There is a double yellow line running down the middle of State Street, in Bristol. The line separates Tennessee from Virginia.
Passersby stand with one foot in each state and get their pictures made. People who do this look comical and downright ridiculous.
We pulled over so I could do this.
Namely, because this is Bristol. And American music still lives in Bristol.
The rest of the world has gone techno. Even country music has succumbed to the wiles of the “scrolling generation.” But in Bristol, it’s still the 1920s.
I have been playing music since I was 9 years old. And I owe a lot to Bristol.
In 1998, US Congress stopped shooting spitwads at each other long enough to officially declare Bristol the birthplace of country music. And yet, many Americans still don’t realize this is where it all began.
“A lot of people in this country don’t even know Bristol is related to country music,” says one local waitress, warming up my coffee. “But this is where the big bang happened.”
Today, most people travel to Nashville to pay homage to country music, only to find themselves caught in 24-hour gridlock traffic, non-stop outlet malls, and eternal bachelorette parties clad in white cowboy boots, custom T-shirts, operating giant pedal-buses down Lower Broadway.
But I choose Bristol.
It all began in the summer of 1927. Coolidge was president. Babe Ruth was a household name. Lindbergh was making headlines. Silent movies were no longer silent.
Ralph Peer, a freelance producer for the Victor Talking Machine Company in Camden, New Jersey, visited Bristol. He set up a temporary studio in Christian-Taylor Hat Company warehouse on State Street, beside the train station and the hotel.
The newspaper ran a story saying Ralph would record almost anyone who walked through the doors.
They came from all over Appalachia, all seeking their 15 minutes. They drove raggedy Model A’s along the jagged spines of the Smokys, the Blue Ridges, the Alleghenies, and the Cumberlands. They brought Sears-Roebuck guitars and Montgomery-Ward fiddles. Some weren’t even wearing shoes.
For about a week, Ralph recorded fiddle tunes, sacred songs, string bands, balladeers, street evangelists, gospel quartets, harmonica virtuosos, Holiness preachers, shape-note singers, blues guitarists, storytellers, and banjoists.
One of the acts was led by a gangly young man named A.P. whose wife played rhythm guitar, whose sister-in-law played lead guitar. They recorded six tunes at $50 a pop. They called themselves the Carter Family.
The next afternoon, a soft-spoken railroad man named Jimmie Rodgers walked through the doors. He had tuberculosis. Doctors had given him a death sentence. But he’d always wanted to pursue music.
He was 30 years old. He recorded 120 songs in his brief career, changed American music forever, and died five years later.
If you drive through Bristol, you’ll see it all. You’ll see “them.” And, what’s more, they’ll see you.
There is the Carter Family Fold, with weekly Saturday concerts, featuring bluegrass and traditional music. There is the Birthplace of Country Music Museum. On Anderson Street is the Tennessee Ernie Ford home. Bristol’s native son.
When you leave Bristol, you can travel the Crooked Road, 300 miles of music heritage, weaving through an arresting Southwest Virginia.
Along the Crooked Road, is a resurgence of young people playing old-time music. There are dozens of informal venues, hosting regular jam sessions. Almost nightly, rural kids still gather at places like local Dairy Queens, carpet stores, or barbershops, to play the music of their forebears.
The world has lost its mind. America can’t seem to quit playing on its phone. Today’s trend music is dictated by artificial intelligence, streaming apps, and exotic dancers. But in Bristol, it still feels like America. In Bristol, country music still lives.
And that’s why I got my picture made.