LITTLE RED HAT

Telling stories in visuals.

Always a Little Red hat.

CHRONICLES

February 26, 2026

Nashville, Where the Music Lives

Music started the moment I stepped off the plane.

Before I even reached the city, it was already there. Live performers filled every space. Not background sound, not recorded tracks, but people. Playing. Singing. Sharing their craft openly. Every genre imaginable, and every one
of them remarkably talented.

Almost immediately, we started asking the
same question, again and again.

Why aren’t they famous?

Almost immediately, we started asking
the same question, again and again.
Why aren’t they famous?

It became a refrain
throughout the trip,

passed quietly between songs and venues. The level of talent was constant. The commitment undeniable. These were not people chasing attention. They were practicing something they loved.

Music followed us everywhere. Along Broadway, it spilled into the street and pulled people forward from block to block. It wasn’t confined to stages or specific rooms. It lived in the open, reshaped by who was playing and where we paused long enough to listen.

It became a refrain
throughout the trip,

passed quietly between songs and venues. The level of talent was constant. The commitment undeniable. These were not people chasing attention. They were practicing something they loved.

At John Bon Jovi’s place,

everything clicked. The house band, Hand Over Face, sounded like every 80s rock song I loved growing up. Familiar without feeling dated. Loud in the right way. The kind of music that lets your body relax because it already knows the words. It was my favorite stop without question. I felt so comfortable there that time dissolved. We played cards. We sang along. It didn’t feel like being out. It felt like being folded into the room.

Hand Over Face, sounded like every 80s rock song I loved growing up.

At Lucky Bastard Saloon,

Tyson Hanes filled the space with sound that felt almost visual. Tantalizing notes that made me think of a cartoon character floating toward the smell of fresh baked pie, unable to resist being pulled closer.

Whiskey River brought another shift. Trent Ingram held the room with confidence, each song landing cleanly before moving on to the next. At Luke Bryan’s, Ryan Fowler’s fiddle stopped me completely. I just stood there in awe, watching the precision, the speed, the control. It was impossible to look away.

At John Bon Jovi’s place,

Hand Over Face, sounded like every 80s rock song I loved growing up.

Broadway glowed with bright lights and movement. Bull rides. Line dancing. Boots and hats worn without irony. Brick, rope, and neon layered together. Steel guitar spilling through open doors. Energy flowed into the streets and never fully shut off.

Yet alongside all of it was an unexpected politeness. Hellos exchanged while walking. Strangers talking easily to one another. Everyone seemed to understand why they were there. The music. The talent. The shared experience of witnessing it together. At one point, I thought that in another life, we might sit down and play rummy.

The city held contrast naturally. Loud rooms and quiet corners. Morning light softened the edges, but the music never stopped. It simply shifted.

By morning, the city shifted. Printer’s Alley slowed things down. Jazz drifted through the space, softer but steady. Over breakfast, Tabitha Meeks played the piano with a quiet confidence that held the room completely. Subtle. Soft. Beautiful. The kind of artistry that doesn’t fade in the daylight, but settles in deeper once the noise gives way to listening.

Each stop carried its own energy, but the level of talent never dipped. Many of the musicians played only for tips, trusting that if they showed up honestly, people would listen. And they did.

Each stop carried its own energy, but the level of talent never dipped.

Art revealed itself beyond sound.

Murals everywhere. Craft and design woven into storefronts and signage.

And then the Parthenon.
It was another favorite.

I wasn’t prepared for how deeply it would affect me. It reminded me of my favorite subject in art history. The discipline. The symbolism. The meaning embedded in every decision. I sat and stared in awe at the level of detail, the intention in every piece. Athena standing tall. Nike held with purpose. Nothing existed without reason.

Standing there revived something I had quietly set aside. A long-held desire to go to Athens and see the Parthenon where it stands. To experience that history in its original place. Nashville reminded me that art has the power to reopen doors you didn’t realize had closed.

Somewhere along the way, I realized art was more than paint or visuals. It was an individual’s craft of expression. The act of practicing something deeply personal and then choosing to share it openly with others.

What stayed with me most was the generosity. Of talent. Of time. Of spirit. Nashville did not guard its artistry. It offered it freely, trusting that what was shared would be met with care.

This was not a city
performing for visitors.

It was a city practicing
what it loves, out loud.

And then the Parthenon.
It was another favorite.

Art revealed itself beyond sound.

Murals everywhere. Craft and design woven into storefronts and signage.

And then the Parthenon.
It was another favorite.

What stayed with me most was the generosity. Of talent. Of time. Of spirit. Nashville did not guard its artistry. It offered it freely, trusting that what was shared would be met with care.