I’ve been playing guitar for 50 years—in Nashville and on the road—and generally feel like I’ve seen it all from the stage: the drunks, the crazies, the rowdies, and the regulars. But recently, I’ve been a little disturbed by something I haven’t seen: amps on the stages of many Lower Broadway clubs.
Recently, this happened to me.
It’s 10 a.m., and I show up for the first of my two daytime gigs. The sound engineer at the club tells me:
“Rule number one: No amps onstage.”
Me: “Can we just try it?”
Engineer: “No. And in-ear monitors only.”
Since I’m just here as a sub, I don’t argue. I don’t want to cause the bandleader grief or be a pain. I’m told “everybody does it this way now,” and since a professional needs to be adaptable, I adapt.
My next question: “Hey, can you turn off the TV by the stage?”
Engineer: “No, and take your amp off the stage.”
Me: “It’s unplugged.”
Engineer: “I don’t care. I don’t want anybody seeing an amp. I had a guy take a swing at me when I told him he couldn’t use his amp, so I can’t take chances.”
I have to admit, taking a swing at the soundman had crossed my mind, but he’s a biker-type with 75 pounds on me, and a generation younger. That doesn’t seem like a choice a professional should make. So, I take down my 1966 Fender Vibrolux Reverb and settle in for four hours of winging it through an iPad-controlled PA system and borrowed in-ear monitors, followed by another four-hour, no-break gig two blocks further down Broadway.
Really, I’m grateful, despite this embargo on amps. I’m working a lot. I get to play my Telecaster and crack jokes onstage. And I know this is a fickle town for musicians. One day you have nothing, and the next you’re playing the Opry, or in the studio, or flying to Europe.
When I got to Nashville in the early 2000s, Lower Broadway was no longer a red light district, but everybody wanted you to sound like Brent Mason. I didn’t. I played country guitar, but loved rockabilly and wore a pompadour. I also love and play blues, and Scotty Moore, James Burton, Merle Travis, and Chet Atkins are huge with me. Plus, I love Chuck Berry, T-Bone Walker, and Charlie Christian. So, initially it seemed like I didn’t fit into any of the niches bandleaders were looking for. Ultimately, I just wanted to sound like Les Paul and Link Wray. Is there anything wrong with that?
“I have to admit, taking a swing at the soundman had crossed my mind, but he’s a biker-type with 75 pounds on me, and a generation younger.”
Even though it was tough getting hired at first, I stuck to my guns. Eventually the phone started ringing, the work came in, and the phone is still ringing—or at least chiming text alerts. I’m having a good run and have played everywhere from the Opry to Lincoln Center. Plus, I love it here. When I arrived, it was already a pickers’ wonderland—humbling, terrifying, and inspiring. Legendary players would work at little clubs— and still do, although now the mass insanity of intoxicated tourists, bachelorette parties, pedal taverns, etc., is completely out of control. That said, there’s only a couple cities left in America—really, maybe just this one—where you have opportunities to work this frequently.
Ultimately, this “being myself” thing has paid off. Besides the gig I’ve had at Robert’s Western World for 20 years, I’ve backed up legends like Bo Diddley, Martha Reeves, Wanda Jackson (who also cut one of my tunes), and Jack Scott, to name a few. I’ve done sessions, plus lots of gigs with ’90s country stars. I’ve given thousands of lessons, made many European tours with my own bands and others, and I am the longtime guitarist for Carlene Carter (the daughter of June Carter Cash and June’s first husband, Carl Smith). I’m also the demo guy for my friend TV Jones. Say hi at his NAMM booth!
At Robert’s, there are no TVs—only music, beer, shots, and fried bologna sandwiches. Robert’s let me bring my love of surf guitar to the home of country music, and use my own vintage gear. I can play a hollowbody with P-90s or a Gretsch, Telecaster, or Strat through my Vibrolux or Super Reverb and nobody complains. In fact, everybody loves it. And I get to sound like myself. Which is important, because eventually every musician comes to terms with the fact that they are only competing with themselves and not the world—and being allowed to find and use your own voice is crucial. So, you won’t get a profiler or iPad-controlled guitar app at a Chris Casello Trio show. We are always going to move air and, with it, some hearts, too.
