Knowing Jack

The Nashville Files

Some days, I have the best job in the world. When I was asked to fly out to Nashville, drink a little JD, eat a little barbeque and listen to a little music, that was one of those days. So, by way of penance and justification for my good fortune, behold! A rock n roll travelogue to make you all pig sick.

First of all, a little realised misconception about Jack Daniels: it is not a bourbon; it is a Tennessee whiskey. This is because filtered through ten feet of sugar maple charcoal. Bourbon is unfiltered. So there.

On arrival in Nashville, thirty-four or so media types are looking decidedly ashen. It’s a surprise the stringent homeland security let so many zombies through passport control. Shambling onto the bus through familiar rain, we manage to remain compos mentis long enough to get to the Nashville Hilton, a striking building that sits opposite the Country and Western Museum – a similarly striking building that looks like a piano keyboard with an aerial sticking out of it. Inside, a breathtaking atrium makes me reel with amazement – we so get this wrong in England.

Lying down is the killer, so I busy myself before heading to the bar and ‘preparing’ for dinner, a quiet affair at the Stockyard, formerly a cattle exchange in the early 20th century, now a leading steak house. I am sat next to Nelson, Jack Daniels’ official historian, a affable, grey-moustachioed southern gentleman who has been working with them for 40 years and puts up with me admirably throughout the meal. The food is superb; a tale in itself, but at the end of the meal I am lucky enough to have my first taste of Single Barrel, a special Jack Daniels whiskey that comes from… a single barrel, taken from the topmost levels of Jack Daniels’ maturing houses. It’s stronger, more mature and more like a brandy than a whiskey. This is the good stuff.

The next day we get to find out a bit more about what goes into the good stuff when we get taken on a guided tour around the distillery. Our guide is Ron: raconteur, facial hair aficionado (everyone has facial hair here; it’s de rigeur) and the only man I’ve seen who can walk backwards over terrain and still tell jokes. The tour is comprehensive and entertaining, taking us from fermentation, through distilling, past filtration, over the barrels and finishing with the bottling. But no selling – Lynchburg is a dry county, meaning that, though you can drink it and give it (every Jack Daniels employee is presented with a bottle of No 7 on the first Friday of the month; this is known as good Friday) it is an offence to buy it. Shame, as having so many facts powering through my brain, I could do with a stiff drink. The stiffest I can get is iced tea.

After a quick trip to Lynchburg, which has become almost a subsidiary to Jack Daniels - the Jack Daniels shop – you can get Jack Daniels branded brands, for goodness sake – and Miss Mary Bobo’s, a restaurant serving Tennessee home style food, we return to the distillery’s little hospitality hut for a tasting session. Taking it is none other than master distiller Jeff Arnett, who has been working for Jack Daniels for seven years, and master taster Jeff Norman. One suspects we’re getting the red carpet treatment, but the presentation is so polished here it’s hard to tell. It’s not just about the polish though – it’s about the attention to detail, the amiable charm. There’s an American pride to what they do, and they want to show it off. I could bang on about the whiskies and how they open up (try Gentleman Jack – very subtle, double filtered), but I’ve really got to get in something about the musical connection. Frank Sinatra made Jack Daniels popular and in exchange they made sure he never went without. Slash adopted it, Seasick Steve adores it, now Pulled Apart By Horses love it too. It has a style all of its own. Blimey, did they get me good. But in a country that has been tarred with the ‘generic’ brush and revels in the facelessly corporate, Jack has a face. It is a nice face and rocks out with the rest of us on Barbeque Hill, smoking a fat cigar and kicking back to some good times. I know Jack; he’s a nice guy.

Tim Wheeler, Roisin Murphy, Tom Dartnall and Guest Starring Hugh Cornwell

@ Barbeque Hill, Lynchburg, Tennessee

So the morning has been spent at the Country and Western Museum (Hank William’s dead squirrel band is a must), the afternoon spent interviewing – the evening must be for barbeque, b... whiskey and bands. The band in question is the New Silver Cornet Band and I have it on good authority that they have improved since the ramshackle line up of 1892 – these guys have worked with Alice Cooper, Steve Perry, Frank Black, and percussionist Craig Kampf looks like Killer Bob. Still, the Jack is free flowing, and free, so let ‘em roll.

To say Tom Dartnall looks uncomfortable on stage without his bass is like making a pudding with no eggs at all. His voice, however, makes up for his awkwardness. ‘Decision’ is surprisingly subtle but impressive, with his vocals smothered just a bit, but ‘Hello, I Love You’ has a nice Hugh Grant bumbling quality and David Byrne’s ‘Glass, Concrete and Stone’ is custom made for his anti-performance. ‘No More Heroes’ doesn’t quite come off, sounding a bit slow, but a rare live performance of ‘Long Cool Drinks by The Pool’ rounds off an utterly disarming, adorable set.

Roisin is, adversely, completely at home on stage. Professional and stylish, she whips through Womack and Womack, purrs through ‘Slave To Love’ and dredges through Tom Waits ‘Way Down In The Hole.’ Things reach a sleazy peak for her duet with Hugh on ‘Peaches’, but it is a very considered performance, perhaps too much so. Credit to the band for creating some very souly sounds out of some very country instruments.

Between sets, Hugh Cornwell comes on and does single songs. Apart from the duets, this is his only input into the evening, which is a shame seeing as a trick seems to have been missed here. Ah well, on to Tim Wheeler. Who is a rock god in miniature. From his opening fret appoggiatura, he dominates the stage, works the audience and gets my head going. ‘Goldfinger’ modulates and undulates, ‘Running Back’ seduces and ‘Always The Sun,’ with Hugh, is paternally tender. A sweet moment.

The evening closes with an impromptu, all-on-stage performance of ‘Gloria’, which highlights each performer’s own style and is magnificent scrappy fun. And that’s what the evening has been: fun around a roaring fire with a few drinks and a few turns. Only the turns have been a little bit special. Straight up.

Rob Wright

www.thejdset.co.uk