Greetings from New Nashville

Introduction
Steve Haruch

Nashville’s Band of Outsiders
Ann Patchett

Miracles and Ice
J. R. Lind

Burned Out
Zach Stafford

An Open Letter
Ben Folds

Demolition Derby
Bobby Allyn

Gimme Shelter
Bobby Allyn

Black Nashville Now and Then
Ron Wynn

Dish Network
Steve Cavendish

Nashville
Tiana Clark

Welcome to Bachelorette City
Steven Hale

Desegregation and Its Discontents
Ansley T. Erickson

Next Big Something
Ashley Spurgeon

Tomato Toss
Richard Lloyd

The End of the Beginning
Carrie Ferguson Weir

Tech of the Town
Steve Haruch

The Promise
Meribah Knight

A Monument the Old South Would Like to Ignore
Margaret Renkl

Who Will Hold the Police Accountable?
Ted Alcorn

Florida Nashville Line
Steve Haruch

Perverse Incentives
Betsy Phillips

Introduction

In 1998, roughly two million visitors came to see what there was to see in Nashville. By 2018, the annual number had ballooned to 15.2 million. On some level, Nashville has always packaged itself for consumption, but suddenly everyone wanted a taste.

In that span of two decades, the physical boundaries of Nashville did not change. (The city and county governments had long ago consolidated.) But something did. Or rather, many somethings changed, and kept changing, until many who lived here began to feel they no longer recognized their own city. And some began to feel it wasn't their own city at all anymore, as they were pushed to its fringes by rising housing costs.

Between 1998 and 2018, the population of Nashville grew by 150,000. The greater metropolitan statistical area grew by a half-million people, and is expected to cross the two million mark some time in 2020.

But why Nashville? Why now? This book is an attempt to grapple with those questions without offering pat answers. Cities and histories are complex, and there is no single event or factor to credit. What we offer is a series of dispatches aimed at showing the contours, identifying turning points, and more urgently, giving a sense of texture to the life of a place in flux. Roughly half of the chapters are reprints, snapshots of a particular moment in the fast, messy evolution of the city. Others are new essays, written for this book with the benefit of at least some hindsight.

In 2001, the late John Egerton, along with fellow journalist E. Thomas Wood, assembled Nashville: An American Self-Portrait, which looked back on recent developments and forward to a new and perhaps newly prosperous century. This collection functions in much the same way Egerton describes his work in relation to the 1979 book Nashville: The Faces of Two Centuries: "This is not a sequel to the prior volume, not a direct descendant or even a close relative-but it is a companion, and a kindred spirit."

It is also incomplete, as any document of a transformation still in progress must be.


"It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment the sleepy town of Nashville became a real city, but I'll go with 1998-the year the NHL Nashville Predators and NFL Houston Oilers (now the Tennessee Titans) moved here," the singer and songwriter Marshall Chapman writes in a 2011 story for W magazine. "Suddenly everything exploded. You'd look out over the city, and all you'd see were construction cranes."

Like all narrative starting points, 1998 is to some extent arbitrary. But Chapman reminds us that what is old is new again-the construction cranes are back, piercing the sky in every direction, their silhouettes now emblazoned half-jokingly on everything from rock show flyers to public radio station pledge-drive socks. The starting point isn't random, either.

1998 is the year the Owen Bradley dies. As much as any artist and producer, Bradley helped define the Nashville Sound, and Music Row was more or less built around the Quonset Hut Studio he operated with his brother Harold on 16th Avenue South where Patsy Cline, Red Foley, Brenda Lee, Marty Robbins, Sonny James, and countless others recorded. Still, as much as the Nashville Sound is now synonymous with what we now might call classic country music, it was a conscious departure from the folksy Bristol sessions that birthed the genre. "Now we've cut out the fiddle and steel guitar and added choruses to country music," Bradley once said. "But it can't stop there. It always has to keep developing to keep fresh."

The same year Bradley passes, the advocacy organization Walk Bike Nashville is formed; in coming years it will be at the table for countless discussions around walkable neighborhoods, pedestrian safety, biking infrastructure-the stuff of urban renewal. The Nashville Banner, the afternoon newspaper that shared a building with The Tennessean, ceases operation in February after 122 years.

Garth Brooks, Faith Hill, Tim McGraw, and Dixie Chicks rule the country charts, but it is a banner year for Nashville's independent music scene. Lucinda Williams's Car Wheels on a Gravel Road, Duane Jarvis's Far from Perfect, Kevin Gordon's Cadillac Jack's Son, Paul Burch & the WPA Ballclub's Wire to Wire, and Lambchop's What Another Man Spills are all released this year. To whatever extent it registers in Nashville at the time, a Detroit band called the White Stripes releases its first single, "Let's Shake Hands," in 1998 as well. Jack White will eventually settle in Nashville, establish Third Man Records, and in so doing alter the perception of the city. The honky-tonk revival on Lower Broadway has only recently begun, but already groups like BR549 are breathing new life into a stretch of the city dominated by the coin-operated peep shows and other unsavory goings-on that filled in after the Grand Ole Opry pulled out of the Ryman Auditorium and settled into its new building out near the sprawling Opryland Hotel and Resort.

It is also the year that a 25-foot-tall statue of Nathan Bedford Forrest-slave owner, early leader of the Ku Klux Klan, and Confederate general whose troops were responsible for the massacre of surrendered black Union soldiers at Fort Pillow-is erected on private property in full view of I-65.
Also in 1998, a years-long effort by the Nashville school board culminates in the end of court-supervised desegregation. The consequences of that will be deep and long lasting.

Outside of Hank Williams there is arguably no more iconic figure in country music than Johnny Cash. In 1998, fresh off a Grammy win for Best Country Album, the Man in Black appears in full-page ad in Billboard magazine. It's an older photograph, taken in 1969 at San Quentin Prison. Cash's mouth is drawn up in a grimace, his lower teeth pressed against his upper lip the way one does when producing the F sound. He holds up his middle finger emphatically. "American Recordings and Johnny Cash would like to acknowledge the Nashville music establishment and country radio for your support," the caption reads, a reference to the absence of the album from the airwaves Cash once ruled. The sarcasm doesn't come cheap; producer Rick Rubin reportedly shells out $20,000 for the ad.

On April 15, a little more than a month after Cash's flipping off of Music Row, a tornado touches down a mile west of where Charlotte Pike meets I-440. It tears across the city, injuring dozens of people, one of whom later dies. It blows out 100 windows in the Tennessee Performing Arts Center and, after crossing the Cumberland River, topples three of the 10 cranes that are on site for the construction of the new NFL stadium. Then it keeps going, through the residential sections of East Nashville.

On that day, as the funnel cloud twists through the neighborhood, Joe Goller huddles inside the walk-in cooler in his restaurant on Eastland Avenue. When he finally emerges, the cooler and a few walls are all that remain of Joe's Diner. A photograph of then Vice President Al Gore standing amid the rubble, where the front window had once been, subsequently goes the pre-Y2K equivalent of viral. As Kay West would write in the Scene the following year: "Between all the free publicity and a major insurance settlement, it soon became clear to Goller that the tornado had perhaps been the best thing that could have happened to his fledgling business."

In some ways, this is true of the entire East Side. As Nate Rau writes in the Tennessean on the 20th anniversary of the outbreak: "The popular bars, pizza joints and upscale restaurants came from entrepreneurs who invested in East Nashville after the tornado hit." Then Mayor Phil Bredesen creates a tornado recovery task force; the American Institute of Architects dispatches an R/UDAT (Regional/Urban Design Assistance Team).

"It is hard to debate the fact that an enormous amount of insurance money came in to assist with what became case-by-case redevelopment," attorney Mike Jameson tells the Tennessean's Rau. "That's not to say it was without heartache. Months passed with tarps on people's roofs. But, the money eventually did pour in. It's just hard to debate that the tornado was, if not a turning point, a boost for East Nashville in the long term."

And it will be the East Side that, in many ways, leads the way in Nashville's reimagining of itself. This is partly out of necessity; rebuilding means grappling with city codes, and though residents had already begun thinking about and organizing around such things, it means engaging in a real way with planning, zoning, and preservation. But out of the wreckage a new vision of the city rises, a vision of somewhere a little more modern and worldly.


The video for the song "Won't Keep Me Up at Night," by the Nashville band Sun Seeker, opens with a shot of a modest single-story brick house. A sign out front reads: "Coming Soon: Luxury Condominiums; 32 Residential Units-8 Ground Floor Retail Spaces."

A van pulls into the driveway and a gaggle of shaggy twentysomethings piles out, armed with crowbars, hatchets, and hammers. They hop the fence, pry open the back door, then proceed to party. As the song progresses in gently lilting chords, a growing mob of young, interestingly dressed people perform prodigious and sometimes athletic acts of alcohol consumption as they simultaneously tear the house apart-literally.

They smash holes in the drywall, toss beer bottles at mirrors, sledgehammer the countertops, hang from ceiling fans in an attempt to rip them free. At one point someone brings a motorcycle into the living room and burns rubber on the hardwood floor; onlookers cheer and pump their fists as the spark plugs fire inside the bloom of smoke like lightning bolts in a storm cloud. It's a ritual of catharsis, one last hurrah before the wrecking claw accomplishes in a few hours what would take days to finish by hand.

Walking among the partiers is someone everyone seems to know. He's greeted with hugs, beers raised high, and hearty slaps on the back. But as the celebration descends into bacchanalian chaos, his smile fades. He pauses to run his hand down a section of wall, and on the jamb we can see telltale pencil lines: a series of dated hash marks charting a child's height through the years. Now the young man that child became gazes out a window he's looked through thousands of times, standing in a house that's no longer his, bracing for the end and knowing it's already here.

"Won't Keep Me Up at Night" betrays no evidence that it's an homage to the Gillian Welch song "Wayside/Back in Time." But it's a spot-on visualization of her oft-quoted line from that song: "Drink a round to Nashville, before they tear it down."

Bobby Allyn, now a reporter for National Public Radio, surveyed the city's fast-changing landscape in a 2013 cover story for the Nashville Scene titled "Demolition Derby" (reproduced in this volume). "It's not just low-income families or native Nashvillians who are singing the It City Blues as teardown fever reaches epidemic proportions," Allyn writes. "It's also the people who came here long before the recent wave of national press, lured by the city's downhome charm and deep roots."

You could count Welch among those pre-wave transplants, drawn by the rich musical tradition of a city where many of her most cherished albums were recorded. Although, looking at it that way, she had missed a previous wave as much as she had landed ahead of the next one. The logo of Acony Records, her label with musical partner David Rawlings, still adorns a storefront in the Five Points section of East Nashville. It's the same stretch of Woodland Street that was made up to look like a small-town Main Street in the 1991 film Ernest Scared Stupid. (Jim Varney, the actor who played Ernest P. Worrell, was a longtime Nashvillian; he died of cancer in 2000, at age 50.)

The "wave of national press" Allyn alludes to crested in January 2013 when Kim Severson, writing in the New York Times, asserted it was Nashville's turn to be "the nation's 'it' city." The phrasing was ubiquitous on arrival. Hence the "It City Blues" and a hundred other iterations, applied with varying levels of irony and spite. People wielded "It City" as both honorific and albatross, and whether one's eyes rolled while saying it or not, the notion of Nashville's new status, conferred by the paper of record, became a yardstick for just about everything. "We're the 'It City' because X." "We can't really be the 'It City' if we don't do Y." "The arrival of Z just goes to show we really are the 'It City.'" Or that we really aren't.

Albeit tongue-in-cheek, the Nashville Scene dedicated an entire cover story to the build-up preceding that moment-a timeline that's "full of it," according to the introduction (written by an uncredited Jim Ridley). By 2018, the Tennessean had worked the nomenclature into the title of dozens, if not hundreds, of news stories, op-eds, slideshows, videos, and whatever else they could dream up-a fact that, in a click-based advertising environment, was likely analytics-driven. Give the people what they want. Or at least what they love to hate.