A night in Nashville

I could’ve been offended. I’ve written opinion columns for the IDS since September, and I’ve worked full-time in the newsroom since January. But WEEKEND magazine never asked me, an outspoken Republican, to write anything for them until they wanted to cover “hillbilly” activities in Brown County. The IDS should feel lucky they have at least one Red State Redneck to do their dirty work for them. But rather than taking offense at this crass stereotyping, I leapt at the opportunity to spend an evening listening and dancing to music that God’s own angels couldn’t beat. I just couldn’t understand why nobody else wanted the assignment. What were they afraid of, the Boot Scootin’ Boogie Man?

I was beaming with a big Texas-sized smile as I drove over to Brown County with a few friends. It was a beautiful spring day, and I had my country-western music blaring as loudly as it would go.

The Little Nashville Opry was our first stop.

This modest music hall, on Highway 46 in the middle of nowhere, has hosted some of the biggest names in country music through the years: Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, The Oak Ridge Boys, George Strait and, my personal favorite, Toby Keith. In fact, if you’re looking for something to do this Saturday night, you can go see special guest Bobby Knight. (When I remarked that he would be there to the gentleman selling tickets, he helpfully informed me that Mr. Knight would not in fact be singing.)

We got there at about 5 p.m., a good three hours before show time. Country legend T.G. Sheppard would be providing the night’s entertainment, and we wanted to be there to catch a fleeting glimpse, if possible. But being the powerful and influential members of the local media that we are, my colleagues and I were invited onto his tour bus for a world-exclusive interview.

T.G. was a real nice and down-to-earth guy. He was just as interested in asking us about our studies and career paths as he was in answering our questions to him. He even complimented my black cowboy hat (I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d bought it for $7.49 at Target three hours earlier).

We talked about the state of country music and the fact that many folks are upset by its increasing evolution into something more like rock than the traditional “twangy” sound of bygone years. T.G. doesn’t mind the change; he says it’s something that must be embraced, and it’s allowing for a much broader audience. In particular, he’s excited about the large number of young people who are listening to country for the first time. Amen to that.

He told us about life on the road and all the pranks inspired by the boredom of weeks away from home. He once had Kenny Rogersconvinced for months that he was a psychic; T.G. would learn personal details about Kenny’s boyhood from his brother and would give him “psychic readings” as he rubbed Kenny’s ring in his hands.

We told T.G. we would be spending part of the evening at Mike’s Dance Barn. Although he’d never been there, he assured us that all the prettiest girls were at country dance halls and that we wouldn’t be disappointed with the female company we found there.

We soon found out that whatever T.G. might have been, he sure wasn’t a liar (or as we country folks say, he wasn’t just whistling Dixie).

Walking into Mike’s, the first thing we laid eyes on was reason enough for many a lonely cowboy to saddle up and ride to Brown County on a Saturday night. Her name was Rachel Bogle. She’s the hostess at the dance barn, and she wants to be Miss America. She’s got my vote.

Rachel also happens to be a sophomore at IU’s fine Ernie Pyle School of Journalism, a detail I found it necessary to exploit.

“Why don’t you write for the IDS?” I asked, hopefully not betraying too much annoyance. She explained that she’d like to, but she’s so busy with modeling and beauty pageants (along with her job at Mike’s, of course) that she just doesn’t have time for anything else right now.

I politely assured her there would be a job waiting for her at the IDS any time she wanted it.

I talked to the owner, Mike Robertson himself, and he told me that Rachel also has a beautiful voice, but that she’s limited herself considerably by insisting on singing Italian opera rather than the sweet melodies of the American heartland. I’ll tell you one thing – when Rachel learns a Shania Twain song or two, you can bet I’ll be front and center at Mike’s to hear it.

But there are also plenty of reasons beyond the hostess stand to go to Mike’s. We had a great night of music and dancing with some of the world’s friendliest people. I hate to do it, but I’ve got to admit that in reality I’m just a city slicker. I don’t know how to line dance any more than I know how to lasso a steer or hog-tie a ... hog.

This fact soon became apparent to everyone in the room, and there were always plenty of people willing to help a dumb but well-meaning Yankee like me learn the steps. Perhaps the most helpful of them was one of Mike’s dance instructors, Carla. I’d been dancing with one of my friends, who didn’t really know what she was doing either. During one of the slow dances, Carla came over to cut in.

No doubt she felt compassion for my making such a fool of myself, but I pretended that she just couldn’t resist dancing with a real-live cowboy.

The real highlight of the evening was “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” Each song has its own type of rhythm with its own unique dance. Even though some of the dances seemed complicated, they were repetitive. “Cotton-Eyed Joe” is a fairly long song, and by the end of it I looked like the John Wayne version of “Riverdance.”

And Carla was always right there to shout out guidance and encouragement with her charming Southern drawl.

Mike was an uncommonly nice guy and real easy to talk to. He told me how he’d built the barn himself about 12 years ago with nothing but a hammer, a saw and his own calloused hands. I’m embellishing a bit, of course, but if he had told me that, I would have believed him without question. Mike is a real man’s man, who comes from a time when life was tough and cowboys were tougher.

He also bought me a beer, and I always make it a point not to say anything bad about anyone who gives me free beer.

It was a great night, and I’d highly recommend that you check it out with some friends sometime. In fact, the only downside to the dance barn was the restroom. It wasn’t that it was dirty, not at all. But there was a large poster for Smirnoff Ice prominently displayed in it.

Cowboys, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, do not drink Smirnoff Ice. I don’t even think cowgirls would drink Smirnoff Ice. If you’re reading this, Mike, get yourself a Coors Light poster with some race cars and bikini-clad women on it for your men’s room, and you’ll have the finest dance hall outside Texas.