Caruso and Keller played the Ryman
NASHVILLE, Tenn.—I try to love Nashville because of its country-music heritage. Whenever I visit that city, I listen to WSM on the drive up to get my mind right, and I wear a plaid shirt that snaps and old blue jeans. It's a matter of reverence. Nashville ought to be different, somehow.
But then I inevitably get lost or stuck in traffic in some suburb that is lined with the same chain restaurants and stores as anywhere else. The people wearing cowboy boots are visiting from Ohio and weigh 900 pounds. I find myself thinking uncharitable thoughts, like: “This is just Atlanta Lite.” When I can't locate a barstool at Tootsie's because tattooed kids are packing the place for the most un-country country act I've ever tried to listen to, I get depressed. And when I discover there's now a line around the block for the Writer's Night at the Bluebird Cafe, all because of some popular television show, I despair.
That's how all my trips to Nashville go.
So I go to the Ryman to get my bearings. The Mother Church is still worth seeing. It's possible to pay $15—yes, $15!, no senior discounts—and walk into the venerable auditorium to get a fix. This is a daytime tour, mind you, and not one of the highpriced tickets for the evening shows.
Remember: This is not your father's, or your grandfather's, Ryman. Sold out for August is a show featuring a band called Alice in Chains. (I went to YouTube and discovered Alice has pretty good pickers and a lead vocalist who sounds like Neil Young on a bad day.) There are a lot of other acts I've never heard of playing this summer, including one called Social Distortion. Roy Acuff must be spinning.
Tonight it's Weird Al Yankovic—I've heard of him— so the place is buzzing with sound engineers and stage hands. But we tourists manage to slip around the confusion to look at sparkly clothes worn by Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner, or listen to Cousin Minnie's corny jokes on video. I'd like a little more Hank in the mix, but then, its treatment of Hank is not the Ryman's greatest moment.
A wall of showbills from decades before the Grand Ole Opry took over the Ryman is the best part of the self-guided tour. After a docent turns on the video and tells you how much chewing gum was removed from beneath the pews during renovation, you are on your own.
Maybe the Ryman business model now is closer to the real old-timey way than ever. From 1904 until the Opry arrived in 1943, a businesswoman named Lula C. Naff invited to the stage anyone who was anyone. Politicians, actors, singers and lawyers “played” the Ryman.
Helen Keller, Eleanor Roosevelt, Caruso, Mae West, Rudolph Valentino—they all got top billing and center stage at various times at the Ryman. Boxer Jack Johnson was here. That showbill specified “For Colored Only.”
They almost tore this irreplaceable place down when the Opry moved to its suburban theme-park location. But razing the Ryman was more than even the public could stand. There are limits, after all, to how much “progress” any town can take. The Ryman remained.
Sitting in one of the old church pews lit by jewel-tone stained glass, I almost believe there's something left of the magic that drew my father and his grandmother to the radio every Saturday night. I almost believe there's hope for the world, and not just hopeless social distortion.