The American Spectator

p>I know lots of struggling local musicians. Many of them are middle aged and have accepted, albeit reluctantly, that they will never make it as professional musicians, that as artists they are mediocre at best. I have followed their careers, rooted for them, attended their shows when I could, bought their CDs, and wished them well. But by the time they reached 40, Father Time had pretty much knocked the illusions out of them and most were grateful they had kept their day jobs as senior regional managers or music teachers. They are now able to write and perform their songs because it is what they enjoy doing, not because it is how they hope to make a princely living or because they’d hoped to achieve some kind of low-rent immortality as an inductee into the Country Music Hall of Fame. Like a tired swimmer, they have stopped struggling and accepted their fate. This couldn’t have been easy for them because we are so often fed that old line about “holding on to your dreams.” Fortunately Keith Urban wasn’t appearing at the Bluebird that night (as if!), so we didn’t have to sit through his treacly version of that cliche: br> /p> blockquote> em>’Cause someday baby br> Your ship is gonna come in, so br> Hold onto your dreams br> ‘Cause everything ya see br> Comes true if you believe in holdin’ br> On to your dreams /em> /blockquote> br> Oh, God. If you drive outside of Nashville to the suburb of Forest Hills you can see one of Urban and Kidman’s many palaces high up on a hill, paid for by writing doggerel like that. Amazing.

Today, Nashville feels like a museum, haunted by the ghosts of Hank Williams, Ernest Tubb, and Minnie Pearl. Only at the Bluebird do the city and the music come alive.