She coasts up to us at 1:30 a.m., hair and smile topsy turvy, blinking blue sunglasses atop her head.

"What's happenin' dudes?"

"Not much," we reply. "You?"

"I'm fucking starving," she says. Then quickly adds: "I have five dollars, though."

"Hey, can I wear your hat?" she asks one of us. "I don't have lice or anything."

She takes the hat and hands over her sunglasses.

Her name tonight is Sera Tonin. Or maybe it's Augustine. She is 93. Well, 23, actually.

Her mom was a fairy, she says. So I guess that makes her one, too. A lost little Nashville fairy with her light blinking out as she flits from the drug house she's staying at to this dive bar where she may or may not be allowed in.

She's got some crazy dance moves, this bony girl — more fragile each time you see her, like a bird stripped of its feathers.

She'll tell you stories of being gang raped like a recount of a trip to the grocery store.

"I had a baby last year. I didn't eat or go to the doctor or anything the whole time." I don't know how she was OK. And it was really quick, too. Only like a half an hour."

"What happened then?"

"My sister stole her."

She wants to go to school for sociology and get her teeth fixed so the cavity-induced headaches will stop.

"I'm so tired of this caveman shit," she says.

"I can't wait to be the best philosopher there is. If I can make it to school, I can meet some like minds."

"If you get a bunch of people doing opiates that's kind of like a think tank," she adds, then laughs. "Everyone forgets everything."

The bar won't let her in tonight.

"Let's go in together," she suggests. "You can say I'm your best friend."

But it's already past last call. We head for our cars and she coasts into the night.

"I grew up in a really small town (in Tennessee) and there were only two black people. I was raised to think the inner city was a dirty place and black people were the reason for welfare and all that. And I realize now that that isn't true. I've dated black girls. I wonder what would happen if I took a black girl home for Christmas."

"…I visited New York and everyone was rude. I didn't know what to think. Then I realized it was my accent and everyone perceived me as stupid. One guy told me, 'When I first met you, I thought you were retarded,' (laughs). Then we talked about politics and it was OK."

— Elliott Graves, 22, an airplane mechanic, Macintosh camera technician and business student at Belmont University in Nashville

Nashville is the other Hollywood. The musical one.

And I met quite a few interesting musicians, here.

Charlie Rauh, 24, left, and Joseph Hudson, 32, right, play a number of different instruments together and separately.

Joseph plays or sings in six steady gigs, holds down a part-time job at a library, does some film work and is training to be a wrestler.

"I think improvised music is going to have its heyday in Nashville because I can't recall a time in Nashville's history where that's been popular and I just see more and more manifestations of that," says Hudson.

Rauh thinks there is a unique Nashville approach to improvised music, too.
"A lot of it in other cities is usually loud and abrasive and for some
reason the focus of music from Nashville is more melodic and lush."

"The energy is mostly concentrated on Indie rock, now," says Rauh.

He adds: "There is a lot of apathy. A lot of people are making good music but because they don't think people give a fuck, they don't do anything. They don't try to book shows. They wait for something to come to them, when they're doing something that requires self-motivation.

He adds: "A lot of these people are already self-defeated and so their music is self-defeated."

He recalls moving to Nashville 2 12 years ago and walking out of a cafe with is guitar. "And some older guy walked past and said, 'Good luck, buddy. I've been here 10 years.'

Says Rauh: "Nashville is like a graveyard of artists. There are so many people who came here to make it big and didn't."

He continues: "I see Nashville as (providing) endless opportunities, because there are so many good studios and sound masters."

Enoch Porch, 27, above, has 'made it'  — enough to make his living for several years playing in bands and touring for a major label. He still does music, but has eased off from the commercialized stuff for a bit to focus on other things, including managing this Italian market and eatery on the west side of town.
Porch says he was tired of all the posturing that touring with a major record label required.
"I like humble music," he says.