So, seated next to an inebriated ex-Marine with gold teeth and billowy muscles, I amble down in a rickety ol' can of tin (thanks, American Eagle) and hightail it to Neilson. Neilson is a Mississippi fella, a touring musician, a no-kidding producer with a vibey studio in east Nashville.
We meet. We talk. Music, marriage, religion, politics. Then, I sing. And sing. And sing. I sang from ten in the morning until seven at night that first day. And I couldn't wait to do it again the next day.
Maybe now I kinda get the studio and maybe it kinda gets me. Maybe one awkward flight, a Marine, the Nashville hills, a bottle of throat spray and a smart southern dude just turned me into a singer.