Nashville Show Quotes

I was in Nashville, Tennessee last year. After the show I went to a Waffle House. I'm not proud of it, I was hungry. And I'm alone, I'm eating and I'm reading a book, right? Waitress walks over to me: 'Hey, whatcha readin' for?' Isn't that the weirdest fuckin' question you've ever heard? Not what am I reading, but what am I reading FOR? Well, goddamnit, ya stumped me! Why do I read? Well . . . hmmm...I dunno...I guess I read for a lot of reasons and the main one is so I don't end up being a fuckin' waffle waitress.

Being Jesus means that we go through life embracing it all fully and feeling it all deeply. That we don’t hide and try to protect ourselves. That we live. That we show up. That we laugh. That we cry. That we hurt. That we heal. That we care. That we love. And then, that we wake up the next morning and sign up for it all over again.

Being Jesus doesn't mean that I am always at the center, always doing something, always making something spectacular happen. Being Jesus simply means that I show up to be "part of" something. Maybe being Jesus isn't so much about making it happen as it is letting it happen.

We are Nasvillians now. We have to be classy Southern bitches." Kacey glared as she swigged her tea. "Classy girls don't say classy bitches." "This one does," Lacey said as she took a sip of her tea with her pinky up just to show she meant what she said.

My husband is a man who watches cartoons with his son; whose favourite show is Nashville; and who cried when Buffy’s mum died.

I was and still am a big Dylan fan and admirer, so I asked Bob Johnston if there was any way he could let me play on just one session. Sessions in Nashville are scheduled so you can fit four into a day: 10: 00 a.m., 2: 00 p.m., 6: 00 p.m., and 10: 00 p.m. As it happened, the guitar player they had scheduled for the 6: 00 p.m. session couldn’t make it and wouldn’t show up until the 10: 00 p.m. session, so Bob fit me in for 6: 00 p.m. I was the hungriest musician in the studio. I hung on every note that Bob Dylan sang and played on his guitar and did my best to interpret his music with feeling and passion. When the session was over, I was packing up my guitars to head to my club gig, and Bob Dylan asked Bob Johnston, “Where is Charlie going?” Bob told him I was leaving and that he had another guitar player coming in. Then Bob Dylan said nine little words that would affect my life from that moment on. He said, “I don’t want another guitar player. I want him.” And there it was. After all the put downs, condescension, and snide remarks, after all the times I’d driven to the hill above my house and shook my fist at Nashville and said, “You will not beat me.” After all that rejection, none other than the legendary Bob Dylan was saying that I might be worth something after all. It’s bits of encouragement like that that keep you going. Once in a while something just lights you up and you say, “Yeah, I can do this.

We can also surface milestones that would have gone unnoticed. • What if every member of a youth sports team got a “before-and-after” video of their progress? • Number-heavy organizational goals are fine as tools of accountability, but smart leaders surface more motivational milestones en route to the target. 8. Moments when we display courage make us proud. We never know when courage will be demanded, but we can practice to ensure we’re ready. • The protesters involved in the Nashville lunch counter sit-ins didn’t just show courage, they rehearsed it. 9. Practicing courage lets us “preload” our responses. • Gentile’s approach to ethics says we usually know WHAT is right but don’t know HOW to act. 10. Courage is contagious; our moments of action can be a defining moment for others.

I Do Believe You Ate My Salad Recently, I attended a luncheon at the George Lindsey (Goober of Mayberry fame) Film Festival at my alma mater, the University of North Alabama. Good manners and polite social behavior were at the top of my list, for I know how often business deals get made and people fall in love over meals--my goodness! Seated right next to me was my friend Buddy Killen, a legendary songwriter from Nashville, Tennessee. Everything seemed to be going fine until I looked over and saw that Buddy was eating my salad. I guess he forgot that your salad is always served on the right. Should I have ignored his faux pas? Skipped my salad to avoid making him uncomfortable? What was a Grits girl to do? I’ll tell you what: without a second thought, I turned to Buddy and said straight out, “Excuse me, sir, I do believe you ate my salad!” Never missing a beat, he waved the waiter over and said, “Sir, I’m afraid you forgot Edie’s salad!” With that, I got my salad and all honor was saved. Which just goes to show that being straightforward in a polite manner is never inappropriate. -Edie Hand

She opened the latest crime-scene photos submitted by the Nashville Police Department overnight. The fresh kill. The photo named the victim as Giselle St. Claire. What a delicate name, she thought. Poor girl. Giselle was naked, blue from the cold. She showed signs of exsanguination; the gaping wound in her neck gave that away easily. A second smile. The blood was pooled below her head, framing the scene in a macabre ruby border. Charlotte

Nashville had gotten schizophrenic over the past decades. The reputation as Little Atlanta was well deserved—while the country music scene still ran the show, there were many more avenues for pleasure. The stunning Schermerhorn Symphony Hall and the First Art Center drew a more refined crowd downtown, and esoteric restaurants and sophisticated bars had opened to provide succor to the cultivated set. Taylor liked these places; they were a retreat, a way to get away from her sometimes mundane world. They

Nothing slays me faster than a guy who can show compassion and kindness.

what it looks like to love another person for who they are, without reservations or limits. They showed me the joy you can find in a shared passion, always wanting to grow and learn together, as a team.

The little black dress of her dreams. A vintage Versace she’d found at a yard sale one afternoon in Nashville after a wife unexpectedly showed up from a vacation in Saint-Tropez, found her husband’s mistress living in their home, and held an impromptu sale to get rid of the younger woman’s possessions. The kicker? She’d bought it for a nickel.

There’s a spirit of freedom in Portland you can’t find many other places. Austin has it a little, and Boulder has it. Nashville is glowing with it. It’s not just a hippie thing either. It’s something other, a feeling everybody else in the country is being corralled into buying just a few kinds of clothes, a couple of different records and watching the same television shows, while in these rare cities, these bastions of freedom, people have turned off their televisions to realize there are more than binary options for us to choose from. We don’t have to be either conservative or liberal or religious or atheist or divided into this or that categories. We can be ourselves, a conglomerate of nuanced beliefs and opinions.

My train! This is the train Papa promised me!” He pulled a little red engine from the branches of the tree. “And it’s red. Just like I wanted!” Confused, Aletta joined him, and Andrew held up the toy, a tag bearing his name hanging off the smokestack. “All really good trains are red, Mama,” he said, as though everyone should know that. The train was hand carved, not nearly as detailed as the one she’d ordered from the Nashville mercantile, and it had no railcars and certainly didn’t make any sounds. But when she turned the train over and saw the writing on the bottom, she felt the prick of tears. I love you, buddy, Jake. She read the inscription aloud, and Andrew’s eyes lit. He raced over to Jake, who knelt and hugged him tight. “I love my train!” Andrew drew back. “Does this mean I get to call you Jake now?” Jake looked across the room at her, much like everyone else, and Aletta smiled. “I imagine that would be just fine.” Andrew gave a loud shout and went to show Winder his red engine. Aletta joined Jake, who stood quietly off to the side. “How did you know?” She searched his gaze. “That was the kind of train he wanted? And that he wanted red?” “I didn’t. But that’s the kind of train I had when I was his age. Besides . . . aren’t all really good trains red?

In November 2007, we were doing a show called Christmas for Kids at the Ryman Auditorium. It’s a show to benefit underprivileged children at Christmastime, started by the drivers who drive the touring buses used by the Nashville artists.

My dad saved for everything that mattered—a washer and dryer, a new refrigerator. By the time I left home in Nashville in 1976, he still hadn’t gotten a new TV. He said his “money wasn’t right.” When The Oprah Winfrey Show went national, that’s the first thing I bought him—a color TV, paid for in cash

Just because you close your eyes, doesn't mean you are invisible.

Larry Henley, the singer whose raucous falsetto on "Bread and Butter" gave the Newbeats their biggest pop hit in the 1960s and who later co-wrote "Wind Beneath My Wings," a ballad that has become all but inescapable at weddings, sports shows, piano bars and presidential galas, died Dec. 18 in Nashville. He was 77.

But one concert stood head and shoulders above the rest, sonically: Led Zeppelin at Earl’s Court on May 25, the finale of a five-concert run, during which Zeppelin played a three-hour, 20-song set, including a three-song acoustic segment. Comparing Wings (a group unashamed to put out a nursery rhyme as a single) to Led Zeppelin was like comparing a comfy pullover with a studded leather suit, but just as the Bowie concert in Nashville had turned Paul on to the appeal of a live horn section, watching one of Britain’s premier rock groups up close was eye-opening. “The basis for our [1975–76] show was a Led Zeppelin concert we saw in London,”54 Paul happily acknowledged.