~By Brad Jones
Younger then, of course, mostly past the shoals of the twenties, into our thirties, not fully paired off yet, still fluid, houses still available to be bought right in the middle of town, houses with overgrown back yards, un-remodeled kitchens, mismatched furniture. Houses you could get comfortable in after about five minutes.
Summer might’ve been the best time of all, barefoot, unbuttoned, nowhere to hurry to, garish shirt, stupid straw hat. Once the evening had cooled off it was easy to stay up late on the porch with friends, feeling time slow down — what’s the hurry?
Of course it was a more analog time — no one yet knew how to send a link for a just-written song, so you had to swing by, ask if there’s a guitar around, and just play the damn thing.
People talk about the Old Nashville and the New Nashville. This book shows a time before truces, where there was a kind of affable curiosity between the two — plenty of Old around still, but enough New to keep the pot stirring. Over by the fridge a guy young enough to program an MPC-60 trading stories with a guy old enough to have been at guitar-pulls with Harlan Howard. The wonderfully named sheriff was Fate Thomas, known for his barbeque. Meanwhile, down at the Exit/In, F.U.C.T. was on the bill. They probably liked barbeque, too.
