Ahhh, feuds. They just don't make 'em like they used to.

Time was, when two people didn't get along, they ended it with gun smoke, not punitive damages. But like superheroes, scary movies and Chevrolets, violent settlements are a fashion of the past. Consider one Edward Carmack.

In 1907, Carmack lost the Democratic primary for governor. After accepting the editorship of the newly-founded Tennessean, Carmack did what comes naturally to a man with an ax to grind and a public platform at his disposal: He became his former opponent's most vocal critic.

Had this same feud occurred in our more civilized era, Carmack and his rival would have eventually found themselves in front of a judge, debating the finer points of slander. But at the turn of the century, this dispute ended at the corner of Seventh and Union, where Carmack was gunned down by the governor's aide.

While the rules of engagement may have changed, feuds remain. And though it may no longer be kosher to off your enemy in broad daylight, mutual acrimony is a style that will always be in vogue.

With that said, here's the top five feuds in our fair city:

Bredesen vs. Purcell
Beef: Political ambition with a dash of class resentment
Weaponry: Passive-aggressive sound bites
Loser: Purcell, on account of caring

From an outsider's perspective they should've been pals. As the first two Yankee mayors since the Nashville-Davidson nuptials in '63, you'd think there'd have been some common ground. Not so for Governor Phil Bredesen and former Mayor Bill Purcell.

For most of the past two decades, the two biggest names in city politics have made figure-eights around each other, with Bredesen always coming out one step ahead. When Bredesen was mayor, Purcell was House majority leader. By the time Purcell began his second term as mayor, Bredesen had become the first man to leap from that office to the governor's mansion.

"I think the root of it is probably jealousy on Purcell's part," says a former Bredesen aide. "He's obviously very smart, but he's also got a very short temper and can be extraordinarily petty."

A former health-care CEO able to pour millions into his own campaign and eschew his governor's salary, Bredesen entered the political arena via rooftop helipad. Purcell, on the other hand, began his slow ascent in the anonymous halls of legislature from a seat in East Nashville, the city's traditional blue-collar base. As such, Purcell always "had a chip on his shoulder when it came to rich people," according to a friend.

This being politics, the backbiting never rose to VH-1 histrionics. Instead, it was measured by what didn't happen. Like when Bredesen made his push to bring the Houston Oilers to Nashville.

Publicly, Purcell seemed indifferent to the effort. Odd behavior considering the team would be moving into his backyard. To those in Bredesen's camp, the issue seemed personal.

"It was meant to be a kick in the balls to Bredesen," says a former aide.

But according to Purcell loyalists, the Titans snub was a reflection of their man's political savvy. Purcell, they say, knew that Republicans would hold their vote for ransom in exchange for a future quid pro quo.

"From Purcell's side, it was best for Republicans to sponsor it," says a former aide. "Bredesen's thinking was, 'You're mistreating me by not being the point person on this.' It was the two different approaches that created conflict."

During Bredesen's first gubernatorial bid in 1994, fellow Democrat Purcell was conspicuously absent. When Bredesen ran again in 2002, he once again asked for Purcell's assistance. Bredesen hoped to benefit from Purcell's numerous statewide contacts as Tennessee chairman for the Clinton-Gore presidential campaign. But he didn't see his rival until election night, when Purcell mysteriously appeared onstage to mug for the photo-op.

The rift was further widened during Purcell's first term as mayor. In typical politico fashion, any accomplishment was best observed through the prism of How Badly the Last Guy Screwed Up.

"Every press conference included 20 things that were 'brand new' to Nashville," says a former Bredesen aide. "It was like every speech was meant to juxtapose how different things were from the previous administration."

With Purcell now patrolling the leafy grounds of Cambridge as director of Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government, the feud has been relegated to a low simmer. But for one Metro lifer who worked under both men, the split remains fresh. And the quality that separates them, he says, can be defined in the simplest way possible.

"It comes down to Christmas cards," he says. "When you got one from Bredesen it'd have his signature on it along with a little note. When you got one from Purcell, you knew his secretary wrote it."

John Jay Hooker vs. The World
Beef: Wants to abolish unopposed re-election of appellate judges
Weaponry: The Tennessee Constitution and a willingness to live life as if it were Groundhog Day
Loser: Court clerks
Depth at Which Crusade Will End: Six feet

Legendary lawyer John Jay Hooker hasn't actually filed suit against everyone on God's Green Earth. It only seems that way.

Nashville's Quixote has been tilting at windmills for nigh on four decades now—ever since Little Bobby Kennedy (a friend, naturally) was running for the Democratic ticket. Hooker followed dad into the lawyer business, eventually becoming general counsel to The Tennessean. But his real passion was politics.

Hooker's political career hit its apex in 1970. As the Democratic nominee for governor, he had the ignominious honor of losing to Dr. Winfield Dunn, a Republican dentist from Memphis. Since then he's run—unsuccessfully—for nearly every major office in the state, forcing him to find victory elsewhere by starting a hamburger chain.

Over the years, Hooker's sartorial accessories may have changed—he abandoned his trademark white fedora in favor of a coal black stovepipe, à la Lincoln—but his strategy hasn't: Pick an unwinnable fight and flog it to death.

Presidents, senators, governors and, more recently, appellate judges—pick a title, any title—and you're bound to find a target of the Super Gadfly. As one court observer wryly notes: "You're nobody till John Jay sues you."

Hooker's current infamy stems from two such crusades. Both have their origins in his near-slavish love for the state constitution, which he keeps neatly folded in his pocket at all times.

The first: Because the constitution forbids providing voters with "any gift or reward...in meat, drink, money or otherwise," Hooker has a problem with any pol who throws a fundraiser. Which means all of them.

Hooker's crusade started out on a national level. In 1995, he sued Bill Clinton, Senator Bob Dole and every other presidential aspirant who had accepted campaign contributions.

His focus turned in-state starting in 1998, when he sued Governor Don Sundquist. Since then, Hooker has tried to invalidate nearly every significant election in Tennessee, filing suit against Lieutenant Governor John Wilder, Phil Bredesen, Bill Purcell, Senator Fred Thompson and Chancery Court Judge Claudia Bonnyman. All because they offered a little tipple.

Eventually, the Davidson County Circuit Court got so tired of Hooker cutting-and-pasting new names into the same old suits they assigned him a Special Master, the legal equivalent of a handler sent into the classroom to sit next to the hyper kid. Hooker is one of only two serial litigators, meaning he can't file anything now without the master's stamp of approval.

Hooker's most recent Waterloo involves changing the way judges get re-elected in Tennessee. As it stands, all appeals court judges, including the Tennessee Supreme Court, run unopposed, with a simple yes-no retention vote offered at the ballot. Hooker says the process subverts the constitution, a disagreement that has him literally fighting with those whose employment he's trying to reform.

The dance goes like this: Hooker sues the state. He then asks the judge assigned to his case to step down, seeing as how the judge is a beneficiary of the system Hooker considers flawed. The case gets thrown out. Hooker appeals. Then the Appeals Court knocks it down. So he sues that court too. And on and on it goes.

"It's one frivolous lawsuit stacked on top of a thousand more," says a frustrated clerk. "It's like he doesn't have an 'off' switch."

But if it sounds like Hooker is the poster boy for Einstein's Theory of Relative Insanity (doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results) court observers are quick to point out he doesn't quite fit the description.

"We have some nutty ones, but Hooker's not one of them," says one spectator. "He's persistent, to put it mildly. And he believes what he's doing is right."

And will continue to do so. Censured by a judge in October, Hooker remains undeterred: The 78-year-old's first act upon learning his law license was suspended for a month? File an appeal, of course.

Ensworth vs. MBA
Beef: Blue-Blood Establishment faces Blue-Blood Upstart
Weaponry: Withering insults like "MB-Gay" and "Ensworthless"
Loser(s): MBA and Harpeth Hall girls
Man Who Lit the Pilot Light: Billionaire health-care mogul Tommy Frist
Metaphorical Kerosene: A lack of Y chromosomes

As the South's oldest boys' school, Montgomery Bell Academy had full claim to the title of Nashville's Most Prestigious Gentlemen Groomer for nearly 150 years. And for much of that reign, MBA had a symbiotic relationship with Ensworth. The Bellevue primary acted as a feeder, sending most of its eighth-grade male graduates to MBA.

All that changed in 2001 when Tommy Frist, billionaire co-founder of the nation's largest for-profit hospital chain, made MBA an offer he thought they couldn't refuse.

Tommy slid a $100 million donation across the table with one giant string attached: In exchange for the loot, MBA had to turn from male-only to co-ed. As grandfather to seven little girls under the age of 15, Tommy held a deep desire to open his alma mater to the fairer sex. In the '70s, he was behind a similar effort to merge MBA with Harpeth Hall, the city's most elite girls-only school.

When MBA balked, Tommy walked. Only his wallet remained open. After quitting MBA's board, Tommy financed the construction of a high school for Ensworth. In short order, MBA gained a competitor and lost its biggest sources of students.

After opening its doors in 2004, Ensworth began poaching staff. Its biggest coup was Ricky Bowers, MBA's head football coach, lured away by a six-figure salary. Naturally, this led the Font of Tradition to accuse the New Upstart, owners of a weight room larger than the Titans', of misplaced priorities.

"Ensworth focuses too much on athletics," says one MBA student. "They have a really rigorous fitness class every day where they require everyone to either run or practice their sport for an hour. And everyone works with a personal trainer."

The rivalry was solidified last October when Ensworth handed MBA its first football loss in two years, a 41-28 thumping that was subsequently immortalized on Facebook. Tommy, a former state championship-winning quarterback for the Big Red, made his allegiances clear by sitting on the Tigers' sideline.

The gridiron may allow for the rivalry's most literal passion play. But the feud also extends beyond the playing field.

At Ensworth's first middle school awards day after the high school was built, angry parents accused school officials of snubbing rightful winners just because they'd already made plans to attend Harpeth or MBA. Now stuck in the middle are Harpeth girls: If they date an Ensworth guy, their MBA friends will disapprove and vice versa.

Outsiders got a glimpse of how Balkan the feud has become last week on the Scene's blog Pith in the Wind. What started as a minor controversy—involving an allegedly racist, perhaps misinterpreted cheer at the recent MBA-Ensworth basketball game—erupted within hours into a 400-post flame war. Accusations flew back and forth: that MBA students in the crowd used gay taunts and sexual jeers; that Ensworth students had previously committed acts of vandalism; that this school or that school had lesser students, lower standards, etc. The flak is still flying.

Quite the hubbub considering the rivalry was born from the mysterious unknown that is gender assignment. As one observer put it, "None of this would've ever happened if (Tommy) had only had grandsons."

Villa Rich vs. Love Circle
Beef: Country music star pisses off his neighbors with a high-rise disguised as a home
Weaponry: Litigation and a borrowed-sugar embargo
Loser: If the preliminary sketches are any indication, good taste

As one half of country duo Big & Rich, John Rich is no stranger to polarizing opinions. He got his big break on the strength of "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)," a swaggering ode to screwin' that topped the charts despite being seizure-inducing bad. Then, during the past year's election, Rich inserted himself into the campaign by penning the Republican rallying cry "Raisin' McCain."

Rich's ability to divide isn't restricted to music taste and politics, however. It also extends to his choice in homes.

Back in '07, Rich unveiled plans to build atop Love Circle, one of Nashville's highest points. The postcard-worthy views of downtown were a natural destination for a wealthy man with a healthy view of his own omnipotence. Unfortunately for neighbors, Rich's design, dubbed Villa Rich, was more Hollywood Hills than Hillsboro Village.

The 11,000-square-foot proposal quickly came under fire. Many bemoaned its modern look, a glass-and-concrete mixture that resembled a giant sewing machine and clashed with the tiny Tudors surrounding it.

Others worried over increased traffic. Outfitted with a recording studio, Rich envisioned the home to one day play host to an endless line of track-layin' Nashvegas luminaries. Convenient for Rich, but less so for neighbors with nightmares of waking up to find Kid Rock passed out in the sandbox.

Villa Rich's most controversial feature was its height. At 73 feet, the monstrosity threatened to block neighbors' views and make a mockery of zoning laws. Metro code stipulates that no home can be more than three stories; it just doesn't say how high those stories can be.

Neighbors filed appeals. Prompted by the outcry, Councilman David Briley pushed through new height restrictions. But because Villa Rich's design was submitted before passage, it was grandfathered through.

It's now half-complete. Without a legal leg to stand on, neighbors would seem to be resigned to their fate. Still, the battle has just begun. West End families remain unhappy with Rich's stated goal: to turn his home into a tourist trap.

"It's going to be a Nashville landmark when it's done," Rich told an interviewer last year. "It's going to be one of those places people drive by and take pictures of."

Game on.

Tommy Frist vs. Vanderbilt
Beef: Rich guy tries to bend board to his will
Weaponry: The allure of cash
Loser: Vandy
Unlikely Winner: Princeton

No one in Nashville, it seems, does a better job of using his money as a carrot than Tommy Frist. Especially when it comes to his alma maters.

First, Tommy created an instant rival for Montgomery Bell Academy, his former high school, when it wouldn't meet his demands (see above). Then he did the same, albeit on a lesser scale, when Vanderbilt refused to play ball.

Frist's first brush-up with Vandy hierarchy occurred when he tried to donate Hospital Corporation of America stock. Tommy wanted to decide when the school could sell the shares. The set-up wasn't in line with Vandy's rules, however, so Tommy rescinded the offer.

Then, when Vandy's board chair died in 1995, Frist made a play for the top seat. But as the owner of hospitals competing directly with Vandy's— and someone who'd openly acknowledged his desire to buy University Medical Center—Frist was viewed as the metaphorical fox in the hen house. His candidacy was quickly shelved.

Two years later, Frist packed up his tea party and found a different playmate. After resigning from Vandy's board, he gave $25 million to Princeton, a fierce recruiter in the South, to spit-shine its physics building—here-to-fore known on campus as the "Fuck you, Vanderbilt" gift.

Runners-up

Paul House (and good sense) VS Paul Phillips
Beef:Keeping a wheelchair-bound, almost certainly innocent man jailed for life
Weaponry: The threat of never-ending incarceration
Loser(s): House, his family, Union County's credibility

Paul House's saga is a tragic case of "despites." In 1985, House was convicted of the rape and murder of a Union County woman. For 22 years he wasted away on Tennessee's death row.

This despite the fact that DNA tests of semen in the woman's body proved to be from her husband, not House. Despite the fact that two witnesses later came forward, admitting said husband had tearfully confessed to his wife's murder. Despite the fact that the U.S. Supreme Court ruled House to be almost certainly innocent of the crime.

Yet House's ordeal is not over. Union County wants him back behind bars after an appeals court set him free last July. And in order to get a conviction, it's employing a familiar face: District Attorney General Paul Phillips, the man who prosecuted House more than 23 years ago, and the same man the Supreme Court accused of willfully ignoring DNA evidence pointing to the defendant's innocence.

That multiple sclerosis now confines House to a wheelchair only underscores the tragedy of his case. Freedom may be a reality now, but thanks to Phillips, the best years of House' life were spent behind bars. And he now faces a new trial.

Joy Ford vs. Progress
Beef: Music Row developers against a hunkered-down holdout
Weaponry: Eminent domain
Loser: The half-dozen prospectors Ford outlasted

Joy Ford told anyone who would listen that it wasn't about the money. As sole proprietor of Country International Records, a dinky imprint on Music Circle, Ford's building was the last thing standing between a group of wealthy developers and their dreams of a new high-rise. They wanted her land.

During an earlier, golden age for Ford, Country International was a passion she shared with her husband. When he died, she said, all she ever wanted was to keep his memory alive. That memory was the office, where she kept his desk exactly as he had it years before.

The developers, being somewhat immune to the notion of sentiment, offered her money. Then more money. When that line of reasoning failed, they resorted to brute force, leaning on the city to declare her near-windowless building blighted, thus subject to eminent domain.

But after nearly a decade of frustrating men in suits, Ford finally proved to them what she'd been saying all along. A deal was struck, yet the only thing that changed hands was a small piece of land out back. Ford kept her building. The developers got the space they needed to go vertical.

Anyone who had reason to doubt her claims was once again proven wrong: Ford was indeed the woman who would not be moved.

Email channan@nashvillescene.com, or call 615-844-9410.