The Establishments

[caleb]

Saturday I was a groomsman in a good friend's wedding. The schedule called for a 12:30 meeting the afternoon of the wedding so that we could get our shoes shined and go out for a scotch together. At least half of it sounded good.

We met for a shoe shine at Heimie's in St. Paul. I went with pretty low expectations, but it was simply the coolest clothing store I've ever been to: while there was the expected supply of expensive dandy suits and accessories, they also have a barber shop, shoe shine, cigar and pipe tobacco humidor, and a complementary pot of good coffee. I received the best shoe shine I've ever had, with impeccable edging on the soles, for $6.

I left impressed. The St. Paul Hotel is just across the street - check out their scotch menu if you're in the neighborhood.

The start to my friend's wedding day was better than expected.

***

Have you run across a place that's worth other people's attention? If so, post it up here.

[chasea]

3614 Jackson Hwy


I was touring through the south in'05 or 06'. Weird little run of punk clubs and record stores in cities and towns you'd rather not stop in. Hot Springs, Little Rock, Jackson, Birmingham, Nashville, Florence, Atlanta, etc. The Florence, Alabama gig was a weird one. It was a weird period for the band too. Alicja had broken up with Darren while she was touring Europe. He was at home, his mother dying. And I was the step kid stuck in the middle. To say we fucking hated each other would be an understatement. But, being the Memphis-bred musicians we are, we didn't let a little thing like wanting to knock each other's lights out stop us from going on the road together. We played a cramped record store to an all ages crowd. It was packed and felt like it was 1000 degrees in there. Guitars wouldn't stay in tune, drums wouldn't stay in tune; nothing was going right. We played fast and loud and sweat through all of our clothes. The last thing you want to do after a gig like that is hang around, sweat drenched, signing albums and taking pictures with teenagers; especially when you know that you're a nobody. The only thing on your mind is getting paid, getting on to the next gig, and then getting home so you can get away from these people.

We continued on to Atlanta. We were running late. Randy, manager for The Black Lips and the show's promoter, cancelled the show on us when we were 5 minutes from the venue. We were in no mood to be fucked with at this point. We drove on only to find the bar locked. Ian, guitarist for The Black Lips and our host for the night, made some calls. Word got out that we'd be playing at Eyedrum, an art/performance space on MLK Blvd. Amazingly, people showed up. But Randy was the sound guy. We played a short set overthe house music because Randy didn't feel like turning it off. He also felt like heckling us over the PA between songs. And then didn't pay us. We hit the road again, Ian in tow, hitching a ride with us to Memphis.

I honestly don't know why we opted to the scenic route. If I had to guess, I'd say that we thought traffic on the main roads would be bad; and we wanted to get home, and as far-the-fuck away from each other as possible. We drove back through Alabama and called Jamie, the guy who put on the show in Florence.
"Y'all wanna go see the studio in Muscle Shoals?"
"Uh, yeah."

We met him at his house and followed him across the river from Florence. 3614 Jackson Highway. A brick building- a room, really- in the middle of fucking nowhere. But this room had produced some serious records in its day. The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin. You don't turn down an offer to go inside. Jamie beat on the back door and the engineer opened up. He was mixing, and there was no band in that day, so we were invited in.

I don't know what I was expecting, but that studio was , in my mind, what a recording studio should be. It was a room, that's it. Brick, carpet, some keyboards and amps, and a toilet. There was an isolation booth for the drums if you wanted it. A vocal booth with a glass wall and no door. There wasn't even a wall between the boards and the tracking room. The engineers were in the room with you. They heard what was happening, not what came through the monitors. I was smitten.

I excused myself to take a leak. I touched the toilet seat. How could I not? Think of all the famous asses that sat on that thing. I come out of the hallway and pronounce that I've now touched the thing that so many great have sat upon. The engineer just laughs. At first, I think its because I'm starstruck and he's cynical old man who has seen it all. Its only when he points to the original toilet seat, mounted on the wall directly above my head, that i get the joke. I wash my hands a second time.
We drove home in high spirits.

Muscle Shoals came up in conversation a few weeks ago. My friends Jake and Greg we in New York for CMJ. Jake had been in a band with Jim Dickinson, Muscle Shoals Sound regular and piano player on The Stones' "Wild Horses," just before he died. They ask me about the studio, what it looks like, what it sounds like, the general layout, and I draw it on a napkin. The bartender, a merch guy for The Hold Steady and rabid Drive-By Truckers fan, overhears us and gets in on the discussion. He, too, is intrigued. I don't know what it is about that room, but people want to know about it.
The drinks didn't cost us nothin' that day.

That room is famous. That room is mythical. That room has clout.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muscle_Shoals_Sound_Studio