Kachina , report please
Sorry. Posted this at the other place, but I forget not everyone's as forum-promiscuous as I am. I wrote it at 4am last night, running on pure adrenaline. I still haven't slept; I'll try to correct the typos, but I'm sure to miss some.
Kachina Doll's Big AdventureWherein I miss everything but the show, but the show is more than enough.Hubby, Kid and I knew from the beginning that the timing would be tight for us to get from Memphis to Nashville in time for the start of the Opry, so I didn't RSVP for the big Margaritaville shindig. Late this week, it became clear that there was no way that Hubby and Kid could get there in time, so I decided to drive seperately and leave early enough to crash the party.
Alas, I didn't count on the sheer size of my hotel, the Gaylord Opryland (Kid's choice) although I had stayed here before and should have known... It took 20 minutes to get from the lobby to my room with the bellman leading the way.
I also didn't count on having a severe allergic reaction to the primer for my new, supposedly hypoallergenic make-up (BareMinerals in case anyone's keeping score). Still thinking I can make it to Jimmy Buffett's, long room-to-lobby commute and all, I start to freshen up. Less than a second after applying said primer, I notice I suddenly have huge nests of wrinkles where there had previously been none. I, of course, immediatley begin the requisite existential crisis, but it's cut short when I notice my face is lobster red, peeling, and feels like it's on fire. Especially my nose. I look like I should be standing outside a liquor store offering to buy teenagers beer. I wash everything off, apply cold compresses and wait to see if it's going to blister. Half an hour later it's still red and peeling, but it hasn't blistered and it hurts less so I put on some eye make-up and lipstick and hide as much of the damage as I can with powder. Then I head back out to the valet station.
Which, sans bellman, I find a bit more than 30 minutes later.
There appears to be only a single valet on duty, so I have to wait. Awhile. I am big as a house, old as the hills, blotchy, and fussy because I haven't eaten yet today and -- I swear this is true -- a young man out for a smoke gives me -- Me! -- a very appreciative glance just as I get my car. I give a little prayer of thanks for the generosity of the male libido as I drive away, way, way too late to make Margaritaville but considerably less fussy.
I settle for going straight to the Ryman. It's cool and a just a bit breezy as I walk the block from the parking lot to the auditorium and my eyes start to water. Anyone with sensitive skin knows what this means. My mascara is now everywhere but on my eyelashes. I look like a raccoon. A red-nosed, drunken, increasingly fussy raccoon. There are no helpful male glances.
The fan club is also nowhere to be seen. No 50 or so sweet ladies, mostly of a certain age, posing for a group photo. Noone. They have almost certainly been delayed by a certain surprise meet and greet of which I am then unaware. Nor would I, at that point, have cared. I grab an extra large full calorie soda in a souvenir cup and sit my fat, old, fussy, drunk-looking raccoon self down to wait for the show to start.
And it does, with someone trying to be Minnie Pearl, corny jokes, price tag and all. Happily, it gets better. John Conlee hosts the first half hour. He is smooth and charming and it goes by quickly.
Little Jimmy Dickens hosts the second half hour. He is 91 years old, about 4 feet tall, and funny as all get out. Plenty bawdy, too. He ends his set with an apology in case he's offended anyone. Which maybe he has, this being Baptist territory, but I enjoy the heck out of it. Before he goes, he introduces Craig Morgan, saying how much he admires Morgan's character. The effect of this endorsement is somewhat mitigated by the fact that Jimmy has to refer to his notes to remember Morgan's name, but, hey, he's 91. And he can still read without glasses. I wish I could say that.
I am particularly interested in Morgan's set because he is the closest comparison to Casey on tonight's bill. In some ugly little backwater of my little fangirl soul, this is a contest and I want Casey to win. So I don't want Morgan to be good. But he is. He starts out his first song with a couple verses of Amazing Grace and the crowd is hooked. He is confident and he is talented and I am nervous. This will not be an easy slam dunk for Casey. Morgan's second song is also good, but it goes on just a tad too long and I relax. Casey's got this. Whew.
My husband arrives just before intermission and I contemplate asking him to take pictures during Casey's set. I decide not to because my camera doesn't take very good pics, there are lots of other people there also taking pictures, and I want him to be able to enjoy the show.
Intermission. The lights go up and my husband points happily to the program.
"Look," he says. "Diamond Rio."
"Yes," I say, "but no Vince Gill."
"That's okay," he says, "I'd rather see Diamond Rio."
I ask him to take pictures.
The lights go back down and we all return our creaky-kneed bodies to our pews in the First Church of Country Music. Whispering Bill Anderson is this half hour's host and he does a lovely job. Charming and considerate. He introduces Bill Osborne and the Rocky Top X-Press and they entertain us thoroughly with their first number. Wonderful bluegrass.
And then they do the unthinkable. They play 'Rocky Top.'
For those who are not from around here, it's difficult to describe what this songs means in Tennessee. It's sort of like the Declaration of Independence and the National Anthem and the Fight Song all rolled into one. And it's being sung in the equivalent of the State Cathedral. The audience is hootin' and hollerin' and clapping and stompin' and singing along at the top of their lungs. Casey can't follow this. No one could. No way. No one. Definitley not some kid in his first ever Opry appearance. Remember that little backwater? It's now a raging whitewater whirlpool of despair. If I weren't so busy singing along with everyone else, I would be screaming my head off in frustration.
Fortunatley, Whispering Bill is not so easily daunted as I. He interviews Bill Osborne and makes it clear that this song always gets a huge reaction. Then he spends lots of time talking about Casey and Cool and all the fans there to see him. Then he asks Casey if he's nervous and Casey says he's shaking, which he is. Just a little bit. Casey talks to the audience some and he points out his Momma in the front center and asks "Isn't she pretty?" Which she is, but that's not unusual. What's unusual is that Casey Everett James, emotional Spartan and interviewee extraordinaire, is babbling. Just a little bit.
Maybe you don't notice it if you haven't watched every Casey interview ever made at least ten times, but I have, and I did, and he was. And it was so frikkin' cute! It is seriously the most adorable thing he's ever done, and that's saying a lot for our rainbow-dwelling unicorn. The audience has already forgotten 'Rocky Top' and that's nothing short of a miracle.
He starts into LDCIAN -- black tele with white pick guard, full band, including keyboardist, drummer, bass player, steel guitar, and -- GASP! -- way back in the shadows, another guitar player. His vocal may be just a smidgeon less crisp than usual, but he is in wonderful voice, every note is spot on and his guitar playing is, natch, amazing. The crowd is well and truly hooked.
And then it gets better.
Baby picks up a Dobro and a slide and starts into 'Drive'.
That's right. Slide Dobro.
Unfortunately, the Dobro isn't piped into the sound system right -- the oh-so-jealous Sound God not wanting anything to come easy for Casey -- and we have to work to hear it. But Dobros are made to be loud and the Ryman is made for acoustics and a reverent hush falls over the audience as we all strain happily to catch every note. In this moment, this is thing is the thing all of us want more than any other thing. He finishes and the crowd bursts into loud, loud cheers and applause while the fan club jumps joyfully to it's feet. It appears to have grown, as there are well over 50 people standing. Most of the audience is still seated -- Baptists. Whaddya gonna do? -- but they are clapping as hard as they can. Bill Anderson interviews Casey again. Casey does that little babbly thing again and exits stage right. And all is right with the world.
Which is when Whispering Bill tries to kill us.
He rips out our hearts, stomps them flat, drags them a few miles down a gravel road, then shoves them through a meat grinder and feeds the shreds to the hogs.
He thinks he's just singing a song. But that song is "Papaw's Boots" about a young man who inherits his beloved grandfathers Sunday boots when he dies and proceeds to wear them on special occasions to honor his Papaw. His wedding day. Bringing his first born home from the hospital. That sort of thing.
I don't know if Casey heard the song. I don't know if hearing it would have made things better or worse for him. Probably better. It was kind of an amazing fit, all things considered.
Me, I cried. A few more streaks could only improve my raccoon eyes. It was cathartic.
Hubby, done with the pics (none usable) sits down beside me and the last half hour starts. Mike Snider has us all laughing with his digs at sponsor Dollar General, and we all sing along with Diamond Rio's 'Meet in the Middle' when the time comes. Me too, because I am in perfect charity with the whole world and, well, Vince who? I honestly didn't miss him. It was perfect the way it was.
So perfect that when I finally get my first meal of the day, I am not fussy or headachey, nor have I sung a single stanza of 'Feed Me Seymour' from Little Shop of Horrors. Then I come back to the hotel, long commute and all, and write this little review. And then rewrite it when the computer spontaneously rebooted itself just as I was about to post it. Yes, I know there are lots of reviews already out there. And pictures. And videos. And you all listened to the live broadcast. But none of that tells you about the state of my make-up, so what good is it? And, excepting the make-up, everything's still perfect.
BTW, my face is now itchy and flaky, but otherwise fine.
) sounded deceptive in that Casey's voice seemed strained like he was really nervous. Not so in the video, except for the shy smile (yum) you'd think he was at a gig in Ft. Worth. 
However, he made sure he looked in all directions so we could see him and he could see us. He was fantastic. He looked gorgeous. Everyone loved him, even non fans. I'm sure they are fans now. I love the Dobro. I wish the sound had been a little louder but I could hear it. 
