The late nineties were a bit of a boom in Nashville. Temporary workers were in demand. Some of my fellow temps were failed musicians who were “between gigs.” A theme running through their chatter was how difficult it is to play with feeling, as if that’s some ultimate goal to aspire to. It’s easy: Play the guitar like you’re mad at it. Pretend the guitar just kicked your dog.

They were pathetic, each wanted to show that he knew more about the industry—like a fourteen-year-old kid who desperately wants everyone to think he’s had sex. A bunch of us were hanging out and I mentioned to one guy that I have an acoustic/electric guitar. He said, “That’s a contradiction of terms.” No one stood up, no one explained it to him. I could’ve said, “If you put a pickup on an acoustic guitar, it becomes an acoustic/electric. Dummy.”

One guy was cool, though. I was bragging about my 1967 Ludwig Jazz kit with a 22” K-series ride. I fully admitted that I was a terrible drummer—I couldn’t even keep a steady beat. But, he asked me to audition anyway. He played bass and there was a guitar player. What Rob didn’t tell me is that the guitarist was his ten-year-old son, Robbie. Rob just wanted his son to have experience playing with a drummer (and to play drums when I wasn’t there). At least I can tell people that I was in a band when I was in Music City.

Rob, who was a good deal older than me, was another failed musician. He saw Robbie as a shot at redemption. The kid had skills, but anyone can sound good playing over 12-bar blues. America doesn’t need another blues guitar genius.

The musical ensemble didn’t last long, but Rob and I maintained our friendship. Whenever I was at the job, we would get together for lunch. We had a good rapport, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

Dustin and my friends in Harrisonburg respected me as a songwriter. I followed Dustin to Nashville, under the pretense of recording my music in a friend’s studio. We had made serious headway on a couple of songs, but Dustin moved back to Virginia. I did some recording with my new friends in the Nashville crowd–we laid down some fabulous tracks, but the Akai board was just ancient. It would cost $300 to transfer one tape to digital.

Before I moved to Nashville, I spent a week there to find an apartment. My time was not managed well. I smoked too much pot. I kept fucking with the mini-blinds. I spent more time hitting on Dustin’s girlfriend than looking for a place to live.

Living in the little crud hole in East Nashville for five years, I wrote a lot of songs. The discipline to learn and perform the songs was elusive, unfortunately. My friend Clay—who grew up with a father in the music business—had to sit through my horrible renditions of songs that I thought were pretty cool compositions.

There were no pretentions of getting discovered and getting a recording contract. In fact, the inner punk hated the thought. I wanted to circumvent the music industry—to make a name for myself by making my own cassettes and relying on college radio for promotion.

Clay had told me several times that he didn’t want to record my music, but I kept trying to push the idea. I never got over Dustin leaving. Too much time was wasted in Clay’s family studio. I was never prepared, assuming that the magic of the studio would make everything come out groovy and happening.

One time at a social get together, my friend Tony played a song he had written. When he was done, Clay said that it sounded commercial. I was waiting for Tony to punch him in the face. Apparently, that’s not an insult in Music City.

I was into the free-form improvisation scene. No rules. No regard for tempo or key. Just creativity and instincts. It’s not for recording and trying to sell to anyone, it exists strictly for the people in the room at that time. An audience who goes along with it is cool, but it’s just about as much fun as two guys with cheap guitars, cheap amps, and distortion pedals in a parent’s living room can have. It’s raw, unbridled passion.

Dissonance is your friend. Making feedback is fun. In the five years I was there, I participated in zero free-form rock out jam sessions. The closest thing to improvisation in Nashville is when someone farts.