"Did you all ride as far as possible up here from Nashville in that transport?" a fan at Stepping Stone Ranch in Escoheag, Rhode Island asked when the transport pulled up to the stage to empty. Then again what about this one: "Gee, Stonewall, you're one of my greatest fans!" Or: "whenever you see Johnny Cash, would you lers pi fan ban ort issue him this tune I composed?"
Down home Music fans. They supply the cash that keeps the stimulation chain, which begins when a musician composes a hit for a star to record and finishes when a picker spends his keep going five bucks on a 6-pack and a frank at a Mapco Express in transit home from a gig, running easily. They dress clever and ask idiotic inquiries and still need the Greatest Hits on 8-track, however ya gotta love 'em, in light of the fact that Ernest Tubb said as much.
They come around to the motel, or the truck stop, or the theater, or the club, and need to meet the star. "Hey, tell Faron I was in training camp with him at Ft. Bragg." "Faron wasn't at Ft. Bragg." "Better believe it, he was. We used to get inebriated together." Greasy sweat-soaked gentlemen who appear as though they simply changed out the transmission in their '72 Monte Carlo come tottering up to the transport sucking on a Lone Star: "Tell Alan that Billy Bob's here. I'm his cousin. I issued him his first git-tar." Girls need to realize what motel y'all are staying at, including room numbers. On the off chance that they can't join with the star, they'll settle for the front man, whatever other artist, any band part, the street chief, or the transport driver, normally in a specific order. The protective sorts bring crate of browned chicken around for you and, in the event that you appear as though you're under thirty, need to comprehend what your folks consider you going around the nation with a pack of bristly legged nation musical artists. The paternal sorts eye you suspiciously in the event that you get too close to their womenfolk.
Nearby musical performers turn out to see you. Some of the time they convey a jug of shabby bourbon to impart to you and after that need you to signature their guitar and acquaint them with the star. The more established ones have stories about the time they cut a record in Nashville or played with Red Foley or some other dead vocalist who can't substantiate their case, and the more youthful ones need to know whether they ought to move to Nashville. They think we all commute Cadillacs around from studio to studio down here and party with Tanya Tucker and Travis Tritt in World Famous Printer's Alley. Hee! Haw! Tell 'em to go ahead down! Fans need to recognize what its similar to out and about. (Do you folks live in that transport, or do you register with a motel in some cases?) They need to comprehend what the star is truly like. (Does he get that tipsy constantly?)
Down home Music fans. They supply the cash that keeps the stimulation chain, which begins when a musician composes a hit for a star to record and finishes when a picker spends his keep going five bucks on a 6-pack and a frank at a Mapco Express in transit home from a gig, running easily. They dress clever and ask idiotic inquiries and still need the Greatest Hits on 8-track, however ya gotta love 'em, in light of the fact that Ernest Tubb said as much.
They come around to the motel, or the truck stop, or the theater, or the club, and need to meet the star. "Hey, tell Faron I was in training camp with him at Ft. Bragg." "Faron wasn't at Ft. Bragg." "Better believe it, he was. We used to get inebriated together." Greasy sweat-soaked gentlemen who appear as though they simply changed out the transmission in their '72 Monte Carlo come tottering up to the transport sucking on a Lone Star: "Tell Alan that Billy Bob's here. I'm his cousin. I issued him his first git-tar." Girls need to realize what motel y'all are staying at, including room numbers. On the off chance that they can't join with the star, they'll settle for the front man, whatever other artist, any band part, the street chief, or the transport driver, normally in a specific order. The protective sorts bring crate of browned chicken around for you and, in the event that you appear as though you're under thirty, need to comprehend what your folks consider you going around the nation with a pack of bristly legged nation musical artists. The paternal sorts eye you suspiciously in the event that you get too close to their womenfolk.
Nearby musical performers turn out to see you. Some of the time they convey a jug of shabby bourbon to impart to you and after that need you to signature their guitar and acquaint them with the star. The more established ones have stories about the time they cut a record in Nashville or played with Red Foley or some other dead vocalist who can't substantiate their case, and the more youthful ones need to know whether they ought to move to Nashville. They think we all commute Cadillacs around from studio to studio down here and party with Tanya Tucker and Travis Tritt in World Famous Printer's Alley. Hee! Haw! Tell 'em to go ahead down! Fans need to recognize what its similar to out and about. (Do you folks live in that transport, or do you register with a motel in some cases?) They need to comprehend what the star is truly like. (Does he get that tipsy constantly?)
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