It's an incredible sight to see all of those people lining the streets for miles, with seemingly no square foot of concrete left uncovered. As I look around I will also see hundreds of runners wearing a "St. Jude Hero" singlet just like mine.
While exploring your inner child, you can dance to this mood-swinging album while listening to Baylin's luscious voice that adopts the qualities of some of her favorite singers -- Astrud Gilberto, Billie Holiday, Dusty Springfield and Stevie Nicks.
Our Final Four are colorful and crazy, wild and welcoming -- everything a great bar should be.
When Paint Your Wagon was first done and record companies still actively scoured upcoming scores for chart-topping possibilities, the ones selected were "I Talk to the Trees" and "They Call the Wind Maria."
Ask musicians to honestly talk about their work, and they'll likely admit that talent only takes you so far.
Visualizing what those scenes must have been like, here's hoping some reenactments show up on Humming House's next video.
Dozens of country artists were in Nashville last week for the annual Country Radio Seminar conference, but few shone as brightly as rising star Kelsea Ballerini.
Chain hotels often get a bad rap. Admittedly, some of them, with uninspired beige decor, industrial carpeting, and airline-quality breakfasts, have earned it. But they're not all that way.
For someone on the verge of unleashing a vast reservoir of wrath for public consumption, singer-songwriter Allison Moorer sounded downright chipper, much like Rayna James on the night last year when the fictitious country music star of Nashville swept the imaginary version of the CMA Awards.
Sometimes you just need to admit you are besotted with someone. If you are sports fan, there are athletes you hold in high, high estimation. Writers are like this about other living writers. I'll just say it out loud: I am besotted with Ann Patchett.
Writer Bruce Wagner's script for David Cronenberg's Maps to the Stars is of a piece with his other work. It blends a cynical vision of people with an even darker examination of the worship of the superficial that is Hollywood life.
This past week saw record-breaking weather conditions in Nashville. The snow, ice and frigid temps caused Tennessee's governor to declare a State of Emergency, and our Mayor urged drivers to exercise extreme caution, or, better yet, stay home.
At the Monroe Caroll Jr. Children's Hospital at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee, the makerspace comes in the form of a large, metal cart, carrying materials and tools young patients can use to create objects.
What happens when an uncompromising band built primarily on a couple of angelic voices, the stubborn quest for perfection and the blind ambition of youth suddenly grows up and decides to switch gears while trying to firmly hold onto its family values?
I love Nashville. For the most part, Nashville has loved me. I've had an on-again-off-again love affair with this town for almost two decades. But I do sometimes wonder if things would have played out differently had I pretended for the public.
Humans might not be the only casualties of the political standoff over provisions of the Affordable Care Act to expand Medicaid. Rural hospitals may begin to disappear because of lost revenues.