A Rookie's Story (continued)

Nobody had a VIP list yet, but the office was mellow about it, said come back tomorrow and we'll straighten it out. The people at the gate said I had to play the toll, though, and pointed to my guitar case. So I played my first song, probably the first of 50 or 60 I would play that week. Then they pointed me in the direction of Camp Nashville, and I set out to meet up with Jerry. My buddy Michael Farr from Asheville stashed his guitar in a bush and helped me with the duffel bag.

We wound down a dusty road past RVs and camps of people and came to a meadow where I could see teepees and old Airstreams, and took a left at the tree line. Wow, this place is crawlin with renegades, I thought, I ought to fit in here all right. Definitely wasn't a church sponsored cookout where I'd have to watch my language around the kids or something, that's good. One more left up a little lane, and there was Jerry, under the shade of a mighty live oak covered with ball moss, getting the kitchen together. There was Jerry's old pickup with the camper and the kitchen structured in front, and something that felt like a shaded outside living room to the left, with six armless chairs in a circle. Wow, a song circle, nice.

In the midst of a toasty dustbowl, here we were in the shade, damn. There was a dry creek bed behind the kitchen and living room, and about 8 tents already set up. "Yeah, Tom Kimmel's already here, he set all those up. He went to get his buddy Chris Crawford at the airport. Here's your spot." He pointed to a blue tarp big enough for two tents in back of the picnic table, right up by the picking circle. I was in. Unbelievable, now I was home.

Okay, Tom Kimmel. He was a songwriter I really respected from Nashville. Folk pop, could write deep grooves and big songs that always seemed to have the thread of gospel woven in. Had that smoky voice that a reedy tenor like myself envied. Seemed like no matter how many cigarettes I smoked, I couldn't get that sound, so I'd quit. I didn't know how many hot songwriters were gonna be in our camp, and I hoped that one of those seats was going to be mine.

Michael and I threw up the tent I'd borrowed from songwriter Sally Barris in a couple of minutes, and set out meandering, so I could get the lay of the land. We were a couple of days in front of the oncoming throng, but there were already lots of camps, all the early birds nesting in the best spots.   continue

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