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. 

In Nashville...Day Five

Okay, you come to Nashville and you're supposed to be all corny and talk about 'live' music in a Jools Holland fashion and pretend you really love it when in reality you're simply not that bothered. Who gives a hot damn about the Grand Ole Opry? I mean the downtown area is fine, for about half an hour, but then you realise that all the food there is 'fast', bar a couple of upmarket eateries you can't really afford, and even if you could you'd think 'why did I pay all that money, it wasn't THAT good!' Well, yeah, you start to think there must be more to life. And there is! The Gulch is an area outside of town that's a little bit more European and offers some light relief from the 'party' that is Nashville's downtown. You can reach it on foot in about 20 minutes from the town centre, just walk up Demonbreun and between the bridge over the railroad tracks and the interstate there are some stairs that will take you down there. I'm sure there are other ways of getting there too.

The Gulch is a cut above the downtown area, put it that way, but the problem, of course, is that the places offering classier food also charge more for it and you end up staring at the usual burger and fries style menu trying to find an exception to the rule. There's always an exception, and invariably it's Atlantic salmon.

Oh how I wish I'd not ordered this dish!

So, the Gulch. Well, I've been dreaming of sitting in a Starbucks in the USA with my book, nursing an English Breakfast tea and an almond croissant, and finally I was able to do it.

The Gulch is a short walk from my hotel, which makes it all the better.

There's a great hotel at The Gulch called the Thompson. It's a trendy-looking, hip boutique style, similar in many ways to the Ace Hotel group, particularly the Ace in Portland, Oregon, that will always be my all-time favourite place.

According to a Chugger I met on the street, Kid Rock was staying at the Thompson recently. Kid who? But this place has all the ingredients of a cool hotel.

The Thompson's dinner menu was a little pricey and after my experience at The Palm last night (see previous post) I figured something a little more sensibly priced would be best. So I headed for the pub across the street. It's an English pub selling English beer like Old Speckled Hen (awful stuff in my opinion) and Fuller's ESB (not that good, let's be honest). So I opted for Sweet Water Extra Pale and a couple of glasses of Devil's Backbone Schwartz Bier. The music was good: The Smiths, the Stone Roses, the Rolling Stones, the Police, you get the picture.

I liked the pub's English theme. It was, for all intents and purposes, an English pub, but not as rough around the edges. Most importantly, though, the fact that I was English made me the star of the show, or so I thought. I was the cool dude because I was actually English, but it's impossible to 'out-cool' an American. They have bags of it stored up. Take the barman, he looked like Johnny Depp, he had two arms full of tattoos and he probably owned a Harley. Who am I to compete with that? My Specialized Rockhopper mountain bike, my Toyota Corrola, who am I kidding?

I ordered Atlantic salmon with brocolli and rice but then ruined it by ordering whisky bread and butter pudding, which arrived with miles too much ice cream. I ploughed through it, wishing I hadn't ordered it – like I always do when dessert wins the day – but ultimately the experience was fantastic and I'll probably head back there tomorrow for my last night in town – but hold the dessert!

There's other places in The Gulch, like Burger Republic, which I might try tomorrow, but in all honesty I need some exercise, although I've done a fair bit of walking around the city, bearing in mind that it's 20 minutes on foot from my hotel to the convention centre, so I've been putting in at least 40 minutes a day.

Devil's Backbone Schwartz Bier... nice!

My colleague has flown home leaving me alone to experience the cabin fever of solitary dining. Sometimes it's alright, but once a bit of alcohol kicks in it can take me two ways. Either I embrace the loneliness and ride the lightening of desolation or I inwardly crack up and start thinking about my family back home. I waver between the two and often tip the balance, but today I was fine. I paid up and left and took the lonely walk home along Division Road, which I admit I had thought about prior to undertaking it; I've read about how you need to be aware of your surroundings in Nashville, especially if you're alone after dark. Alright, it's more for women than men, but you never know and I was taking a lonelier route than usual. It was fine, don't get me wrong, but there's nothing along that road and I'm glad I just about got back before nightfall. The crickets were out making a lot of noise, put it that way, it was just like being in the movies.

The Gulch is a fantastic place and, as I mentioned earlier, the Thompson Hotel looked wonderful. Not much else to report other than the price of clothes. There were shops selling shirts for ridiculous prices and with the pound being not too far off the dollar these days, there's little to gain for an English visitor to the US so I'm assuming nobody buys anything unless, that is, I'm the only pauper in town. Who knows and, more importantly, who cares?

I'm back in my hotel room now, but once again I go to bed too early, and now I'm up at 0137hrs tidying up this blogpost and listening to the birdsong. Better get back to bed.

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.

In Nashville... Day One

It started badly.

Driving along the A23 towards the M23 and then, supposedly, the M25 and Heathrow's Terminal Five – or T5 as I pretentiously call it. I'm in a taxi, or rather a 'minicab', a strange phrase as the car is roughly the same size as any other.

"Just so you know, it's Heathrow I'm heading for, not Gatwick," says I with a smile.

The driver acknowledges me so I relax, but then he takes me to Gatwick anyway. I mean, why not? I want to go to Heathrow and I make it quite clear that I want to go to Heathrow, but I end up in Gatwick. I look at my watch. There is still time, I think, and the traffic is thin, it being a Saturday morning when most people are chilling out, watching a bit of Saturday Morning Kitchen, munching a slice of buttered toast and sipping tea. Not me. I'm up with the lark. In fact, I didn't sleep that well. I never do when a long flight stands between me and a decent night's kip.

Unnecessarily grand and too many pillows

There's a long, long stretch of M23 between the M25 turn-off and Gatwick Airport, but all I can do is look at the long road ahead and wonder whether or not I will get to the right airport – on time. The driver, of course, apologises for his complete and utter ignorance (what else could he do?) and I do my best not to show I'm annoyed, but I am. It's just the start of Hasslesville.

There are big queues so I decide to use the machines to check-in – always a faff at the best of times. Glasses on, documents out, I key in my flight reference number and eventually two boarding passes appear, one for London to Chicago, the other for Chicago to Nashville, and then I head for security and the hassles it entails.

Once through, with relative ease, I find my colleague, we have a snack at Giraffe (granola and fresh fruit plus a mug of tea; my colleague has a soft drink) and then we head for the gate and a relatively smooth flight in a BA jumbo jet – BA 0295. I had the best seat in the house for an economy seat, 28a, plenty of legroom, but I can't settle, I'm not relaxed, I'm agitated so I spend the flight looking out the window or standing in the galley area chatting. I spend a lot of time looking at my watch and sectionalising time. In my head I'm always saying stuff like, "In an hour from now there's only five hours to go," that sort of thing.

Even lunch isn't as enjoyable as it should have been, although the food is fine: roasted chicken with mashed potato and peas in one of those foil containers, a decent chocolate mousse and, of course, a couple of those small bottles of red wine. The wine is non-descript and does little to relax me, but one of the cabin crew excels herself. I enquire about Island Bakery Lemon Melts, a biscuit's biscuit in my opinion. I'm worried that BA's move towards M&S food on short haul flights (that customers must pay for) will mean the end of this classic biscuit. She investigates. Normally when cabin crew say they'll investigate they forget and I never hear from them again, but not this time. She returns, not with a pack of Lemon Melts, but with another variety from the same company. I was impressed.

The man next to me in seat 28b says nothing. He's reading a management book, something like Seven Ways of Improving Efficiency, I can't remember, but it's keeping him occupied. I read the Sun, the Telegraph and the Times plus a chapter of Hotels of North America by Rick Moody.

More hassles in Chicago. The hassle of immigration, the hassle of baggage reclaim and the hassle finding Terminal Three, but then I'm in my favourite restaurant opposite gate H3, Romano's Macaroni Grill. Pollo Caprese, a green salad and a bread roll, plus a Stella Artois. Much needed. We meet a white-haired man in a checkered shirt traveling to China, he tells us he's in healthcare and that he's written a novel about time travel but hasn't bothered getting it published. I tell him to publish on-line but he doesn't seem interested, he's moved on. He tells us about his wife. They're now divorced. Met on-line. It lasted for 10 years and now he's living in Wisconsin and she's somewhere else. He said where but I can't remember.

We head for Gate 17 and the short hop to Nashville. A pleasant, albeit cramped flight and then more waiting around for baggage reclaim. I draw some dollars, my colleague goes his own way. "See you tomorrow," I say and eventually take a cab to the Best Western. It's around 0130hrs in the UK but only 1930hrs in Nashville.

At the front desk I am given a goodie bag: two small chocolates with a nut in the middle, a small bag of Cheetos and some gluten-free Sweet 'n Salty Mix. I eat the chocolates but leave the rest and decide to take a walk around town. I find a street full of bars and being as I'm Nashville, the music city, there's a live band so I stop for a beer, listen to a couple songs then head back to the Best Western.

The hotel room is fine. Unnecessarily grand furniture, a large wooden desk, huge bedside lamps, obligatory flatscreen television, an average-sized bathroom, an empty fridge, but at least I can open it. A huge red couch and a coffee table. Wifi is free. There are heavily patterned curtains and a below average view out of the hotel window. A skip full of rubbish and some new houses are being built across the street.

I write the blog and then hit the sack, waking twice. It's now 0516 and I'm back on the blog. Outside the birds tweet and somebody is running around in the corridor outside, probably kids, it seems that way. I'm feeling fine and can't wait for breakfast. I could make myself coffee but it's another hassle. How the hell to use the machine first – a device made by Hamilton Beach Commercial. I consider the Sweet 'n Salty Mix and the Cheetos but I'm not that desperate. Perhaps I'll shower, get dressed and mosey around.

I'm in the Midtown district and it's a one-mile walk to the downtown where my colleague is based.

Those birds have upped the ante on the tweeting front as I reach for the literature stored in a wooden container on top of a big wooden sideboard with two doors. Inside is the aforementioned empty fridge.

"Respected Guest". That's me. "For your convenience, Best Western Plus Music Row serves a sumptuous Hot Breakfast featuring our ever popular 'Make Your Own' Belgian Waffle, each morning in the Breakfast Lounge. Breakfast includes Country Biscuits and Sausage Gravy."

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.