Fuck Melody!

In a bar at Five Points, Nashville, W. berates the bartender about the poor choice of gin. Bombay Gin is terrible, he tells her. Tanqueray isn't bad, especially with tonic, but Bombay Gin is a marketing gimmick. She says her customers like it. W. tells her to introduce them to Plymouth Gin. Why hasn't she got any Plymouth Gin? You can get it in America. Our bartender looks annoyed. She'll get what her customers want, she tells us. But how do they know what they want when they haven't tried Plymouth Gin?, W. asks. I don't think she wants to hear about Plymouth Gin, I tell W.

East Nashville is gentrifying rapidly, our hosts tell us. It's preppy hour: joggers and dog walkers fill the streets in the early evening. Fireflies hover over the grasses. It's peaceful. But at night, it's too dangerous to go out. – 'Don't go walking by there', they were told by their landlady as she drove them past a pair of red brick houses. 'Gunshots all the time!' But all they could see was a black woman taking in her laundry from a clothesline.

In the supermarket when they first got here, they saw two twelve year old boys held face down by a security guard, a gun to their heads. Can you believe that? This is a third world country, they tell us. They roll up their shirtsleeves and show us their tattoos: workers of the world unite on one arm, the swallow from Wilde's The Happy Prince on the other.

Later, they play us Barbecue Bob and Memphis Minnie (trading licks with Kansas Joe McCoy) and Big Joe Williams (with his nine string guitar). They make us listen to the funk guitar style of the Mississippi Sheiks. You pronounce it sheeks, they tell us. They point out their sophisticated harmonies, and the subtle interplay of instruments. It's their microphone technique, they tell us.

You find the ultimate blend of melody and rhythm in string bands, our hosts tell us. They've become a real enemies of melody, they say. They hate dead syncopations, they say. They hate drums.

They play us some early John lee Hooker. Hooker plays electric guitar rhythmically, they tell us. Rhythm is everything, they tell us. It's all about the boogie. They put on Bukka White. The guitar produces the rhythm, says our host. It doesn't follow it.

As soon as drums polluted the blues, that was it, our hosts tell us. W. thinks they've gone too far. So does Sal. Fuck melody!, our hosts say. I'm swept up by their argument. Fuck melody!, I shout. Fuck drums!