We set out in search of the ultimate
hotel lounge cheese whizand 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."
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