Not wanting to waste any of our time in Nashville (or Nashvegas) my sister and I made the sound decision to go out on the strip after the festival on Friday night. All we had to do was wander into any of the bars and we were treated to wall to wall frat guys, more bachelorette parties than I can stomach and struggling musicians insisting on tips. Since I’m a straight up bitch, we opted to avoid any potential conflict and duck into the bars that seemed (at least from the outside) to be sparsely populated.
Despite our best efforts, we were still irritated and thought that perhaps doing some shots would help remedy that. It did. We were making friends in no time. Our first friend was the guitarist/singer for one of the house bands who sat at our table (uninvited) between sets. We bought him a shot of “Fireball” Whiskey and it seemed to have the same effect as feeding a stray animal. He kept coming back. It was amusing at the very least so we stuck around for a bit and chatted with the bouncer who was – gasp – also an aspiring musician. This town is bursting at the seams with wannabe singer/songwriters. It’s almost like LA is with actors, but more hopeful and smells less like prostitution and old milk.
After leaving that bar we were planning to head back to the hotel. Until, that is, we wandered past a man with a glorious beard/mustache combination that we just had to touch. He was a bouncer for another bar boasting cigars and a female singer who was belting out “Pontoon”. We were sold. We walked in, disappointed that there were no cigars available in the actual bar area and ordered more Fireball whiskey, so as not to break the pattern. I was standing next to a good-looking youngster so I struck up a conversation, like I tend to do. After surprisingly little prodding we found out that this particular dude went to high school with Taylor Swift and hated her. Go figure. I guess she was a bit of a snob to anyone who didn’t fit into her clique. “You wear short skirts, I wear sneakers”, my ass…
Once we were good and lubricated (socially) we headed back to the hotel and changed into more comfortable but extremely unflattering pajamas. This wouldn’t be an issue if we went right to bed. Instead, my sister headed outside to smoke a cigarette and after an eerily long wait for her to return, I went down to make sure she wasn’t passed out on a gargoyle. She wasn’t. She was involved in a parking lot singalong. With Amos Lee and his band. I was startled at first, when I almost ran right into Amos, and said, “You’re Amos Lee and I’m wearing this.” He laughed. I didn’t. Thank Gos for that lubrication!
The singalong consisted of Amos’s guitar player and fellow vocalist, Mutlu, taking the lead and singing hilarious songs like “Caramel” and “Are you a Dude?” I laughed for hours (especially when treated to their “Alvin and the Chipmunk” song renditions) and even swooned when they did a capella versions of my favorite Boyz II Men songs. We were eventually asked to move to a more secluded area by the fountain when the sun started to come up and hotel guests started milling about. I guess ten people with beer in their hands, debauchery in their eyes and guitars around their necks at 6 am can be a bit off-putting. Who knew. To avoid further stern looks from the valets, we headed up to one of the band members’ rooms and kept singing. At one point, I busted out the first line of Montell Jordan’s 90s hit, “This is How We Do It” to help out with the lyrics and everyone stopped to stare at me, asking why I was so quiet for the first part of the night. I blushed and obviously stored that moment for later humble bragging. Please…take a moment to revel in it with me. Ah. That’s nice.
After all the laughing, drinking and ridiculous singing we finally made it to bed at around 8 am. I didn’t realize how big of a deal Amos Lee was until recounting this story for friends when we got home. He’s kind of a big deal. Hopefully he keeps the Williams Sisters in his phone for any future tours through Michigan. We’re hoping to be kind of a big deal.