We set out in search of the ultimate hotel lounge cheese whiz—and find it covering a warm slice of sincerity

by Joe Tarr

At night, there is something starkly beautiful about the suburban strip of West Knoxville. Golden Arches, Phillips 66, Taco Bell, Wal-Mart, and countless other corporate logos burn themselves a landscape more intricate and telling than any Christmas light display.

It is amazing to think that people escape the chaos and bustle of a downtown and move to a place your eyes could never totally absorb. And though it looks the same as suburban sprawl in any city, Kingston Pike and its tributaries are an unduplicated tangle of power lines, street lights, traffic signals, and franchise signs.

I can't stop thinking about the signs as I drive to hear Fredda Valentine play at Spinet's Piano Bar at the Cedar Bluff Holiday Inn. The signs and the quote on Fredda's card. Happiness, in the middle of this? Kicking back in a hotel lounge listening to the songs of (or made famous by) Frank Sinatra, Neil Diamond, Irving Berlin, Doris Day, Jimmy Buffet, and Dion?

To me, music has never been about feeling good, about humming the soundtrack to pleasant memories or forgetting today's woes. I favor the desolation of Hank Williams and Buell Kazee, the disgust of Johnny Rotten, the fervor of P.J. Harvey and John Coltrane, or the gleeful righteousness of Sleater-Kinney and Funkadelic. It can be entertaining but never entertainment. Because music must engage, make you think and feel, never withdraw.

But few probably swallow my idea of a good tune.

I wonder if I can swallow theirs? Is there enlightenment in a land of the old standby, a place where everyone knows the lyrics and even if tempo is slow, nothing threatens to disturb the good mood? Could I have fun here, hanging out for a night?

Unlike its surroundings, Spinet's is a demure place. The music isn't so loud you can't talk, the lights are neither blinding nor too dim, the chairs cushy, the waiters and bartender pleasant. It works hard to create a comfortable, laid back atmosphere, and yet you don't feel like you're anywhere special, as though the decorators didn't want atmosphere to interfere with relaxation. Aside from a few solitary brooding businessmen, everyone seems happy.

Valentine has played three nights a week at the club for three years, creating an impressive following who are more like friends than fans.

I head for the piano in the corner of the room and try to act like I belong. Several people are sitting around it, smiling at Fredda and tapping along as she pounds out "That'll Be the Day." I sit next to a retired couple from Treasure Island, Fla.

The woman says they are on their way back from visiting family in Ohio for the holidays. A halfway point in their trip, they always stop to see Fredda perform whenever they make the regular journey. They first heard her act by chance a few years ago on their way through town.

On my left is a Roy Daytan, who also looks to be in his 70s. Dressed in a blue Oxford shirt and jeans, he has a full head of gray hair, cut in a Ronald Reagan 'do. Sipping a Coor's Light, he explains that he's passing through town from Doylestown, Ohio, on his way to Daytona Beach, Fla., because, "I'm retired and can do whatever I want."

It's the first time he's ever seen Fredda perform. Singing along to nearly every song, he says he'll stop again some time. "She's got a good delivery and she is local, you tell by her voice," he says, as Valentine launches into "City of New Orleans."

The piano is actually just a large wooden table. Fredda's keyboard is set at the front to make it look real. Her instrument produces the beat and bass to fill out her playing and her voice. The whole contraption is placed in a corner. On one side is a wall-sized window that zig-zags to the door. On the other side is a small dance floor, complete with reflective walls tinted gold and strobe light, which tonight is inactive.

Tonight Fredda wears a sparkling purple top with black collar. Her straight blonde hair is impeccable, flowing down the sides of her head.

On top of the piano bar sit three candles, several ashtrays and drinks. In the center is a large tip jar, with a "Gone to Wal-Mart" sign taped to it. Scattered on top are several pamphlets of Valentine's repertoire with the title "Fredda Does Your Requests" above a picture of her beaming face.

Inside you'll find "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy," "Tutti Frutti," "Strangers in the Night," "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," "Sentimental Journey," "Make the World Go Away," "Crazy," "Blue Moon of Kentucky," and hundreds other big band, rock 'n' roll, and country titles.

Fredda jumps quite easily from genre to genre. And though she sings in various styles (hearing the voice of the popular singer as she does each tune) the sound is always hers. It is soothing, with no rough edges or surprises. You can let it sit there in the background, unnoticed while you talk with companions. Or if it's a song you're especially fond of you can cuddle the voice in your head and follow its journey through the verses — it will sound the way you want.

When word gets out that I'm writing about Fredda, her fans start coming over to me one by one. "She plays by ear and can pick up any tune on her own. And she's toured with Ava Barber. She can do just about anything," says one woman, who calls herself Fredda's best friend. "Her personality is what you see there."

Tom Pace stopped in one night after meeting with some business clients. "I looked in here and I saw a piano and I saw this gal singing. I did not know there was any piano bar in Knoxville. I had a few drinks and I fell in love with her." Pace and his wife, Paula, are Wednesday night regulars, when Fredda lets novice singers and friends sing a song or two.

Earlier in the day, I talked with Fredda at her home in Ghirhadelli Place, a quiet housing development in North Knoxville. Valentine grew up in a musical family and began teaching herself to play piano at age 5. She listened to her mother's records by Glenn Miller and Johnny Mathis, finding a comfort and a style she loved.

"We used to play dress up and put on their records, acting like we were rich people," Fredda explains. "That music made you feel good."

While I take notes, a 3-year-old Chihuahua named Peanut licks my face. A large-screen TV stands against the wall, and the room is lavishly decorated with plants. She shares the home with her husband of two years, a "Billy Ray Cyrus look-a-like." There's also the keyboard Fredda practices on. She practices late at night, sometimes until 3 or 4 a.m.

Valentine was exposed to gospel music through her church. She eventually started her own gospel group and also sang in a country and rock band. But the rock band was something she never really felt good about.

Inspired by positive-thinking books and her faith in Christianity, Valentine put aside her fears and struck out on her own. Success came quickly. Right after leaving the band, she was playing a private function at the Holiday Inn when the manager heard her. He liked her sound and offered her a three-night-a-week gig.

It was a weird transition at first. "When I first got there, there were people sitting around the piano. I wasn't used to that, I was used to being up on a stage," she says.

Valentine dealt with it by trying to be reasonable and talking to the customers. It paid off. Many started coming weekly, adopting Spinet's as their hangout, a kind of Cheers without the put-downs and laugh track.

Though many of the songs ("I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry," "Constant Craving," "Me and Bobby McGee") are gloomy, Valentine works to keep the mood happy.

"I don't like to do a lot of dark songs in a row. I can just feel people's energy level go down. I try to keep the tempos mixed, so the mood is mostly up," she says."

"When I'm in the Holiday Inn, I try to be a positive influence. I don't do any preaching, but just try to be a positive influence."

Tor Mundal says spirits are always high at Spinet's when Fredda's playing. A Whirlpool parts salesman, Mundal lived in California for many years. He moved about 10 years ago because he didn't want his three children exposed to the violence and crime there. His kids are now grown, but Mundal says he's comfortable here in Knoxville. In California, Mundal was exposed to some big-time entertainers, including Phil Collins, Johnny Mathis, and the Righteous Brothers. He prefers Valentine just the same.

"I love coming down here. She has a great personality. If she were not here, I would not be coming," Mundal says. "If you came in here on a Friday or a Saturday night, it would not be as upbeat. Though the roast beef is pretty good."

While we talk, Valentine starts another set. She's joined by Pace, who stands to her right. Holding the extra microphone like an old pro, he plants his right hand on the piano. He rarely looks at the crowd, but instead keeps his gaze on the lyric sheet and Fredda. They first do a rendition of "Blue Eyes Crying In the Rain," then tackle Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable," singing it the way Natalie Cole made it a posthumous duet with her father.

"It's definitely upbeat. She makes it upbeat. See that smile on her face?" Mundal says as we watch them sing.

Around the table, bad jokes and good cheer are flowing freely. "We're going to London tomorrow," says a woman in her 30s. "London, Kentucky."

The woman is either named Pam or Linda and may or may not be a newlywed to the man next to her. I can't read her wit. She has dark curly hair, wears a red blazer, black shirt, and tan slacks. She keeps giving me all these story ideas, like the one about her husband who was in Southeast Asia when President Kennedy was assassinated, or about her crazy uncle who owns 150 acres of prime land but won't sell and won't fix the bathtub, which runs all day long. "What's the difference between a mosquito and blonde?" she asks. "A mosquito will stop sucking when you slap it."

She knows most of the tunes. Holding a Marlboro Light, she sings along across the piano on "Satin Sheets," making up twice in passion what she lacks in talent.

The waitress slips Fredda a $5 bill and a napkin, and the singer looks strangely at it. "It's a $5 request," she says touched, then starts up "Unchained Melody."

The night is winding down and Fredda announces that it's time for their traditional closing, "Goodnight Sweetheart."

To my horror, Fredda and Tom want me to sing on this number. "It's real easy," Tom says over my protests, pushing his stool closer and pointing the microphone toward my mouth. Fredda smiles at me as she starts playing.

I contemplate running.

My part is simple, a string of Do's: "Do, Do, Do, Do, Do." I don't know the song, but the sounds are natural, the timing obvious. I can't hear myself, so I can't tell if I'm doing it right. But when Fredda suddenly turns up the mike I'm just startled by my voice. After a few painful choruses, the moment is over.

Of all the times I've fantasized about being a musician but never actually tried it, its somehow fitting that "Do, Do, Do, Do, Do" is all I sing.

With Valentine done for the night, the bar switches back to its stereo. I don't feel so stupid anymore. The night was fun, and I like these people. It's not a way I would spend my spare time, but I can understand why they love it.

I sit there finishing my beer, chatting with the man next to me who is explaining the differences between the book and movie versions of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Suddenly I hear Dylan's "Tangled Up In Blue" come through the speakers. The song is more my taste, and his cracked, nuanced voice puts me in a pensive mood. I'm wondering why the polished feel-good sounds are more attractive to these people than this. And then in a flash, Dylan explains it to me: "We always did feel the same, we just saw it from a different point of view."