Mallory Hayes threaded through the throng of Nashville tourists, wishing she blended in a little better. Her Louboutin stilettos and pinstriped pencil skirt struck a glaring contrast against the sea of sneakers, cargo shorts and t-shirts. In Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge she’d immediately be pegged as industry by anyone with a good eye. She wrinkled her nose at the sharp stench of horse piss wafting up from the hot pavement, where the carriages waited to cart tourists around the downtown area for top dollar. Overlaying the earthy scent of horse hung the boggy pall of the Cumberland mingled with the thin bite of domestic beer, fried foods and diesel exhaust from the Metro Transit buses. Amidst this throng of sketchy panhandlers and wide-eyed travelers anxious to soak up the Southern music scene flocked the desperate hopefuls from all over the globe who yearned to be discovered—pickers, fiddlers and songbirds, soundalikes and those who thought they possessed that special something different that would get them noticed.
