Country Time - Part 1
House On Fire, Bacon On Ice
Autumn recap. It’s been busier on the sound front, and that’s good, but then again, that ALWAYS coincides with the start of some other endeavor (coming soon), and so the usual push and pull of scheduling and creative desire and monetary incentives becomes what it always becomes - a challenge. And as I say, one should always be so lucky.
October had me back on the road with the previously pre-empted project with the US Army (someone wanted a self-aggrandizing birthday parade instead of a livestreamed concert and documentary honoring the service). This time around, the broadcast was aimed at Veterans’ Day, and at some point you’ll read all about basic training and things like this:
We rode with them to Sand Hill, heads tipped forward, the bus a slow cradle. I watched their faces the way you check the weather: What’s coming? They seemed younger than anyone should be when choosing a life that sometimes requires you to lift the world with your back. I thought of my own kids, a year and a half behind these kids, a year and a half from standing in someone else’s idea of purpose. I wondered if anyone here wanted to cry and if that was allowed in this version of America.
Turns out you can’t cry in America anymore. Wait, yes, you can if you are testifying to the efficacy of a pharmaceutical in Rockland County, and it’s on camera. Which is to say I’ve also been doing plenty of corporate and commercial work. We love it! And also a handful of days on legit documentary work - including a tribute to Marianne Faithfull, late nights with Academy Award winners in famous music studios with classic drum machines, famous comedians, and highbrow libertarian head-to-head action. And next up - a feature film in Alabama. As I said - it’s been busy!
On the other hand, “Films Not Made” is currently in production (see the previous post or below for a description). We are recording, reaching out for guests, media planning and well, everything. It’s a lot of work, and my comrades Amy Hobby and Lisa Gray are amazing. You’re going to love it - I mean, where else will you experience having to fire John Turturro, losing an option to Christopher Nolan, dogsledding poodles, and an AI film executive that hangs up on you mid-pitch? Stay tuned!
But now, let us turn to the next saga - a little folktale of a show called “It’s All Country”
Project: It’s All Country
February 26, 2025
Pork Two Ways, Regret One Way
Landing two days ago in Nashville, Tennessee, the purported heartland of country music, the transition from traveler to temporary resident unfolded with the usual rites of hotel check-ins and exploratory jaunts. The vicinity of our lodging offered a curiously eclectic mix of sights: a startlingly exact replica of the Parthenon standing with an air of displaced majesty in Centennial Park, a storefront brazenly declaring “Any Lab Test Now!” as if challenging passersby with the vastness of possible bodily inquiries. Intravenous Solutions suggested a more direct approach to maintenance, while the local culinary scene boasted a hot chicken shack, and an Indian spot promising fiery delights. The Springwater Lounge, a cash-only dive bar of the sort that seemed to whisper tales of countless nights steeped in beer and music, caught my attention with its casually defiant patron enjoying a bowl on the sidewalk. The strip mall’s “The Honeybaked Ham Company” stood as a beacon of holiday feasts or perhaps just indulgent lunches. It felt like the very essence of Nashville was condensed in this microcosm, a blend of health, hedonism, and hearty meals.
The days that follow were a blur of scouting and setup, a preparatory dance before the main event. The locations, each with their own character and story, are earmarked for later, their secrets to be unveiled beneath the watchful lens of our cameras. But today, today is reserved for Starstruck.
At the crack of dawn, I sauntered past the Fairfield Inn’s promise of a continental breakfast, only to find a scene straight out of a high school cafeteria fever dream. The mingling scents of bacon, kept warm well past its prime, and the unmistakable hormonal exuberance of teenagers created an atmosphere that was less ‘country morning serenity’ and more ‘teen spirit meets breakfast buffet’.
Yet, as the crew herded into the vans, the outside world hinted at a different kind of absurdity. Despite the trees standing bare, like awkward teens at a school dance, the air buzzed with the whispers of an impending spring. This juxtaposition of the breakfast bedlam we left behind and the silent, hopeful promise of renewal outside was a stark reminder of life’s peculiar rhythms. What kind of day, I wondered, was set to unfold in the shadow of rubbery eggs and reheated pastries?
Starstruck, a name that conjures images of wide-eyed dreamers and melodies woven into the fabric of time, is nothing short of a time capsule. This studio is some kind of working relic, a piece of the ‘80s lovingly preserved in amber, yet awkwardly updated with wood accents reminiscent of the early 2000s. The decor was a study in contrasts: curved wood trim and hunter green carpeting that spoke of decades past, terra cotta tiles adding an earthy touch amidst the dark green of door tiles. The sloping ramps clad in more cherry wood led to hidden corners of the studio, like the two-track Studer that seemed almost an afterthought in its placement. It was as if we had stumbled into a time warp, half expecting to be thrust into a session for Rush’s “Moving Pictures” circa 1981 in Quebec, rather than in Nashville. The recording room basked in the warm tones of cherry wood, a stark contrast to the control room’s pragmatic formica-topped counters and a mixing desk that seemed as if it might require the living fossil of computing – a COBOL programmer – to decipher any upgrades. Starstruck was more than a studio; it was a bridge across time.
Inside, the air was thick with anticipation and the sweet, woody scent of musical history as Mickey Guyton and Luke Bryan settled in to listen to the live recording of Mickey’s latest anthem, “House On Fire.” The studio buzzed with the energy of creation, the kind that makes your skin tingle. Amidst the technical wizardry of Karen and David, who seemed to speak in a secret language of knobs and faders, Luke shared his quirky pre-performance ritual of munching on potato chips to ‘lubricate’ his vocal cords, eliciting a laugh from Mickey, who admitted her own ritual involved a bold shot of tequila before hitting the stage. Luke, with a twinkle in his eye, confessed his own penchant for vodka, sans the grapefruit these days.
As the band cycled through takes, refining and igniting the tracks with creative emotion, Luke and Mickey found common ground over their Super Bowl national anthem performances, their voices merging in an unspoken bond of shared highs and nerve-wracking moments. The conversation took a playful turn towards the burgeoning genre of “Emo country,” sparking a debate filled with banter and shared insights. Meanwhile, Marc, ever the reluctant participant, shed his lavalier mic at the first opportunity, his disdain for the intrusive gadget almost as palpable as the vibrant energy coursing through the studio.
Lunchtime arrived, unfurling its Sysco-sourced splendor like a magician revealing tricks with a flourish that lacks both magic and flourish. The salad, a sullen congregation of leaves that might once have aspired to be part of a Caesar’s ensemble, now found themselves wishing to be drowned in a sea of vinaigrette, and whispering regrets of their bagged past. As for the pièce de résistance, a culinary conundrum that I thought presented itself as “Pork Two Ways,” a title as misleading as a two-headed coin. One, the actual non-pork dish, which did not sport what someone ambitiously called an “herb-garlic crust,” revealed its true identity as chicken, so parched it could double as kindling. Are you confused yet? The ensemble was a masterclass in the art of culinary deception, a gastronomic trompe-l’œil that had us questioning our taste buds and the fabric of reality itself.
The sides, a monochromatic homage to the color beige, included mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and biscuits, each blending into the next in a seamless tapestry of comfort food. Amidst this beige bounty, one couldn’t help but ponder the local fascination with styrofoam, its presence as ubiquitous as the notes of country music in the air.
The revelation that my supposed second pork dish was actually chicken came courtesy of Margo, whose commentary (“the pork is better”) led to the discovery that the true pork dish was a standout, its moisture a small victory in an otherwise arid culinary landscape. Kamren’s quest for sauce became a communal desire, a silent plea for something, anything, to elevate the flavors from their somber baseline. Yet, even in the face of culinary adversity, there was an underlying current of gratitude. Here we were, basking in the warmth of a 70-degree afternoon in America, dining al fresco on the bounty before us.
And then, as if to punctuate the meal with a touch of whimsy, the wind, perhaps in critique or jest, swept Margo’s portion of mac and cheese from her plate, leaving us to (again) ponder the quality of the meal and the fleeting nature of outdoor dining.
Post-lunch, the afternoon unfurled with a kinetic energy, as Luke Bryan’s entrance into the building was captured in a dynamic walk-and-talk, setting the stage for the day’s next act. The air buzzed with anticipation as Mickey Guyton stepped into the vocal booth, her presence alone commanding attention. The session that followed was nothing short of electrifying, Mickey’s voice soaring over the tracks, imbuing each note with raw emotion and undeniable skill, her vocal overdubs not just hitting the mark but transcending it.
The atmosphere shifted as Michelle and Mickey settled into a more intimate setting for a one-on-one interview, delving deep into the essence of Mickey’s music and artistry. Mickey spoke with a candidness that was disarming, her words painting a vivid tapestry of her journey, influences, and the nuanced complexities of her identity within the country music landscape. She shared memories that shaped her, from the indelible impression of LeAnn Rimes singing the national anthem, to the childhood days spent crafting songs on her windowsill, her voice carrying the weight of both nostalgia and hope.
Mickey mused on the nature of emotion in music, particularly in country, where the genre’s evolution has broadened its thematic reach far beyond its traditional confines. Yet, she acknowledged the darker moments too, the sting of mean messages and the struggle to shield oneself from the negativity that can seep through the cracks of fame. But in her words, there was resilience, a conscious choice to surround herself with love and positivity, drawing strength from her roots in Crawford, Texas, and the supportive community she found in Nashville.
Her reflections on the challenges faced by Black women in the industry, pigeonholed into genres or faced with cyberbullying, were poignant, yet her resolve was clear. She spoke of forgiveness, the importance of moving forward, and the power of staying true to oneself, echoing Carrie Underwood’s advice to rise above the noise.
As the day at Starstruck concluded and the crew returned to the hotel, the evening unfolded with an unexpected culinary delight: a vibrant array of tacos that overdubbed the day’s earlier dining experiences. Each taco was a punch-in masterpiece of flavor, bursting with the zest of spices, the tang of fresh lime, and the colorful crunch of cilantro and radish. Faders up! Print it! Bravo! Encore!
Kane Brown VS Luke Bryan tomorrow! CATCH IT!
FILMS NOT MADE // PODCAST
I’m making this video podcast with Amy Hobby (co-creator) and Lisa Gray (producer) about the projects that almost happened—the ones that got close, then disappeared. Each episode is a real conversation with a filmmaker as we dig into what went right, what went wrong, and what still lingers. We bring out old scripts, lookbooks, and notes, and use generative tools to see what those films might have looked like if they’d made it through. It’s part confession, part creative autopsy, and at its core, the show lives at the intersection of tech and culture. It’s going to be entertaining, relatable, and everything is on the table.
JOB CALL - We need an editor! Comic timing is a MUST as well as multi-cam experience. The show is video-first, despite it being a “podcast.” It’s going to live on YouTube and push out from there to all podcast platforms, and its own Substack. Obviously, we are in development mode, so looking for someone who can help us with the proof-of-concept and roll with it. If this is you are someone you know, share this post and hit me up personally or at info@filmsnotmade.com.
PARTING SHOT
Been listening to this classic on repeat. Where did my vinyl copy of it go? Feels right for America now.