HIT THE ROAD, JACK!

The world of rock’n’roll is not short of places of pilgrimage where one can worship at a shrine to some idol who has made life a little more bearable than the threats and promises of the god-botherers might otherwise have suggested.

Some head off to Paris to visit the Pere Lachaise cemetery wherein lies the body of the late Doors’ shaman Jim Morrison – assuming he’s dead of course. There’s also Graceland, honoured by Paul Simon’s epic album and the former home of Elvis Presley who, it seems, may also be dead – whenever he’s not out shopping, that is.

The less ghoulish of our species can follow The Beatles Trail around Liverpool or the Rock’n’Stroll Tour of Dublin, which includes a stopover outside the offices of Hot Press, the inhabitants of which are mostly alive if not always kicking.

But when a party from Ireland’s medialand last year decided to sacrifice one whole week from their frantic schedules to pay a pilgrim’s tribute to someone who had done more than most to lubricate the workings of the music industry, they opted to spend that precious week in Lynchburg, situated at the foot of the Cumberland Mountains in Tennessee, USA.

Why? Because it is the revered site of the shrine to the late, great Mr Jack Daniels and the distillery that produces the world-renowned whiskey that has kept his sacred name alive since his death in 1911.

THE MAN’S A BOBO

Although he never released an album or made the cover of Rolling Stone, one imagines that Jack Daniels has been present, literally in spirit, at virtually all the great moments in Rock history. How many bottles of his prime distillation were consumed at Woodstock or Altamont, for instance – or, even more recently, at the last Something Happens rehearsal? Who has not seen a photograph of some esteemed rock legend tenderly cradling a bottle of “Jack”?

Apart from my enthusiastic self, the troupe of Jack Daniels worshippers consisted of Dave Fanning, whose young son just “happens” to be called Jack, Pat Kenny, Brighid McLaughlin (freelance journalist and free-form conversationalist ), myself, Liz McCrory (from Edward Dillon and Co, the distributors of Jack Daniels to a grateful Irish nation), and Jack’s Irish PR man Liam Gaskin, who acted as a kind of unofficial chaplin to the Irish pilgrims with all the missionary zeal of a Bishop Casey.

Before departing on our Delta Airlines flight for the good ole USA, Dave Fanning, a more regular visitor to those shores than a Europhile like myself, warned us that everything in America was like a movie, and for once he was right. Consequently there were few surprises awaiting us, but those that did present themselves made a deep and permanent impression.

There was, on the downside, the sad, awesome tackiness of Music Row in nearby Nashville where you can buy Dwight Yoakam shampoo or Randy Travis nail-clippers or Tammy Wynette hair-curlers of a design and quality almost on a par with the plastic Jesuses you can get at Knock.

But the most welcome surprise was to find that the image portrayed, in their advertising in these pages and elsewhere, of the Jack Daniels Distillery and the neighbouring small town of Lynchburg is not the creation of the febrile mind of some overstressed advertising executive but a totally accurate depiction of a place that time seems somehow to have crept past un-noticed.

The workers at the distillery equally seem to have escaped unscarred by the strains of modern life, whether you’re talking about the lively elder Herb Fanning, who comes to work, he reckons, “every day he decides not to go fishing” or their American PR man Roger Brashears who, although he only lives about fifty yards away from his office, insists on driving to work each day. When a blizzard prevented him doing so on one occasion, the event was such a rarity it made the front pages of the local newspaper.

We also heard countless tales of people with unlikely, yet genuine, names like Frog Bobo, Bob Bobo and Lem Motlow. I was initially convinced that the name “Lem Motlow” was an anagram I was just too incapacitated to decipher, but I was eventually persuaded that he was for real and that as Jack’s favourite nephew he had been installed as boss of the Jack Daniels Distillery at the start of this century and became a prominent anti-prohibitionist Senator. (That’s my man, Lem! – Sam Snort) Bob Bobo has a somewhat different claim to fame, in that he is probably the only person on this planet whose entire name is made up of just two letters of the alphabet.

ANY GODDAM WAY YOU CHOOSE

From the distillery it’s but a short walk, (unless you’re Roger Brashears) along a pleasant, rural tree-lined road into the somnolent little town (don’t they have villages in the USA?) of Lynchburg, the sort of place Chevy Chase accidentally ends up in during his on-screen vacations. En route you pass a sign proclaiming “Welcome to Lynchburg Tenn, Population 361”.

Thinking that there might be some local Fás scheme keeping somebody in permanent employment updating the number on an hourly basis, I made some discreet enquiries, only to have my questions deflected by a local legend claiming that the number of inhabitants of Lynchburg is permanently fixed at 361 because every time a baby is born to a local female, the father leaves town. Fast. That possibly also explains why no one has ever ventured to claim contraceptive properties for Jack Daniels whiskey.

So if you get the impression that the lines between fantasy and fact get somewhat blurred around these parts of rural America, a literally sobering thought comes with the inconvenient news that the Jack Daniels Distillery is, for unfortunate and perverse historical reasons, situated in a dry county, and you cannot buy the product, or any other alcoholic beverage, there. In a situation that may be totally unconnected but which I never quite got to figure out anyway, there was a general store in Lynchburg selling bottles of coke for some ridiculously small amount of money like 10 cents, provided you consumed it on the premises.

Not far away was Mary Bobo’s, an excellent restaurant named after its popular local founder who died shortly before her 102nd birthday. In that restaurant I had my first meal of hominy grits, the exotic existence of which I was familiar with from a million references in American films, TV programmes, books and songs. But when I asked locals to explain what hominy grits were, nobody seemed to know, or else they were too polite to tell me. It’s that kind of place.

Unlike the producers of some other products, the people responsible for Jack Daniels will not bore you with elitist notions as to how one should “ideally” drink it undiluted or only mixed with certain specified sacred liquids. On the contrary, Roger Brashears, a man as full in body and as generous in spirit as the product he represents, offers the fairly unambiguous and unapologetic advice to “drink it any goddam way you choose” and he even drew our attention to a sizeable tome of recipes for a wide range of appetising dishes, all incorporating generous helpings of Jack Daniels.

Of course not all of our pilgrimage was dedicated to paying homage to the great man and we took time-out to visit other, obviously secular, parts of Tennessee, including a trip on a steamboat along a stretch of the Cumberland River from which we caught an impressive view of the downtown Nashville skyline which had taken Bob Dylan’s fancy some years back. In downtown Nashville we stumbled on, and into, a country music disco where we witnessed an outbreak of an extraordinary style of dancing whereby the all-white male-female couples parade rather slowly around the dance-floor in a manner that while appearing sedate is oddly charged with barely contained eroticism.

One could not help feeling that if some enterprising Irish country-music entreprenreur (where’s Donie Cassidy when you need him?) introduced this form of dancing to Ireland, some serious bucks could be made (Now can you hear me, Donie?). Well-intentioned attempts by Pat Kenny and Brighid McLaughlin to distract the good burghers of Nashville with what they claimed was The Walls Of Limerick were sadly short-lived and they were eventually asked to desist because they were causing an obstruction. At least I think that’s what they were accused of.

OUR SHIPMENTS ARE LATE

This side of country music served as a pleasant antidote to the banal commercial offerings of Music Row and it was even more surprising to note that even though the music at the disco changed through the evening from soft country to country-rock and then on to such decidedly non-country offerings as ‘Pump Up The Volume’, the same basic steps were used. Surely there’s the basis for a terrific movie in this, Dave?

Nor is Nashville only about country music. Liz McCrory tracked down a college rock gig with a very decent local band who slotted some fiery cover versions in between their own originals and during which I had to smile to myself when I spotted a local music-chart on the wall with the top three places filled by Therapy?, U2 and Van Morrison.

The state of Tennessee can be justifiably proud of its valuable contribution to the history of popular music, and not just on the country music front. Most will be familiar with the Elvis Presley connection through his residence in Memphis. The legendary Johnny Cash, who has recorded with virtually everyone that matters, from Elvis to U2, and whom one suspects may have imbibed far more than his personal quota of Jack Daniels through his illustrious life, even named his backing band The Tennessee Three.

The loveable Lovin’ Spoonful paid fulsome tribute to the 1,352 local guitar-pickers in their charming world-wide sixties hit ‘Nashville Cats’ and Chuck Berry’s ‘Memphis Tennessee’ has drawn blood from the fingers of many a fledgling guitar player. The legendary Big Star hail from the same Memphis and Tina Turner’s birthplace of Nutbush is also in the state. Ace blues-rock guitar player Lonnie Mack, although born in Indiana, named his much-acclaimed early sixties album The Wham of That Memphis Man.

But for this particular group of Irish pilgrims, there was only one real Jack The Lad, the founder of America’s oldest distillery and inventor of a beverage so revered it is often unintentionally diluted by tears of genuine emotion and affection.

Perhaps the potency of the Jack Daniels legacy is best summed up in a poem called “To Great Uncle Jack” penned by the Nashville banker and part-time poetaster Gayle Gupton which contains this immortal couplet:

‘Just let it drip slowly and make ‘em wait.

They’ll want it even more if our shipments are late.’

Here’s to you, Jack, and to the 361 inhabitants of Lynchburg Tennessee. I’ll have mine on the rocks.

• Jackie Hayden

STRIKING A BLOW FOR INDEPENDENTS

LINKING TOGETHER 112 hostels throughout the country, Independent Holiday Hostels is the largest organisation of its kind in Ireland and specialises in the provision of high grade, low cost accommodation within a relaxed and informal framework. Unlike other hostels, IHH members stay open all day, require no membership card, welcome all ages and have no curfews.

Whether it be a Victorian house in the capital, a Flax Mill in Donegal or an island retreat off the West Coast, IHH hostels reflect the individuality of the owners and the character of the region and with guests able to book ahead from one hostel to the next, independent travelling has never been so easy or so much fun. Bike hire, camping facilities and vegetarian meals are available at many of the hostels, together with a diverse range of activities such as workshops, music sessions, horse riding and canoeing. Owners like to show off their areas and are on hand throughout the day to provide local information, maps, leaflets and any other back-up that might be required.

By contacting the IHH office at UCD Village, it’s possible to make arrangements for groups of all sizes and in addition to dormitory accommodation and single-rooms, there are also double-rooms for couples.

Formed as a result of the merger between Independent Hostel Owners and Approved Irish Independent Hostels, all IHH hostels are approved by Bord Failte and the Northern Ireland Tourist Board and comply with all fire safety, health and building regulations. With prices starting at just £4.50 per night, you won’t find a more affordable, convenient or enjoyable way to explore Ireland this year.

•For further information on Independent Holiday Hostels, call Fionnuala Behal on (01) 2601634 or fax 2697704 or write for a free brochure listing all the IHH members to UCD Village, Belfield, Dublin 4.

COMING TO AMERICA

Youth is, as old starry-eyed nostalgic codgers the world over seem to remind us twelve times a day, wasted on the young. Consider this – you’re young, free, single, no major responsibilities and with more free time on your hands than you could reasonably be expected to shake a stick at. So what are you doing with your life?

If I’m right, you spend it going to and from school/college/job, calling to your friends at the weekends and, in all probability, eating and sleeping. And your summer days consist of getting up at 2pm and not going out because it’s raining, going to discos at the weekend and being really bored all the time.

There is more to life. It was the Pet Shop Boys, I believe, who said that “We were never bored because we were never being boring.” Summers are there to be enjoyed. You could, for example, go away for a few weeks and soak up the sun – enjoyable but fleeting; you could go to the Gaeltacht – you get to speak Irish, go to ceilis and generally have a whale of a time. Or you could spend the whole summer in the USA, working abroad, earning pots of cash and generally being alive.

BUNAC is an organisation, based in London, which organises BUNACAMP, a camp counselor programme which places young people (aged 19–35) as counselors on American children’s summer camps. Camps run from mid-June to August and you get to teach a wide variety of activities such as archery, drama, dance, riding, riflery, sailing and a veritable smorgasbord of other such adrenalizing activities. You get free accommodation, BUNACAMP organise your return flight and working visa, and they pay you as well (rates vary with age: $390–$450). You also get the opportunity to travel for up to six weeks after camp.

Not just anyone will be accepted, however. You have to be good with children and some leadership experience – be it in sports coaching, the church, the scouts/guides, youth clubs or whatever you’re having yourself – will considerably boost your chances of winging your way Uncle Sam-ward.

BUNAC’s working adventures abroad are a fun and challenging way to make the most of a summer holiday or, if a member of the workforce you be, a year off. Time is a-wastin’, so if you want to convince yourself and those around you that your youth isn’t being wasted on the young, you know where to go.

• If you’re interested write to:

BUNAC, 16 Bowling Green Lane, London EC1R 0BD, England. Tel: (004471) 251 3472.