06.21.06

Live at the Grand Ole Opry Plaza it’s Dale Watson!!

Posted in dale watson, hot live action - June 21st, 2006 at 5:05 pm by Mimi

They moved the Grand Ole Opry. It was once walking distance to the Broadway bars now it’s in the suburbs and situated facing a sprawling shopping mall–a mall where none of the stores even sell cigarettes. I could draw red circles around this and a huge black arrow pointing to it so people will ponder the symbolism of that, but instead I’ll just bitch about the Sameness of the South nowadays.

When I was growing up, my hometown was all crumbling cement with weeds growing up between the cracks. My house had one of those old-fashioned driveways that was really two parallel concrete slabs with grass in between them. Because of the humidity, the war with mildew was lost sometime before European settlement. Everything had a feeling of creeping decay, with all the buildings built right after WWII or earlier, stretching back to colonial days; dogs laying in the middle of the street untended and panting; wisteria strangling trees with their beautiful vines. People sat on their porches and hollered across the street, sitting up until late at night to play Hearts or Bridge.

Now my family lives in one of those housing developments where people select their brand new homes out of a book, getting matching beige carpet and eggshell walls, and the big debate is over what color brick the façade will be. The entire South seems to be moving into neighborhoods like that, neighborhoods without ant mounds or oil stains in the driveway.

The Grand Ole Opry Plaza is like that. The Opry building itself faces this massive mall (this photo was taken from the Plaza itself, next to where the stage is set up for the Opry Plaza shows). There’s some generic landscaping that reminds me of a hospital campus. The buildings are constructed in that faux-colonial style I associate with banks. This is a very flattering picture of the Opry itself. It looks like a generic music hall from the exterior.

I had to field the Dale Watson concert by myself because Cricket was too tore up to go with me. [Meaning, I was still in bed when she left. Yeah, I hate myself for missing this show.--Cricket] This gave me ample opportunity to chat up innocent bystanders. But first I realized I’d gone down there with no cigarettes, which was not working for me in the least. I approached a bartender at one of the kiosks set in the plaza selling liquor and cokes to ask him which store in the Mall I should go to in order to buy myself a pack of smokes.

Him: Oh, none of the stores in the Mall sell them now.
Me: (rethinks my very existence) *copious cussing*
Him: But hold on!

Bill, the bartender wearing a nametag reading Luke, then produced an unopened pack of cigarettes and just gave them to me. (My mom called me a few minutes later, and when I told her about this, she said to me “You offered to pay him, right?” My own mother thinks I’m a rude-ass bitch. Lovely. For the record, I did offer to pay him, and because he refused payment I am paying him back by writing about how wonderful he is here.) In some ways, being back down South is very soothing and lovely, in others, it’s sometimes troubling (like people thinking my constant sarcasm is a sign that I’m being mean).

I mention how polite and gracious people are here in Nashville all the time, but I really think the depth of that is missed unless you live someplace similar. Another random example: I took a cab to the Opry that night because I didn’t know how to get there, and the cabbie didn’t either, so when I paid him he charged me about ten dollars less than the meter and apologized for not knowing the way. Yeah.

The show was outside in the plaza in front of the Opry. This was the first in a series of free outdoors shows going on all summer. Haul your ass over there for the crowd alone. Much entertainment is to be had gawking.

The act before Dale Watson was Gayle Davies, the first woman to produce a record in Nashville. She was a singer/songwriter in the mold of say Nanci Griffith but with a country spin. Her set was fun, but I don’t like female singers very much, so all I can say is that I didn’t hate it, so check her out–and that Joan, the woman sitting next to me, thought she sang like Patsy Cline. Her cover of Hank Snow’s “I Don’t Hurt Anymore” was full of old fashioned twang and sung very sweetly.

So some guy from Sirius radio got up and introduced Dale and gave him one of the most glowing introductions I’ve ever heard for anyone. Even Dale himself remarked on that when he stepped up to the mic. The crazy lovefest could have been written by me, trust me, my Dale love is deep and abiding.

There is really nothing about Dale Watson that I don’t adore the pants off of. His voice makes me swoon, his guitar playing makes me want to dance, his self-effacing style makes me want to go out for a beer with him, his life story makes me want to bake him cookies. Song after song, he just endeared himself to me more and more–”Honky Tonkers Don’t Cry,” “Truck Stop in LeGrange,” “Honkiest Tonkiest Beer Joint in Town.” He just played requests the crowd shouted out. This? Best way to play a concert if you can manage it. He set the entire plaza on fire when he played “Nashville Rash”–a song about how the country music industry doesn’t make country music anymore. I think you can see that Dale and the two of us here at HCT are on the same page with our views on certain matters.

He was in Nashville writing tracks for a new album, which is freakin’ great news. Yeehaw!

“Real Country Song” got the same response as “Nashville Rash”–this song being about the radio not playing country music. His bitterness is like manna to my soul.

He has a documentary coming out about his girlfriend’s death in a car accident, his subsequent mental illness, and his recovery. It’s called “Crazy Again,” like the song about the same subject matter. Seeing him perform that song live had far more emotional impact than just listening to it on the CD.

I will break off my Dale obsession to report that I got a little distracted by the girl on the bench next to me. She was about six months pregnant, wearing spandex and four inch heels and white lipstick. You would have been distracted, too. The entire effect of her “costume” was so affecting in its sleaziness that if we had been in another city, I would have thought she was a performance artist. As it stands, I’m sure she was just out for the evening enjoying a few beers and kicking up her (exceedingly high) heels.

I did get the names of the band members during this time, though. Don Raby on fiddle, Don-Don Pollack on the steel guitar, John McTeague on drums, and Jean Kurts (or Curtis, neither of whom come up when I look). They were all top notch, lively, and pattery back and forth with Dale.

I cut back into the show on “That’s What I Like About Texas,” and Dale saying he just took six months off and can’t remember the words to a bunch of his own songs.

Next up: shenanigans. There were some yahoos in the audience in front of me and they were whooping it up–as is appropriate–but they were totally distracting. So I went inside the Opry to use the facilities. I left my bag on the bench where I was sitting to save my place. When I came back out, one of the people standing in the crowd by me had written down the songs I missed.

I keep tellin’ ya, this place is sort of like living in a whole city full of people you already know–you just don’t know you know them yet! And yet, it turns out these particular people were tourists from Phoenix. They gave me their pen, too, because I somehow lost mine between the building and coming back to the bench. I’m talented like that. [Lordy, if you folks only knew. She'd lose her fingers if they weren't attached.--Cricket]

Because I have absolutely nothing critical to say about this concert, I will instead entertain you with pictures of dancing children I took with my phone:

I was, myself, dancing shortly thereafter, so I wasn’t writing anything down. Dale’s so amazing live that I was dancing with a random cowboy in Grand Ole Opry Plaza wearing flip flops and laughing my ass off and just generally enjoying simply being alive.

What higher praise can you give a live act than that they make you happy just to have survived life long enough to get to live those moments?

Also, he sang my song with a laugh and a wave when I shouted out for it. If you’re interested, mine was “I Ain’t Been Right Since I Been Left,” a number with a lot of fiddle.

Find out where Dale’s playing this summer.

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