The Gibson Garage

After the work was over today I took a stroll up Demonbreun Street in the direction of the Gibson Garage. There are two such establishments in the world: one is here in Nashville, USA, and the other is in London. The Nashville store was the first (and is only around 15 minutes from the Gibson factory) and the London outlet is smaller but on two floors, unlike the one in the Music City.

A Gibson Les Paul.

I guess you have to be a bit of rock lover to appreciate the Gibson Garage and, of course, it helps if you can play the guitar. I can't play a note and sometimes that makes me feel like an imposter, which I am, but, like Harley Davidson motorcycles - I can't ride a motorcycle either - Gibson guitars are something to behold. I decided a few years ago that passing my bike test and buying a Hog, as they're known, would result in an early death, so I stopped the idea dead in its tracks and haven't thought about it ever since. Guitars, however, are a little safer, so I am one of those people who promise themselves that one day they'll buy and learn how to play a guitar. It's become real and in so many ways I'm only days, hours, perhaps even minutes, from simply buying one and then watching countless videos on YouTube to teach myself how to play. They reckon that self-taught people in any sphere of life are normally the best at what they do; there are countless rock stars who taught themselves how to play and there are countless chefs who taught themselves how to cook.

So, I crossed the car park just past the old blue pick-up truck that is advertising the Gibson Garage to passers-by and soon I'm there, in the thick of it, Gibson guitars on an overhead conveyor belt threading their way around the store, rock music blaring out and books by Slash, or about Slash's guitars, on display for all to see. This is the sort of place where you can find rock stars, but the staff say little about who they are and when they're in town and, therefore, likely to come visit. Last Saturday, or was it Friday?, Metallica played here so there was probably a good chance that James Hetfield would drop by and, you know what? If he did, he'd probably be invisible, you wouldn't see him and then somebody would announce that Hetfield had left the building and everybody would be slightly miffed that they missed him.

Gibson guitars are not cheap. At the low end you can probably pick one up for around a couple of grand, but they can cost thousands of pounds. Go to Denmark Street in London's Soho and you'll see what I mean. Gibson Les Pauls dating back to the sixties or even earlier can cost huge sums of money, like £30,000 or even more, but these are special guitars and they certainly look the business.

I actually considered buying my bass guitar while I was in Nashville purely because I figured it would be a good story, a good piece of provenance, if the guitar I owned originated from the Gibson Garage in Nashville. What a story! But it's funny how things work out or how there's no way you can escape the con of capitalism. The Epiphone Grabber bass looked like the perfect instrument for me, it was $999 and that translated to something like £750 in UK money, a considerable saving in other words if I did buy it there and then – and I could have – but there are many catches, the first being would I be happy to place my newly purchased Grabber bass in the hold of an aircraft for a nine-hour flight home? Matt, one of the sales guys in the store, who I spent hours chatting to about rock musicians, spoke of many horror stories. He said the best thing would be to buy one of those ultra-rigid cases, but they're not always the answer. There are stories about guitars in cases being ruined, being run over by those electric carts that pull the small trucks of suitcases behind them en route to the plane, and then there's the cost. How much would it cost I wonder? Small display units can set people back around £80 so a guitar might cost double that: already that difference in cost is narrowing despite the fact that the pound is running well against the dollar at present (the chief reason for buying the guitar here and not in the UK). I checked out the UK-based Amazon site and the Anderton's website listed the Grabber bass as selling for £929 – remember, brand new in the US it's worth $999 and that money converted to pounds is only (as I said) around £750. So a guitar that's only worth £750 or so retails in the UK at £929, almost £200 more than it's actually worth. But, the risk is trying to get it across the Atlantic in the hold of a Boeing 777 (or whatever the plane might be) is huge. Apparently, you can buy a seat for the bass guitar and treat it as a passenger! Imagine that! You buy an extra ticket. How much would that cost I wonder, and suddenly the guitar is costing me much much more than it's worth. You can also ask to take the guitar to the gate rather than place it on the conveyor at check-in. In short it's a nightmare and, as I say, you can't beat the system. I found that rather annoying and even more so as it seems that it's difficult to win in this world. Wouldn't it be good to be able to buy the guitar in the USA for £750, in Nashville, the Music City of all places and, for once, beat the system? But no, it's not to be; I'll be honest, the injustice of it all has been bugging me and I'm feeling the grief just a little more than normal purely because I caught a cold on the plane coming over here. I was sitting next an old bag who wouldn't stop coughing, she kept putting a mask on and then taking it off and I sat next to her for nine hours straight, probably a bit longer. I wish I hadn't been so nice to her now as I'm coughing and spluttering and my nose is running and I'm not sleeping well, all because I drew the short straw and found myself sitting next to the old bat. I'm feeling a little better but not by much so all I need is the realisation that, if I wanted the Grabber bass from Nashville I'd have to pay over £200 more than it's worth. I considered buying it online from an American website, but I'm sure there would have been shipping charges that again would fuck me over. So, my dream (like so many of my dreams) has been shattered. I won't be buying a bass guitar in Nashville, the fucking Music City, because the system is against me – and everyone else. Perhaps if I bought the guitar, hired a car, drove to New York, booked myself on a cruise to the UK, then I might get away with it, but they'd probably think of something, like customs, to get me paying that additional £200 and I can't afford to be out of the country for another week sailing the Atlantic with a new bass guitar. I'll shut up now, I'll say no more other than to say I'm disappointed.

With my work done I took a stroll to the CVS along 21st Avenue to buy some Sleepy Time Bear tea, a bit of a hike for a few teabags, but I like them so I did it, then I found myself in Badass Coffee again, armed with an Eric Ambler novel. I ordered a tea, sat down on a leather sofa and read a chapter in between nodding off (put a jet-lagged me on a comfortable sofa and I will fall asleep). Well, I didn't fall asleep as such I just nodded off for a split second, it was nothing to do with the book, it was me. I've spent the week walking around a lot and, I hasten to add, eating a lot of junk food, chips with everything – apart from one Japanese meal in a restaurant next door to the Gibson Garage. I've also been going to bed really early, like before 8pm because there's nowt to do and nobody to talk to. My colleague and I have been having early dinners and then parting company, me taking an Uber back to my hotel, which is around a 45-minute walk from the downtown. 

My sleep regime has been interesting: hitting the sack around eight and then waking up around 0200hrs, calling home and then hitting the sack again after about an hour. I thought it was working well until, one day – the day before today – I never got back to sleep. Anyway, sleep patterns aside, all has been well.

As for the Moxy Hotel, something else I needed today was a kettle to make tea in the room, plus, of course, a few teabags and some 'dairy creamer' (I don't expect semi-skimmed milk). But no, if I wanted a cup of tea I'd have to come downstairs to the upbeat 'common room' from where I write this and pay for it, although noise is good when I'm writing. I know some people need silence but for me it's the complete opposite most of the time unless I'm writing an article that's a little more complicated, which I'm not at the moment. So, another lost point for the Moxy. On the plus side, though, like all hotels on trips of longer than a couple of nights, I'm starting to regard it as 'home' and look forward to the moment I get back here and head for my room, my sanctuary if you like, and I'm beginning to feel a little guilty about slagging it off, even if my comments about no wardrobe, no desk and no tea and coffee-making facilities all stand. A word on the staff, they're great (that's two words) but they are, they're helpful and friendly and what more could you ask from a hotel? Well, a wardrobe and a desk would be nice. Alright, alright, sorry, I won't mention them again!

It's 1930 or 7.30pm, I'm sorry about this post's house style inconsistencies on time. Normally I use the 24-hour clock but for some reason that's gone awry, not that it matters, let's embrace the inconsistency!

The music continues, there are the games, the travel Scrabble, the chess board, the tethered table skittles, the giant Jenga and the giant Connect Four and there are people enjoying it. I feel like an outsider, an imposter and while I'm thinking that perhaps I should eat something, one thing the Moxy is NOT good at is F&B, the food and beverage operation leaves a lot to be desired and it's a shame. I wish there was a restaurant, table service, a bit of variety on the menu, but there isn't, just the square bar offering pizza-based products like 'chicken, bacon and ranch'. I don't want that, I get enough of that sort of cuisine downtown, even in the decent hotels. 

Why are so many Americans the size of dust carts? Because of all the pizza and burgers and chips they eat, that's why. But listen, I like the Americans, always have, I just wish, for their own sakes, that they lost a bit of weight. I doubt I'll eat or drink anything now until tomorrow and then I'll visit Biscuit Love again. I'm on my own, there's nobody to talk to and nothing much to do, I've visited the local shops at the end of Belcourt and they're not that good, even Badass Coffee ain't brilliant, it lacks something, like atmosphere, and the rest of the shops up there are boutiques or those places that sell scented candles and other tat.