My first time onstage in Nashville

From now on, I get to say it happened. I get to say, without lying, that I played onstage in Nashville.

Technically, it is correct. I did get to play, on top of a stage, in Nashville. And I can add that I was legitimately invited, too.

It was short. (That's what she said.)

The song was "Mary Jane's Last Dance." I heard one of the guitarists strumming the rhythm part and knew it was coming. I said aloud to a friend:

"I can play this pretty well on harmonica. (pause) In fact, I'm gonna go get my harmonica and play this song with them."

It was greeted with a "Yeah, you should do that."

So I went to my car, parked just outside and down a few buildings over, on the street corner. In a legal space too, mind you. I parallel-parked in Nashville too! Wasn't even close to the first time.

I digress.

So from my car, I grabbed my harmonicas, which are kept all in one convenient carrying case. On my way back to the bar, I thought about the song and the key they were playing it in -- A minor (I could tell thanks to perfect pitch) -- and pulled out exactly the two harps I knew from past experience I'd need to complete the song: A and G harps. G for almost all of it, and A just for a couple of A major chords that pop up in the chorus.

As I passed by the security who'd just seen me leave, I showed him what I was bringing into his bar. At the sight of some musical instruments, he shrugged his shoulders and let me through. I guess he figured he'd hear about it if I turned out to be unwanted. The place was a slow Tuesday anyway; no harm.

And the band was playing the song. I could tell they were finishing verse one. So, with the correct harp in hand, I went up and played the chorus right underneath the stage, directly at the frontman.

They say this type of behavior once got a guy in Stockholm spat upon by Jimmy Page! But that guy was playing all through Jimmy's guitar instrumental, "White Summer." There isn't supposed to be any harmonica in that. Not even Keith Relf played harmonica on that!

But at least in my case I was replicating an integral part of the song note-for-note. It was "Mary Jane's Last Dance"; you know the harmonica part! Nobody in their band was doing it. Without it there, the song is rather incomplete.

So the lead guy in the band turned his ear and listened to me play. When he heard that I was actually playing it right, he soon called me up to start playing.

They had me do a solo. Honestly, there shouldn't be a solo on the harmonica part. It's just meant to be there to back the guitar for a little while and then drop out so the guitar can really take it home!!! So, I didn't want a solo, but I got one.

Then it went back to the guitar.

I hit the A harp again at the end. Just for fun -- and in case they were going into A major for any reason. They didn't. But it was all right; I just avoided the third like the plague.

Just like when you're playing a measure of A minor with the G harp. You want to make sure you don't hit the F# on that harmonica unless you're actually playing a minor 6 chord!

Anyway ...

So, that was my "Mary Jane's Last Dance" jam onstage in Nashville. And I'm not embarrassed about it at all.

It's the second one that's embarrassing. But I won't tell that story just yet.

I do have a recording of it, though.

Meeting people is easy.

It's going great in Nashville.

What's been best? Oh, the Southern hospitality. Befriend the bathroom attendants while you're in here. Tip well. Musicians? Make sure they get fed. Bartenders? Keep them happy.

But the locals? Let them treat you. That's my advice for when you're in town.

Enjoy Music Row. Be yourself. Be real. Be friendly. Remember the Golden Rule. You will be taken care of.

Good vibrations.

Sent from an unspecified handheld device

My first time in Bristol

My two hours of driving southward today through Virginia did end up taking me into both parts of the border town called Bristol: the half in Virginia to the north and the half in Tennessee to the south, divided at State Street. Hey, what else would you logically call it?

While I was on the Virginia side, I popped into the Mountain Music Museum and bought some appropriately priced postcards, along with some cheap CD/DVD mailing envelopes purchased elsewhere at the Bristol Mall. And next, I'm headed to one of the two restaurants on the Tennessee side I researched; they'll have live music tonight, or so I've read on the Internet.

Today has been my first time hanging out in Bristol. All I remember from before -- and I remember this clearly -- are some road markers and billboards extolling the status of Bristol as the birthplace of country music, a giant guitar-shaped building that used to be a museum, and also one other particular oddity.

It's the sign that's a tribute to John Bonham. Well, it is to me, probably to few others. As you're nearing the city limits, you're greeted by not one but two signs referring to "Bonham Rd." It was so inspiring to me the first time I drove through that I took a picture of this "Bonham Rd" sign. Driving me at the time was by Zeppelin buddy Brad, who was traveling with me some of the farthest we've ever gone from home to attend a concert. And that concert was Robert Plant, who was John Bonham's frontman and friend for longer than anybody else ever was to him.

Nearing the city limits, I remembered the "Bonham Rd" signs would be coming up. And they were. I saw the first one 10 seconds later -- and the other shortly after that. It was good mental exercise to drag that memory out of the trenches.

What one might otherwise characterize as an forgettable town midway between Roanoke and Knoxville actually turns out to be a surprisingly inspiring place. And not just because of, in my case, that sign bearing a name I admire. Not even because of some guitar-shaped fire hazard either. It's because there's much more to Bristol than meets the passing eye, beginning first and foremost with the Mountain Music Museum, and continuing right now with where I'm headed for dinner and entertainment. Maybe I'll post something about the meal or the band later on.

A drummer's generosity, and a cabbie's wisdom

Last night, when I realized I wouldn't be getting back inside my car for the evening, I was lucky enough to have a place to go for the night. One of the members of my Building Science Boogie Band also happened to be in Washington, D.C., and had already offered to put me up in his hotel room that night. Free rooms in D.C. aren't offered every day, so I quickly took him up on it! So thanks, Randy, for letting me crash on your very comfy recliner.

Getting to the Fairmont was easy. I just hailed a cab. Even the cab ride was a good experience! I asked the driver where he was from, and he said Somalia. You should have heard those wheels in my head turning: Where on earth is Somalia? When it occurred to me that it is a country in Africa, I asked him what he thought of the revolution in Egypt. He had two interesting comments.

1. The same kind of revolution happened last month in Tunisia, he said, and nobody was talking about it anywhere (except, I'm guessing, on NPR). The story in Egypt is on the front pages every day and on CNN. (In fact, Obama's White House press conference last night took place just minutes after I had photographed myself out front.)
2. The cabbie made me imagine that Ronald Reagan was still president, having been in power for 30 years. That's the way people in Egypt feel about Hosni Mubarak. Good ruler or not, they're just sick of the dude, plain and simple.

Where's the best place to park in D.C.? Nowhere.

Upon arriving in Washington, D.C., by car late on a weekday afternoon with aspirations of retrieving my parked car sometime after 11 p.m., I was faced with a quandary I had never really encountered before: Where can you park?

During the six years I lived in Washington, I never really drove anywhere, and my only other recent parking experience in Washington was just finding a parking space for a few daylight hours on a weekend, and it was a breeze.

But yesterday, when I was nearing the sports pub where my friends were all meeting me, I texted a friend of mine who knows the area, "Where's the best place to park?" I was hoping the answer would come in the form of a parking garage's address, or an intersection like 18th and F -- something like that. But my friend informed me in a one-word text message that the best place to park in D.C. is "Nowhere."

He was right! By spiraling my way around town on the one-way streets, I did eventually find a garage at 1425 New York Avenue NW, that I believed to be not only accessible 24/7 but also rather cheap. But I guess signs can be misleading because when I returned to the garage at 11:30 p.m., it was locked for the night with no entry possible until morning.

This afternoon, the garage charged me $36 to have it parked there overnight and those few hours into the next day. So, I ended up paying a little more than I'd hoped for parking within 24 hours of the road trip's humble beginnings.