robotnik2004 | Hicks, Licks, N’ Chicks

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

Brown Jenkin rolled into Nashville just as the sun was going down. Saturday night in the shiny silver buckle of the Bible Belt! We paid too much for a motel on the outskirts of town, and then piled back into Jenkin to cruise the strip of Music City, USA. (It would take us a few more nights to learn the secret scat of motels in our particular price range: poorly spelled and painted signs, tall grasses in the parking lot, and whenever possible, the word “Lodge” in the name.

You boys are from L.A., right? Our heroes bounced up and down the saloons and honky tonks of the Music City all night, drinking Bud and playing cowboy until bowlegged and barely coherent. Supposedly, we were looking for a “genuine” Nashville country bar, but each place we found was more ludicrous and touristy than the last. But finally we ended up in a place that didn’t serve cola (”Hmm, never heard of it. Mr. Pibb?”) but did offer all you can eat catfish, and we knew we were truly a long way from home.

“I don’t think you comprehend the full import of that statement,” I said, slurring my words slightly. “All. You. Can. Eat. Catfish.” I can’t remember which of the two yuksters returned with the inevitable, “I got all the catfish you can eat right here.”

We tried to make ourselves presentable as possible, but there was no way we were going to blend in seamlessly with the boot-scootin’ boogie set. Pete loved the stares he got for his multiple piercings and striped candy pants, but Derek maintains it was “do you have any dark beers on tap?” that really blew our cover.

Even the acts on stage pegged us as carpetbaggers. “You boys are from L.A., right?” said the low rent Garth Brooks singing Kountry Karaoke at Lefty’s. One of the singers at The Steel Guitar called us “those three desperadoes in the corner” and dedicated a song to us called “I’m The Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised.” “Story of your lives, am I right, fellas?” he asked afterwards. “Ariba ariba!” we shouted in response, whooping and firing our pistoles in the air.