Hitsville U.S.A.

I didn't love my last post. It's a shame because I really loved the photographs that went along with it and I've been wondering to myself the past few days as to why I think that may be. Perhaps because I wrote it so much later than actually being there, maybe because I've been at this for over nine months and sometimes writing gets tiring, or maybe because I haven't been journaling on my own much lately. Who knows. Either way, a post not quite as worthy as the others was bound to happen at some point.

Stick with me folks, this next one I am confident will not disappoint.

I left St. Louis, Missouri, and drove an hour south to a small, historical, and sleepy town named Sainte Genevieve and made sure to stop in their winery. Cheap wine named after me? Yes, please. It seemed only fitting I sample them all so that's exactly what I did. I had my ID out and ready to go for the inevitable, overly excited at being able to brag about the name my parents did an excellent job choosing. This must be how Thatcher felt when we went through Thatcher, Arizona, I thought. Unfortunately, the wines were too sweet for my taste but I did get myself a few Sainte Genevieve souvenirs for the road. There wasn't much of anything I wanted to see in Illinois but it was already early afternoon and I knew I wanted to make progress so I kept going and drove Route 66 on my way to Lincoln's tomb, home, and presidential library in Springfield, Illinois. I read stories about the Emancipation Proclamation, walked through his 178 year old home with its black horse hair chairs and an eclectic interior design. I learned that during their seventeen years in Springfield, Illinois, the Lincoln's lived a few houses down from Jameson Jenkins, a man helping slaves in the Underground Railroad right under everyone's nose. Ready to be done with the historical stuff and needing a good hike or two, I headed to Indiana and grabbed a crispy corndog from what is considered to be the birthplace of the carnival staple at the Cozy Dog Drive In on Route 66.

The Hoosier state doesn't have too much to do or see, at least that's what I thought before actually visiting it. Turns out, they have a lot of state parks to explore. I chose one of the many and ended up spending the majority of the next day hiking at McCormick Creek State Park. A very pretty and not too grueling hike took me through yellow tinted woods and past a small but epic waterfall. I did the loop to Wolf cave which, when asked if I was going in farther, made me laugh and I informed them that I had already been scared in a cave before and once was more than enough. A lot of my hikes and state park outings lately have had a similar feel to them. Even in the brightest sun the hikes seem a bit dim hidden under the canvas of trees. Fallen leaves disguise the trail, mushrooms grow on tall trunks, and it is because of this that I choose to stroll instead of sprint and try to find the small gems hidden along the way. I found a water drop somehow still hanging onto a thin, twisted, tangled tree, and a small abandoned birds nest the size of my fist intricately woven and built a few feet off the forest floor. I love sharing what I find and was lucky enough to come across a dad with his two young girls hiking in my direction. I pointed out my discovery and they "oohed" and "aahed" in delight. Not ready to be done yet, I connected one hike to another and took a long, slippery, and leaf covered staircase down into the canyon where I met Karen and Wade while trying to locate the old quarry promised to me on my map. We guessed which way to go, scoped out trails, and a few precarious river crossings later we found it tucked away, chiseled out, and covered in moss.

I've mentioned before that people keep surprising me, but if it wasn't obvious by now, places do as well. Ann Arbor, Michigan, I had heard was a cool place to be. It is, by the way. However, I didn't realize how creative of a city it is. It seems like there is an open mic, dance class, or gathering of some kind of creativity happening almost every night. I couch surfed one night there with Shawn, a very excited about everything kind of person who was even more excited to finally be able to host a surfer. A proud dad with more stories of his kids than I could count and two affectionate and loud, fluffy cats that greeted me at the door, I came to find out that he not only takes a ton of dance classes but that he also likes to attend the storytellers' guild events in town. There happened to be one that night on the second floor of the Crazy Wisdom Tea Room and I was all in. A handful of people from the storytellers' guild got up and told their halloween themed tales. Some were folklores, some were real ghost stories, and all were riveting. I was mesmerized by the way they told their stories, how animated and expressive their faces were, and how they captured the experience in a short time. One older woman, Beverly, told my favorite story. Her face lit up and her eyes bulged with freight as she recounted a true story of her childhood family camping trip to a local state park, made scarier by a ghost named Bertha. I zoned out a few times and wondered if that was something I was capable of. What story would I tell? There have been so many but were any of them worthy enough of being told in front of a dozen people with a microphone. I love telling stories, don't get me wrong. It's how this blog has become one of my favorite personal accomplishments thus far. It's why I keep writing to you all so you can hear my stories and hopefully enjoy them with me. That being said, I sit and I write for hours on end, I reread and reread again, I edit and edit. Point being, I can take my time and there's always room for error. So, when Laura saw my patch covered jean jacket and excitedly asked about it during a break in the show, I knew what question was coming next. It seemed I had a lot of people's attention with the jacket and now my trip, and when she asked if there were any stories I would like to tell I smiled and told her I was sure I could think of something. Deep breath. I got up there, introduced myself briefly, and fidgeted my hands a bit to calm my nerves. I had been through all the choices in my head and had even pulled up my blog to remind myself of any stories that I could have been missing, suddenly forgetting everything I had done. I glanced around the room at the smiling faces and saw them all intently focused on me. Deep breath. Thatcher always calms me down; in real life and in stories. Knowing this, I went with the story of camping in Grand Tetons National Park and waking up to a bear. If you're thinking, Thatcher wasn't there for that, you are correct. Excellent following along. He wasn't there but I did bookend my story with him. My best friend and younger brother, who yes, is younger than me despite the height difference and full lumberjack beard, spent two months with me on the road and all he wanted to do was see a bear. He wanted to see a bear so badly he joked about leaving food out... I told my tale and to my surprise people laughed, they smiled, they stayed present and hung on every word as I made eye contact on and off through my five minute story. Somehow seeing them so focused on me actually made the whole thing a lot easier, nobody wants to tell a story people don't want to hear. ...I got back to Bertha and called Thatcher, on the verge of tears and a little shaken. I told him what happened to which he responded, goddamnit, are you kidding me?! We don't see any bears and you wake up next to one...

Storytelling is definitely an art form. It takes a lot of focus to stay on track and not derail from the main tale and I am not at all embarrassed to say that I literally patted myself on the back after that one. Laura seemed to love my story which made me smile and it started up a lot of really awesome side conversations about the beautiful Tetons and camping alone. Another fear conquered thanks to this trip. Heights, check. Public speaking, check. 

Storytelling; the perfect segue to a short but sweet stop in Detroit. The Motor City is home to Eminem, the Pistons, abandoned homes and churches, and a bustling downtown bordering Canada. It is also, most notably, home to Motown. This has been one of my number one must see places since I left in January. Scratch that, it has been on my list since I was a teenager and found out such a place still existed. The small white home sits on a busy divided boulevard in a neighborhood I would probably not feel comfortable leaving Bertha in overnight. The house's accents and two front doors are painted a true blue, large black and white images of the voices that made that sweet soul music are posted in the front window, and the iconic sign in simple cursive stretches across the front of the house and reads "Hitsville U.S.A." When I asked an older couple walking by to take my picture out front, beaming from ear to ear, they mentioned how excited I was. I laughed and declared that I had wanted to go here practically my whole life. They looked a little confused, as if a twenty-seven year old can't have an appreciation for the oldies. Then again, they could have just been confused because many don't. Berry Gordy grew up right in that neighborhood of Detroit. Real quick, in case by some odd chance you don't already know, Berry Gordy started Motown. Anyway, growing up in Detroit, he went to high school with the Temptations, lived six houses away from Diana Ross, and just a few blocks away he could find the Miracles and the Four Tops. They were all just kids then, kids whose favorite after school activity was to meet up and sing in the park. Gordy always said "I want to make music with great stories and a great beat everyone can enjoy." That's exactly what he did. He took an $800 loan from his family and some sound advice from his friend Smokey Robinson and bought the house at 2648 W. Grand Blvd. From the moment that door opened in 1959 to the moment it closed in 1972, it was never locked. He created a 24-hour studio with a house band comprised of jazz musicians, The Funk Brothers, the best ad-libbers in the business. When Hitsville first opened, none of them even knew how to read music, they just let the creativity flow and the music go where it needed to go. Realizing they needed to up their game, Gordy brought in a composer to teach them, a dance coach for the Temptations, and an appearance and etiquette coach for Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. He did anything and everything to make Motown bigger and better. Our tour guide was a loud and wonderful storyteller in her own right and had a soulful voice to match. There were many times we'd stop and sing and she'd start a lyric and we'd finish it. Sometimes she'd stop and listen to the record playing and ask us if we knew who it was. I'd just like to go on record and say I knew more than most in that group, thank you very much. She told the story of Motown like it was her own life story. In some sense, I guess it was. We continued the tour and I couldn't help but dance a little bit to the music playing through the house, the hits just kept coming. Last stop on the tour, we stepped down into one of the most, if not the most, famous music rooms in the world, Studio A. I noticed the old candy machine outside the entrance, the candy bars predating me, most of which I had never heard of before, and the one candy bar that never moved from its spot in the machine, Baby Ruth. Back when Hitsville was in full swing, there was an eleven year old Stevie Wonder wandering around that loved his Baby Ruth bars. He knew exactly where to put his dime and exactly which button to push to get that bar without any help. I chuckled and took the few steps down into Studio A and immediately noted how different it was from all the other studios I have been in. It looked like your average high school music room with its cork, white panel and slanted walls and simple wooden floor. That is, if your high school music room was packed with instruments that surrounded an 1877 victorian Steinway grand concert piano. Have you ever noticed when you sing in the shower everything sounds better? They did too. Fun fact, the speakers and amps were in the shower in the bathroom just outside the studio and the microphone cords traveled through the ceiling and dropped down into the studio. I always wondered why the microphones were hanging from the ceiling. Amazing, just like Stax Records in Memphis and the slanted theater floor, this was yet another simple hack to give the music just enough edge and the perfect amount of reverb and echo they wanted to achieve. Pro tip, if you listen closely to a Supremes vinyl you'll hear what I'm talking about. Singing My Girl in the place where it all began, "the snake pit" as it was more affectionately known, gave me chills. I had finally visited the greatest place on earth. I'm sad I couldn't take any pictures for you all but that just means you'll have to visit for yourselves.

They must have known what their music was doing to the world, right? They must have known that by adding hopeful lyrics to jazz and then incorporating horns and strings they were creating a kind of energy that would transcend any barrier. Their music evolved with the nation in a time when color needed to be ignored and people needed to be dancing in the streets as one. I wonder if there is a genre today that has the power to do just that.

Maybe there is and I'm missing it jamming to the oldies.

- G.

The Photo:
Hitsville.
Detroit, Michigan.
10/13/17.