Month: August 2008

I am inclined to disbelieve in life’s exactness, but I swear this to be true. Precisely in the middle of the 10-hour drive that connects my old home of Washington, D.C., to my hometown of Indianapolis, Indiana, a drive I have made many times in many emotional states and will continue to make for the foreseeable future, sits a bridge over the Ohio River that begins or, depending on your direction, ends in Wheeling, West Virginia.

From that bridge it is five hours to your destination, no matter if you’re chasing the sun or running from it. Below, the Ohio River cuts through the valley that separates the long-forgotten steel town of Wheeling from Martins Ferry, Ohio, the birthplace of the poet James Wright. The town on the Ohio side is the setting for Wright’s “Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio,” where men whose lives have been used up by steel mills hide in bars and dream of their sons on the football field, who grow “suicidally beautiful,” as Wright puts it, galloping terribly, crashing into one another.

For seven years I’ve crossed that bridge going one way or the other, and I have yet to stop in either city that hugs the muddy river. From the bridge, both look like forgotten places, untouched by modern development, shoeboxes made of bricks and black shingle roofs, church steeples rising from the grid. In the midday sun, and it’s always midday when I cross the bridge, the masonwork of those churches gleams between the wire bridge supports whipping by.

I’ve never stopped, partly because there is always a rush to arrive wherever I’m going, the promise of something at the end. Comfort at the end of a bad marriage. A mother who is set to die. The face of someone new. Or there is the thing I’ve tried to put behind. The hazy mistakes of the night before. Rituals I cannot stop performing. False hope. Sometime around the fourth year, it became impossible to tell promises and dead ends.

The river comes, bending south as it wraps itself around Wheeling. In the middle of the bridge, if you take your foot off the gas just for a count of three, you can see Wheeling Island, the Manhattan-like chunk almost exactly in the middle of the river, its small clapboard house neatly in line with its gridded streets.

Rolling by, 50 or 60′ above it all, there is no time to stop, but there is enough time to wonder about the houses and the lives they contain, to imagine what the place becomes when the sun drops behind the rolling hills of Ohio, how the high school football stadium that sits just on the tip of the island looks when it’s lit up on Friday nights.
How many boys created the most fruitful times of their lives on that field, and did they have the awareness at 16, 17, 18 years old that they would long for those times for the next 30 years? There is time for questions like these, but only in a space of a few seconds before you touch your foot back to the gas and leap ahead.

Back then, the most satisfying thing about traveling was being unleashed from my life. It still is. Rumbling over the pieced-together concrete slabs of that bridge, the river spreading out on either side of me like a set of wings, I was the farthest I could possibly be from both beginning and end. Those 10 or 15 seconds of suspension above a town I know only by its rooftops were the equivalent of a pardon or reprieve from something that, I knew, would be waiting for me when I stopped the car.

During the first couple of trips in my early 20s, I came to think about Wheeling and the river as being the great divide of the East and Midwest. On the Ohio side, traveling west, you roll over gentle hills until the land gradually flattened, as if some enormous rolling pin had taken a single pass at it. Traveling east across the river, you immediately began the climb into the mountains of West Virginia and Maryland. 

Sitting exactly between the two topographies, between East and West and old and new, I used to feel unbound by everything I had ever done, the person I’d somehow become. In the noon sun, I finally felt able to start writing that second act that Fitzgerald had claimed—mistakenly, I thought at the time—didn’t exist.

“Well, it was Gatlinburg in mid-July
And I just hit town and my throat was dry,
I thought I’d stop and have myself a brew.”
—From “A Boy Named Sue”

I’ve been to Gatlinburg, Tennessee—one of the two main entrances to the 814-square-mile Great Smoky Mountains National Park—two times. The first was with a roommate (and a few friends) from Liberty University whose family had a time share in the tiny resort town.

That was almost 20 years ago and I have only vague memories of my time there. I do remember going to arcades, playing cliffside mini-golf, and making repeat trips through the labyrinth of small shops that appeal to the white trash in everybody, from shot glasses and baseball cards—I got one with Roger Clemens and Dwight Gooden standing together—to pricey paintings of wild stallions galloping and hand-sewn leather vests.
 
I also recall riding the ski lift up a nearby mountain to a ski resort called Ober Gatlinburg with a girl named Mindy. I’ve always been afraid of heights but sucked it up, albeit briefly, to try and impress this girl, making the long loop up—where they take your picture as you’re suspended in the air—and down a steep mountainside, my legs dangling 20′ above the hard ground.

While I felt proud of myself once I got back to the bottom, I don’t think she was and I don’t remember her spending too much more time with me on that trip. Young, Christian and frustrated, I could not even go drown my lonely sorrows in the row of bars that line Gatlinburg’s small strip. Instead, I had only a putter, a windmill and a colored golf ball to treat my solace. Those were trying times.

Some 15 years later, I had a chance at redemption. Living in south Tennessee at the time, I needed a place to meet a girl I had been periodically seeing in Charlottesville. “Let’s rendezvous in Gatlinburg,” I suggested. What better than a redneck paradise, like Paris without the art or wine, for a romantic getaway? Instead of those finer things, there was cheap beer and a Jesus museum.

I met Bex (one of her many pseudonyms) late the night before and we woke with anticipation. We left our lodgings on I-40 (10 miles north of Knoxville, on exit 407) and headed east for the 10-mile trek into Gatlinburg. On the way we had to drive through Pigeon Forge, a couple miles of strip mall with go-cart tracks, water parks, and mini-golf courses galore; shops and chain restaurants; and the home of Dollywood (Dolly Parton’s amusement park—I’ve never been…sigh). There are also small theaters for impersonators of people like Barbara Mandrell and Reba McIntire. At least I think they’re impersonators.

Making our way to the mountain resort I also remember passing a gigantic knife store, a Wal-Mart of weaponry, but didn’t stop and within minutes we were coasting down Gatlinburg’s main thoroughfare, a cozy drive that takes you by much of what the tiny town has to offer: hotel, shops, cheap recreation, bars, and, oddly enough, a large aquarium I’ve never bothered going to.

We parked behind the aquarium and headed to one of the many bars. A couple beers and it was time to visit Christus Gardens, a museum dedicated to Jesus. Opened in 1960, the gallery featured a six-ton carving of Jesus’ face in its lobby that greeted us. Past that serene face we encountered dozens of wax replicas of bearded biblical figures and a room of murals painted by someone with little appreciation for contemporary art.

For a former Liberty student, the place was a treat, an unintentionally tacky but earnest tribute to Jesus of Nazareth. For more than 40 years, Christus Gardens had welcomed believers and nonbelievers alike, inspiring derision in some, awe in others. I was filled with both. (Unfortunately for future visitors, the Gardens were closed for good this January. I wonder where six-ton Jesus is now.)

Next up was the ski lift directly behind the museum that had once inspired terror but now was met with delight. Perhaps it was the beer or the company, but the ride up was nonplussing and fulfilling, the bright sun illuminating the burg below. At the mountaintop, the lift paused so that an installed camera could take our photo. I smiled—a rarity—as the camera shuttered.

Back below, we made the few-block trip to the main strip again and picked a small bar across from the aquarium where we could hear country music drifting out. An awning with a straw top gave the impression that we would be entering Kenny Chesney territory but after we sat and started to sip beer from a plastic cup a weathered old man with a goatee, straw hat, and guitar sang “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille,” my favorite Kenny Rogers song.

My companion was seated to my left and beamed behind fake Ray-Bans. Another beer and I felt like her, like the stone-faced Jesus nearby, satisfied and entirely comfortable in my surroundings. I didn’t want to leave.

We go through an accelerated lifespan with the musicians that we love. The two or three years between albums can feel like a decade, and each concert stop in our hometown means we may go years before seeing them again. When a musician like LeRoi Moore, a founding member and the essential saxophone component of Dave Matthews Band, dies unexpectedly during what could be described as the very large, very successful prime of DMB’s young life—barely out of the band’s teenagerhood!—our reaction is existential: When you’re one of the most popular bands in the world, what does the afterlife look like?

For some, it’s more immediate than others. Both Nirvana and Joy Division cultivated band images around frontmen Kurt Cobain and Ian Curtis, respectively; after their deaths, Nirvana split and the other dudes formed New Order. Roi wasn’t a Morrison or Hendrix, but like all of the artists mentioned so far, his death alters the chemical make-up of DMB as well as how many fans experience the group emotionally, and many bands don’t move beyond that type of loss.

Mourning one sweet world: LeRoi Moore’s (second from right) death also marks the end of Dave Matthews Band’s original lineup, a blow that many bands don’t recover from.

But that’s not always the case. Metallica bassist Cliff Burton was crushed by the band’s tour bus during a 1986 accident, yet the band’s performances still honor material from Burton’s tenure. The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ lifeline has been long not in spite of original guitarist Hillel Slovak (heroin overdose, 1988), but because of it: RHCP stopped working with current guitarist John Frusciante when his drug troubles began, but welcomed him clean and sober back to the band. The original drummer for The Who, Keith Moon, died in the same London flat as Cass Elliot of The Mamas and The Papas; unlike Elliot’s group, The Who perform to this day, albeit infrequently.

Of course, carrying on a band after a member’s death can seem a bit gauche, depending on how its handled. Both INXS and TLC conducted searches through reality TV programs to replace Michael Hutchence (autoerotic asphyxiation, 1997) and Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes (car accident in Honduras, 2002), with mixed results: INXS still records and tours with their singer, while Lopes’ replacement was only selected for a single concert, and the two remaining members haven’t released a new TLC album since the posthumous record 3D.

The collective identity of Nirvana was inseparable from the image of frontman Kurt Cobain (left). The band never performed again following Cobain’s 1994 suicide.

Metallica’s career stretched more than 20 years past the 1986 death of original bassist Cliff Burton; the band recorded its best-selling albums after Burton’s death, but still play material written with Burton.

To make matters more complicated, this type of decision is played out before millions of album-gripping fans and, as a band that totaled a combined $80 million in ticket sales alone between 2006 and 2007, DMB presumably has quite the extended family. But there is a band whose recent loss parallels that of DMB. Only weeks before the sold-out Bruce Springsteen gig at John Paul Jones Arena, E Street Band member Danny Federici died following a bout with melanoma.

Like LeRoi, Federici was a founding member of the band, a modest performer whose subtle flourishes and live performances were consistent across years of albums and tours. And like Springsteen and the E Streeters, DMB makes its name on the reliably ecstatic live connection with its leagues of fans, and have thus far played on despite the loss of their respective longtime band members.

Following his unceremonious ousting from the Rolling Stones, a band that he founded, Brian Jones (center) was found dead at the bottom of his swimming pool in England.

All bands come to an end—yes, Keith Richards will die someday—but the Stones didn’t stop after Brian Jones, did they? For now, it’s reassuring to know that the family around LeRoi Moore was certainly as large and as close as it ever was when the original lineup of Dave Matthews Band was still intact.

Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, pictured here during their gig at John Paul Jones Arena, lost a member only weeks before their Charlottesville gig when founding keyboardist Danny Federici died.

Although TLC released the album 3D following the death of singer Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes (center), the band had little luck, even with a reality TV casting call.

Charlottesville Newsplex, the TV station that operates CBS 19, ABC 16 and Fox 27, is pushing back the timeline for moving operations to 2307 Hydraulic Rd., but General Manager Brad Ramsey, who took the reins in July, says that the project is sill moving forward.

“We’re considering all of our options, I guess is the best way to put it,” says Ramsey. “We still own the land and the building and still plan to build there.”

However, it is looking like the Newsplex may extend its current lease at the Ix Building, which is up next summer. “At this point, I don’t think it would be realistic to have a building constructed and be moved in next year.” Ramsey says that the company is absolutely not selling the property.

The Charlottesville Newsplex will likely stay in the Ix Building through 2009.

Gray Television, the Atlanta-based company that owns the Newsplex, bought the two-acre property in 2007 for $2.3 million. At the time, then-GM Roger Burchett said the timeline was to build a new 18,500-square-foot facility and occupy it by early 2009.

“We just grew a lot faster than we thought we were going to and that’s a good thing,” Burchett told C-VILLE in May 2007.

Like many in the media industry, Gray has seen revenue stagnate and slightly decline. The publicly traded company’s latest financial report showed revenue down 1 percent during the second quarter compared to the same quarter in 2007. Over the past year, Gray’s stock price has dropped to $2.40 from $9.

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“Ever since I arrived in the U.S., I’ve always had my people back home in mind,” says Nana Akyeampong-Ghartey. The native Ghanan immigrated from Winneba, a university town, 12 years ago, and he’d like to do what he can to shorten the 5,300-mile distance between Charlottesville and his hometown on the West African coast. “I realized that, hey, [Charlottesville] is a city that operates virtually like my hometown, so why don’t I try and see if we can link these two cities together?” he says.

Fueled by this impulse, Akyeampong-Ghartey has been steadily lobbying city leaders for years with a proposal that Charlottesville and Winneba become sister cities. “When I become mayor [in 2000], I started a thing called ‘Meet the Mayor’ every week,” says former City Councilor Blake Caravati, “and the second person that came was Nana from Ghana.” The vision Akyeampong-Ghartey’s been articulating centers mainly on American investment in Winneba’s industries: tourism, housing, brick and tile manufacturing, salt production, and agriculture. But he sees opportunities for cultural and educational exchange too—say, delegations of UVA students and profs visiting their counterparts at Winneba’s university.

Nana Akyeampong-Ghartey hopes that his hometown of Winneba, Ghana, can join Charlottesville’s city sorority.

At the time of Ghartey’s first meeting with Caravati, says the former mayor, City Council’s interest was more focused on Besançon, France, which became an official sister city in 2006. Caravati has been a champion of that relationship, one of three that Charlottesville currently maintains. (The others are with Pleven, Bulgaria and Poggio a Ciano, Italy.)

Akyeampong-Ghartey hasn’t been able to make anything official yet (though former mayor Maurice Cox and current councilor Holly Edwards have both traveled to Winneba), but he may have a new opportunity thanks to the formation of the Sister Cities Commission, which will have its first meeting in September to begin designing a formal process for establishing new sister cities.

“It’s been dragging and dragging,” says Akyeampong-Ghartey. “But then I am somebody who does not easily give up, especially when I know what I’m doing is right.”

Would it be possible for Charlottesville to have too many sister cities? Caravati says yes—entertaining foreign officials can get expensive, though the Commission hopes to raise private funds to cover such needs. But, he says, “there’s no negatives to cross-cultural and cross-political relationships with other countries,” adding dryly, “There is this thing called globalization.” He and Akyeampong-Ghartey both like the idea of Charlottesville having a sister city outside Europe. “Since the population in Charlottesville’s 20 percent African American, that’s an immediate historical tie and cultural pride,” Caravati says.

Meanwhile, in Winneba, a city of 80,000, the mayor and other officials are enthusiastic about the proposal, Akyeampong-Ghartey says. “They are very excited. If Charlottesville gets on board, Winneba is ready.”

C-VILLE welcomes news tips from readers. Send them to news@c-ville.com.