Gaithers

For my birthday last week, my neighborhood friends bought me tickets to the Gaither Homecoming Concert at the Sommet Center. They were all too cosmopolitan to attend with me, ironically.



The show was a hoot. I had not seen so much good clean fun in a long time.



The music was, of course, some of the best in its class and Bill Gaither gave a lot of background to the various styles of gospel music that had emerged from regions in Tennessee. Since moving here, I have not put as much effort into the regional cultural heritage as I should have, so this was a sort of cheater course.



One of my neighbors had been a graphic designer for Decca Records beginning in the early '60s. She could tell some colorful stories about the people who recorded hill music back then. Most impressive to me was the album art. Shocking. Brilliant colors, unbelievable clothing, poses and arrangements to blind the eye. Living in East Nashville, and working in proximity to Music Row, I get to see all kinds of musicians. A stroll through downtown at night brings on even more, but few have ever engaged me.

The concert was the predictable assembly of church hair and tangled walkers (maybe). Technology allowed the band and singers to accompany a dead Mrs. Goodman in her classic "Amazing Grace" solo. The crowd pumped up with Ernie Haas and Signature sound, a young(er) quartet with some energy and a conservative choreographer. They all get their haircut at the same place and use a product called "mud" or "Kewpie Kompound." This product was not available at a merchandise table in the lobby. I was happy to get a wig worn by Bill himself and a replica of a partially used can of aquanet from Vestal Goodman's own personal collection.

I really think that Homecoming Tour should be switched to the title "hair," even though that play was already made because the theme of hair kept coming up through the whole show.

On the way out, I made a beeline toward Tootsie's to catch my ride home with a friend who sat out the 5 hours listening to classic country. There on the plaza was an ancient lady stooped over a metal apparatus designed to push two tennis balls along the floor. "Did you like "Signature Sound?" asked the very young man accompanying her. "No. They don't sing right and they were dancing." I eased out of her line of fire as the horizontally inclined beehive threatened to turn into a patriotic Baptist torpedo launcher.

I pondered what she said. Should the genre die out because the people who sing it are dying and the people who sit still to it cannot accept the new generation? We all got something out of it and that is what has made Bill Gaither successful.