As Expected, Sports Illustrated's Swimville Was Kind of a Weird Scene

To the average, red-blooded American man, nothing takes the bite out of winter’s sting like the ray of sunshine that is Sports Illustrated’s annual Swimsuit Issue, wherein the predominantly jock-centered journalism steps almost completely aside to showcase full-color photos of scantily clad models, usually on a beach or something. This year, for its 50th swimsuit edition, the magazine chose Nashville as the site of its kickoff extravaganza, which included not only performances by Cream faves Kings of Leon and Mikky Ekko at The Schermerhorn, but also a two-day mini-fest in the middle of our legendary tourist mecca Lower Broad called “Swimville.”

We weren’t quite sure what to expect in terms of a crowd on Wednesday afternoon. We strolled up in time to catch the latter half of a set from local outlaw songstress Nikki Lane, who was playing for a crowd of about 100 inside of a heated tent that felt like something being quarantined inside a corporate-sponsored greenhouse where giant photos of the magazine’s featured young women hung from the ceiling in all their bikini-babe glory.

This tiny crowd of office folk on sick leave, stragglers from off the street, tourists off the turnip truck and a handful of the aforementioned intimidatingly tall and unnaturally attractive models, juxtaposed throughout, was surrounded by walls lined with corporate displays where local artist Herb Williams was recreating the magazine's cover in his signature crayon medium. Schick was offering free shaves to any bearded bros willing to let go of their facial forests. Lexus was on hand for anyone in the mood to buy a luxury car on impulse. Smith-Forge Cider, Maui Jim, Gibson and Old Spice were all peddling something or other, while folks stood in extremely long lines waiting to get their copy of the magazine autographed by the models themselves. If that doesn’t sound like kind of a weird scene, we haven’t done a very good job of describing it.

With Lower Broad’s honky-tonk fixtures looming over us, local singers-songwriters Trent Dabbs, Amy Stroup and their band Sugar and the Hi Lows appeared in dapper threads and pleased the slowly growing crowd with some relatively nondescript rock 'n' roll. Music Row songwriting machine and former singer of local bluegrass outfit The SteelDrivers, Chris Stapleton, belted some bare-bones country-soul while fronting his own power trio. Just after that, Music City legacy Holly Williams — granddaughter of Hank Williams and daughter of Hank Williams Jr. — broke out her own much safer and considerably more polished countrified, pentatonic soulful stuff. And lastly, Moon Taxi rounded out the evening with frenetic, groove-heavy jam-pop that definitely drew the biggest crowd of the day.

Thursday afternoon, after braving a morning of light snowfall, we found ourselves back at the bus stop, where the MTA whisked us back to Lower Broad ... and the tent, where this time Rayland Baxter was steady rockin’ a much larger crowd than the one we stood in 24 hours earlier. The folky roots of Baxter’s beginnings still show through in his song craft, but his backing band runs on pure Southern psychedelia. We hadn't caught Baxter & Co. since last summer’s Nashville Outlines block party at The Stone Fox (which was a little bit more The Spin's speed, even if it rained). Local rockers turned entrepreneurs The Ettes (who run East Side record shop Fond Object) and their familiar bubble-grunge blues made for the first comfortable moment we’d felt at this thing yet, or maybe that’s just because The Spin had finally finagled access to the backstage open bar. (Probably the latter.)

By the time Nashville Star alum Chris Young got onstage, the bikini-bro tent was at maximum capacity, and alcohol sales had been visibly boosted considerably. Clad in a cheap plaid shirt and a pair of dad jeans (not even a cowboy hat), Young himself looked more like a youth pastor or a Cinnabon manager than your average country music singer, which we gather accounts for a lot of his appeal? His old-school take on commercial country is nothing particularly revolutionary, but refreshing in that it doesn’t try to be anything of the sort. Better yet, it’s a far cry from the noxious and thirsty pandering of the “bro-country” phenom.

Finally, facing a wall of giddy teenage girls, Kings of Leon apprentices The Weeks headlined the gig. It was a far more intimate affair than

last summer, but the grooves and chops behind their Southern-fried indie rock was no less on point. As their set ended, so did this whole, oddball, “It City,” corporate midweek bender. It was a strange ride, but ultimately a good time. We could definitely think of worse ways to kill a weekday and wouldn’t gripe too much if Sports Illustrated and its amazonian alum wanted to rendezvous again next year.