadfoot running down someone legally in the street is hardly far-fetched; with those volumes of people, I wonder why it doesn’t happen more often.

If Downtown hosts one of its bigger events, it could go with temporary closures, letting people experience Lower Broadway free of vehicles. Titans games, Predators games or even big concerts could also be cause for closing off the street. If they can do it for Earth Hour, certainly Nashville can look at closing Broadway on other occasions.

Earth Hour highlighted climate issues, but through the darkness, it illustrated the potential for a much more lively Lower Broadway.

Wow, Somebody Who Doesn't Know Me Read This Thing

While it was not my proudest moment in the new media - it's hard to show pride in what I cannot remember - the folks at Richard Thompson's Web site grabbed a link to the review I posted of his Nashville show .

I went to see if the site had added links to any Nashville reviews only to discover they found mine. It almost makes me wished I'd not spend so much time writing about my brew intake for the evening.

Gene Ween Trots Out Stellar Rarities

After my last Ween experience, I walked into the Exit/In Tuesday with great trepidation.

Could Gene Ween (Aaron Freeman) playing solo exorcise the demons from that awful show in Columbus five years ago, or would I regret not tackling my laundry instead?

Starting with the country twang of Roger Miller's Kansas City Star, Gene Ween made ample amends for the other show.

With the band on hiatus, Gene Ween assembled band and took a set of seldom-heard Ween tracks on the road. While no one would call it Ween without Gene's partner in crime, Dean Ween, this band performed a different task by weaving B-sides, side project tracks and choices covers into a cohesive whole.

Gene Ween looked overweight but happy and sober, as opposed to the skinny, strung-out image he cut for much of the band's history. He jawed a little with the audience of Ween diehards while wolfing down cigarettes between and during some songs.

Backed by Ween regulars Bassist Dave Dreiwitz, guitarist Scott Metzger and drummer Joe Russo, Gene Ween put on numerous genre exercises, moving from Miller's country onto light psychedelia, Beatles-style pop-rock and electric blues.

The trademark Ween weirdness got its due, although Gene Ween played it straight for much of the set. Any time he seemed too straightforward, he knew to return to an oddball anthem. He could even subvert a classic - delivering the most warped version of Mr. Sandman ever.

Marshalling through a parade of rarities from Ween and its side projects, Gene Ween dragged out a rejected theme for the Seth Green sitcom Greg the Bunny (Unfortunately, Ween's rejected Pizza Hut theme didn't make the cut). With Let's Get Divorced, he spat nasty lyrics over a gurgling, off-kilter tuba that Tom Waits would have approved of.

On the surprisingly poignant So Long, Jerry, Ween eulogizes Grateful Dead frontman Jerry Garcia above a Dead-esque country rock beat. This leftover from 12 Golden Country Greats could have easily fit on that record.

The band calmed the European techno beat of Friends into a somewhat heavy rocker, with the intentionally idiotic lyrics fitting perfectly with the new arrangement.

The Gene Ween Band might just be an excuse to run through some old favorites and choice covers, but on this night, they proved Ween has plenty of gems that deserve a live spotlight.

Plus, I can finally forgive them for stinking it up in Columbus all those years ago.

Good Days Are Hard After Dreams About Dying

Somewhere in the murk of subconscious, my pickled brain produced this lovely one-act dream.

Dreams of dying are rare for me; it's been almost seven years, and the last one was questionable.

Sunday's episode was not, as I felt life exiting my limbs and my soul/consciousness/whatever makes us tick slowly creeping away despite my best efforts.

Near as I can tell, I was being treated for some disease or subject to some bizarre lab experiment; the lab techs attached the white plastic box to the side of my head. The box delivered some type of chemical or drug directly into my brain.

A major illness was news to me; moments before I had been hanging out in one of the imagined apartments my mind cobbled together a suitable home.

It could have been a chemo treatment or just some sadism on part of the lab techs. My protests to the lab techs were dutifully ignored.

I had convinced myself it was heroin in the white box, and forcibly removed the device over the protests of my white-coated keepers.

Upon standing, I drifted from myself with a wooziness unlike any other - my limbs swooned because the life literally leeched away from them. The drifting worsened as I fell back to sit on the exam. Everything became washed out as I roared back to consciousness.

This is one of those classic "nothing is more boring than other people describing their dreams" moments. But brushing death in REM sleep always fascinates and horrifies me.

God, those dreams are terrible.

Do you hear that, God?

Newman Owns Indie Pop at the Mercy Lounge

Despite my gripes with the pillars that ruin sightlines at the Mercy Lounge and Cannery Ballroom, the smaller room has grown on me.

Whether packed or almost empty, you can’t beat its intimacy. Plus, the stage hasn’t been shoved into the corner as with the ballroom.

A.C Newman played downstairs in April 2008 with his main outfit, indie rock collective New Pornographers, but he barely drew 100 people for his solo set Saturday night.

The tiny crowd did not diminish Newman’s performance. Without Neko Case as part of the band, Newman’s following thins rapidly, but the strength of the music never wavers.

On his own, Newman just released Get Guilty. Along with its predecessor, The Slow Wonder, Newman’s albums teach vivid lessons in catchy pop songwriting. His songwriting might come off as too simple for some tastes, but Newman finds those hooky riffs then runs with them.

The Broken West opened, failing to till new ground with their mainline indie rock. Only the vocalist’s husky tones kept them from qualifying as emo. Songs built on power chords submerged the keyboards which might have let Broken West branch out. One song would not have sounded out of place on Joe Jackson’s Look Sharp! During the second half of their set, vocalist Ross Flournoy came close to channeling Jeff Tweedy. At best, they were exuberantbut nondescript.

Newman and company began with the anthemic There Are 10 Or Maybe 12, Its wry lyrics about only being able to teach so much return to its touchstone line, “Make of that what you will” to finish every verse. Keys and violin fleshed out these songs, breaking Newman from the indie rock pack.

Punchy, distorted guitar chords propelled Miracle Drug, a pepped-up track from Slow Wonder. It contrasted well with the steady build-up of Like a Hitman, Like a Dancer, in which the instruments attacked in short bursts.

In the banter department, Newman threw some Toby Keith jokes at the crowd and echoes the barbs locals fling at Lower Broadway. Newman’s solo material does not veer drastically away from the New Pornographers. A few songs, notably All of My Days and All of My Days Off, could have been plucked directly from the other band’s oeuvre.

I don’t know where the Palace At 4 a.m. lies but based on Newman’s lyrics, I want to hang out there. His strength lies in taking seemingly nonsensical titles like Submarines of Stockholm then spinning indie pop gold from them. The gentle-natured Prophets took up the same mantle.

If Newman and his band lacked anything, it was spontaneity; the songs were indistinguishable from the studio version.

Still, Newman’s skill at songcraft translates easily to the stage. Not many can claim the prowess with blue-collar rock he radiated toward the Mercy’s small crowd.

Score Contributes to Man on Wire's Success

Without its ramshackle classical soundtrack, Man on Wire would have struggled to find its balance.

Maybe I'm being a bit harsh - Man on Wire would likely hold together fine as a film without its companion score. Available only as a pricey import (Strike One), I had to turn Amazon's download store, which gave me the full 70 minutes for under $10.

What a spectrum of sound and emotion lies among those songs.

Primarily composed by Michael Nyman, they are virtually inseparable from the film, even thought they come from Nyman's past film scores; he wrote the music for The Piano and dozens of art-house features, including a personal oddball Shakespearean favorite (Prospero's Books).

Opening on Fish Beach, the song sounds slightly removed from standard film score fare and a little richer for it. History of the Insipid slows to a crawl after a woodwind beginning, with a tickled piano and restrained strings.

An Eye for Optical Theory thrives on its competing strings and horns, sounding like a Danny Elfman composition stripped of all its excess and eye-rolling silliness. It's easily to most dynamic song here, quite an accomplishment given the competition.

Sadness runs through most of these melodies. The insistent piano of Passage de L'Egalite just grows louder, a pack of ignored enemies demanding to be heard.

Dreams of a Journey defies that tone. Light and soaring, a cello rhythm chugs in the distance like a passenger train. The song suits an airplane flight on a slightly chilly morning ( the image involuntary enters my brain every time I heard those opening notes).

The slow crescendo of Trysting Fields/Sheep 'n' Tides comes with a wonderful surprise, breaking it a speedy waltz tempo that perfectly fits the scene Petit's post-walk escapades with a beautiful stranger in New York.

At the end comes to only track I really needed was the last 3 Gymnopedies -Gymnopedie No. 1 by Pascal Roge. Played over the climax of Petit's walk between the towers, I couldn't imagine anything else but the gentle, lonely piano playing as the rope walker began his long-dreamt task of traversing a rope strung between the world's tallest buildings.

Roge triumphs as well as Nyman, expressing so much emotion to the depiction of a man risking his life for a moment and achievement that no one else will ever known.

The Pogues Tear Up Manhattan

A few minutes before the Pogues took to the Roseland Ballroom stage, an old colleague from Columbus told me he heard a rumor that Shane MacGowan stopped drinking.

MacGowan staggered out behind the band members, clutching the wine bottle and squelching all those rumors.

Rumors that he finally excised those rotten stumps from his mouth in exchange for dentures also proved false. Staring too long at his toothless grin was the Irish equivalent of staring into the Ark of the Covenant.

Despite sound marble-mouthed on a number of recent live recordings, MacGowan snapped into form on every song he led. Between them, he slurred and staggered, heading offstage every two or three songs to let tin whistler Spider Stacey take the mic on Tuesday Morning and a handful of others.

Now, the Pogues called for a little moshing - not on the level of speed metal or hardcore punk, but a little shoving and dancing. It started with the first notes of Streams of Whiskey and resumed whenever the songs hit a certain speed.

But the 300-pound guy and his cohorts in front of us didn’t comprehend that getting piss-drunk and relying on your fellow concertgoers to keep you off the floor wasn’t kosher. For half the concert, we couldn’t escape these nimrods. One lost his glasses when a final round of moshing started to draw punches in addition to the shoves. I felt a bit of gleeat seeing him walk away without them. When growing old or soft, I couldn’t imagine being such a drunk ass that I’d lose my glasses.

I myself had burned off any alcohol by The Broad Majestic Shannon, and it allowed me to enjoy the beautiful ballad for its simplicity and sheer Irishness. No American band could conjure a song about meeting a lover for a stroll along the river.

While only MacGowan still drinks, one of the other Pogues had an equally frightening appearance. Recovering from throat cancer, Philip Chevron was tiny and shrunken, looking every bit the tiny old Irish man. His speed-of-light strumming and silver suit revealed a man unwilling to let an illness win.

His one vocal turn marked the evening’s high point; when he led Thousands Are Sailing, I barely avoided tears. The great tune about Irish impact on America grows in stature with Chevron's pristine Irish voice guiding it.

Body of an American was the emotional runner-up. MacGowan owes this tale,which mourns the loss of Big Jim Dwyer, drinks to his memory and bids adieu to someone beloved in just three verses.

They broke into plenty of rockers – the unmistakable Turkish Song of the Damned, the pub rock of Bottle of Smoke, and the best song about how death cannot defeat the Irish drinking spirit (at least that's what I get out of Sick Bed of Culchulainn). Slower numbers like Lullaby of London, Pair of Brown Eyes and Dirty Old Town gave the set room to breathe. Moreover, they demonstrated MacGowan's throat still has a little magic left despite all the abuse it's received.

The encore effectively bridged the emotional and rollicking sides . Blasting away with Sally MacLennane, they slowed the pace for the surprisingly pretty Rainy Night In Soho, then gunning the engine again on The Irish Rover.

What would have been a satisfying finish was a teaser for one last salvo.

The second encore roared to life with Poor Paddy on the Railway, which always reminds me of my grandfather and great-grandfather, lifelong rail workers.

The lads wrapped up with Fiesta, its smooth horns taking the lads south of the border. For some unnecessary percussion, Stacey smashed a tin tray against his head, MacGowan followed suit, mangling the gray tray against his noggin. As they took a final bow, MacGowan tossed his tray into the crowd, unleashing a frenzy for the souvenir.

Still awed, our little group gradually formed up, ready to resume our pint-emptying exercises, except for RH, who was unaccounted for.

Suddenly RH strode up to us, bleeding from a cut on his cheek - and MacGowan's tray in his bloodied hand. “Shove this under your coat. We gotta get out of here,” RH told MB.

We were gone, the tray will soon be mounted on a plaque at MB's house, and not a note will go forgotten.

Who knew sobriety and the Pogues would work so well?

Under the Broadway lights

MB's Lincoln swooped out of Columbus in the early afternoon, a bit later than expected. WE provided our only stumble mere minutes after the Pogues NYC crew grabbed me at the airport. We didn't stop until construction a few miles from the Holland Tunnel shut us down for a full hour. But I imagine there's no true good time to close lanes on that busy road.

[To protect the identities of the innocent and those less so, I'm omitting names from this post: Aside from me, we'll leave it at MB, WE, and RH).

Tearing across midtown (as much anyone can), we checked in, and around midnight, our first pint went down at P.J. Moran's. After we toasted, a strangely familiar face entered with a small drinking crew - Dan Didio, the editor if DC Comics. I discovered RH was a comic fan as well, and he also saw the resemblance. While we worked on our first pint, this crew had been imbibing for a while, so I didn't approach with any snarky comments about DC's recent quality. This morning I checked to see how far away DC's office were - it was a matter of blocks, which clinches it for me.

We left Didio and crew behind for a spin down to Time Square, where night ceases, even at 1 a.m. The swarms were dwindling at this hour. As Shott would confirm the next day, the Disney and theme-restaurant look of the square has forced its unsavory elements into the corners and crevices, but has not wiped it out. We saw this when after a parade of police cruisers idled through, some guy passed us offering to sell crack.

Then we made haste for the Scottish bar down the street, where I had my only deviation from Irish beer all weekend, a Belhaven Twisted Thistle IPA (definitely a different spin on the style, almost worth the $8 tab for a pint). Very quickly, it became apparent that every Irish and Scottish bar in midtown staffs its taps with people from across the broad Atlantic. After a few plates of wings and more more pints, we spilled back onto the almost deserted street.

The revelry stretched into the wee hours, but I woke early for a coffee and long stroll through Central Park. After a leisurely pace through the Mall, a promenade with statues of prominent artists and authors, I hastened my pace up toward the Central Park Reservoir, swept up by the endless stream of runners passing me. By the time I returned to 5th Avenue, I'd gone almost 50 blocks from the hotel. Catching up with the rest of our crew at Connolly's (one of two I passed in a span of 10 blocks), we turned back to the park, hitting the John Lennon memorial (Strawberry Fields), drifting through the park until the gang decided to hit Tiffany's.

With no one to break up with me for not returning New York with a blue box, I split to catch up with Christ Shott, my old compatriot from my early SNP days. Meeting up at the Press Box (his appropriate pick), it was a bright reconnection, not missing a step from the last time we ran into each other, fish & chips at Worthington's Old Bag of Nails in April 1994). Those old times from 8-9 years ago flashed back with ease, and we never stepped too deeply into nostaglia. Good friends can always share a moment, if even it takes a while for another to arrive.

[See the Pogues post for this chunk of the story]

Fleeing the scene with the prize RH pried from the mob, we decided to continue our bar-hopping, landing at the Channel 4 Pub. With soccer/football highlights flashing on the HD screens, our Irish bartender bought us a round for talking Pogues and giving him pints to pour as tourist traffic dwindled on Saturday night. The gang went to late-night eats, I stumbled back to crash, which I would finally do just short of 4 a.m. again.

With a flash, we were gone on Sunday, crawling through Manhattan, then roaring through our 9-hour journey. A fog native only to Sunday mornings cut off the entire skyline around the 40th floor, so there were no panoramic views from the rear window.

After barely leaving street level for those glorious 36 hours, we weren't complaining.

Percy's False Start on Spring Fever

The temperature broke during the middle of last week, and the winter malaise of Orange Fury (aka Percy, aka Percival C. Motherfucker, aka Evil Creamsicle) broke with it.

Until winter returned yesterday, he's been scratching and window screens and door frames nonstop.

If I return from work and turn on the TV, the pounding starts. A sustained string of pained meows follows.

Apparently, he forgets that on every trip to the porch, he assumes that skulking, frightened cat pose, with his back rigid and legs bent to allow for an easy retreat.

So long as the mercury crests above 50, he cannot ignore the outdoors.

At 5 p.m., he shouts and pounds on the window glass, scraping his glass in a vain effort to push pop it from the pane.

At four a.m., he pounds on the front door, only pausing to search for any leverage in popping the lock (which luckily sits just out of his reach).

At seven a.m., he turns his impudent rage at me and digs those claws into my legs.

The temperature fell back to normal for early March yesterday, and his pandering stopped.

But I won't forget his prelude for future assaults on the door.

While it has been 40 or below in Nashville most days since October, spring is coming, and the cat's fever will heat up with Nashville.

Richard Thompson One-Man Guitar Army Shocks, Awes the Belcourt

Call it a crime against music and a treat for the audience – Richard Thompson played the 400-seat Belcourt Theatre Thursday evening. He deserved a much larger venue, but the Belcourt provided an intimate experience rare for artists of his strata.

Armed just with his acoustic guitar, Thompson’s technique at times gave the impression of two or three guitars going at once.

Low-key, Thompson strode onto his stage in trademark beret, the only part of his appearance not to scream “Everyman.” Thompson is the workingman’s guitar god, a man of unearthly guitar talent and songwriting prowess who never earned more than a flong with the mainstream.

He went straight into I Feel So Good, stripped of the Celtic vibe that drive’s the studio version. Solo, the song still pulsed with energy. Besides, who doesn’t love a song declaring, “I feel so good I’m gonna break somebody’s heart tonight”?

He cracked out with Put ‘Er There, Pal, previously a slow-burn rocker on You? Me? Us?, preserving all its sarcastic aggression in its new form.

Sunset Song, a stark beauty from 2007’s Sweet Warrior. Thompson speaks to a lover of his need to move on, while the simple melody propels it through the harshest words. There were highlights expected, but this was the one song I needed to hear, and he delivered wonderfully.

His Iraq War song, Dad’s Gonna Kill Me, harrowingly depicts a soldier just trying to live through another day. Using soldier slang (Dad is short for Baghdad), he avoids the trappings that snare most modern war songs.

I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight sounded out of place with Thompson’s voice; it lacked the earnest, fragile nature of ex-wife Linda Thompson’s performance on the original. Those newer to Thompson would not notice the difference.

He didn’t keep the audience waiting for 1952 Vincent Black Lightning, his black ode to rare motorcycles, crime and love forged as a result.

Thompson’s self-effacing, jokey nature emerged quickly during the 90-minute set. He comes off as slight uncomfortable off-the-cuff, but firmly in control when immersed in song.

Don’t ask for a setlist - the end of the show is hazy for all the wrong reasons.

As penance, I’ve burrowed into his recent albums, discovering them to be much more textured and rich than I initially believed.

Abandoned by the major label machine, Thompson crafted The Old Kit Bag and Front Parlour Ballads without their influence. He infuses a timeless quality both of those sets. He avoids the overproduction thick on his last studio efforts, giving his guitarwork more breathing room. His 21^st century output proves he needs only the simplest of setups to rock it out.

Ever industrious, Thompson will soon premier the performance piece Cabaret of Souls (not to be confused with Carnival of Souls, the last album by KISS before they returned to makeup in the 1990s). Caberet will feature five vocalists, a string orchestra and a rhythm section.

Given my performance during the solo Nashville show, I feel obligated to support his ambitious production.

Southern Winter, You've Got to Pay Me Back

No matter how badly I crave snow, the skies above Nashville fail to deliver. With much of Tennessee covered in white on Saturday and Sunday, Nashville emerged with a token dusting that condensed as soon as they sun rose.

The wind was worthy of Norse legends and the mercury barely beat the freezing point. Yet the backdrop, those gentle hills marking Middle Tennessee, remains gray and dreary.

I have never craved a decent snowfall more than this awful winter. Surely, one snowfall worth a damn is not asking too much. In two winters, he had one last March, which dropped three inches and sent snow this whole chionophobic region to the grocery store for emergency supplies.

Seriously, I'll be content with a Tennessean when panic cleans out the milk section.

Someone asks me today when it gets hot here. The season could be stifling by mid-May, and not relent until late October. We don't have a taste for spring or fall; each literally lasts weeks, if that.

I'm beginning to wonder if I belong somewhere with real winters and four seasons, not just six months of cold and dreary soldered to six more of blistering humidity.