Closing Time

"The Idle Hour, where it's always too late to leave early."—Lizard, Idle Hour customer/songwriter, from Half Live at the Idle Hour [Vol. 1]

There are three clocks in the Idle Hour; two of them reportedly work, not that anyone ever checks. It's not so much that time stands still in this battered old tavern, full of ghosts, living and dead; it just doesn't matter. The Idle Hour opens at 10 a.m. and closes around 3 a.m., unless the bartender decides to call it a night before then. It's open seven days a week, all year round. If a bartender feels like working on Christmas Day, he'll keep the place open so people who don't have anyplace to go have someplace to go. Memorial Day is celebrated the weekend after so customers will be in town for the backyard cookout, and the Halloween party—a big deal at the Idle Hour—is usually held a couple days before, just because.

All four of the bartenders started out as customers before making the move from one side of the bar to the other. Randall worked there from 1988 until 1991, moved away, then came back a couple years ago, and everybody says it was like he had never been gone. Tommy started working there during the big snowstorm two years ago, when Jonathan got so sick he nearly died and no one else could make it in; when Jonathan got better, he came back to work. Chuck, a steady customer since he moved to Nashville from St. Louis in 1985, figured he could save some money if he balanced his drinking there with working there, which he started doing four years back. He met his girlfriend at the Idle Hour three years before that, when he gave her a ride one night after she lost her keys; they're having her baby shower there on Nov. 6, and the two will get married sooner or later, after the baby—due Nov. 27—is born.

Nicky, a FedEx driver by day, can't remember exactly how long he's been coming to the Idle Hour; he says it only took about a day or two to get to know most everybody who came in on a regular basis, 'cause most of the regulars don't go but a day or so without coming in. His son Noah—sitting beside him at the bar, matching his dad beer for beer—says some of his earliest memories are of coming into the Idle Hour with his father. "We'd come in after Vanderbilt games on Saturday. I was about 7 or 8, and we'd walk in the door and it would be just like Cheers, everybody calling Dad's name."

Nicky says he always had it in mind that when he retired from FedEx, he would simply give up his stool for a shift or two behind the Idle Hour bar.

Unfortunately, that ain't gonna happen. For more than 30 years, the Idle Hour has sat minding its own business, happy and secure on the southern border of Music Row, where the street—once rife with boarding houses run by women who rented cheap, clean rooms to struggling songwriters—is still called 16th Avenue. Its cozy isolation on a small grassy lot shaded by the thick, gnarly arms of big old trees, with four well-tended rose bushes that bloom anew every spring, has somehow offered immunity to the immeasurable changes that have completely altered the neighborhood in which it is nestled. As old bungalows made way for contemporary new buildings, and security-guarded lobbies took the place of welcoming front porches, the Idle Hour remained a steadfast reminder of country music's gritty roots and come-as-you-are policy. But one month ago, time walked in the door of this legendary, last-of-its-kind beer joint, and now the Idle Hour is counting down its final moments.

"All right, I'm ready to idle down."—Zak, customer/songwriter, source of the slogan, "Idle down at the Idle Hour"

Tenured Nashvillians have a peculiar way of giving directions to people, offering as landmarks places that no longer exist: "Well, you take 21st past where Ireland's was and keep on going till you get to where Maude's used to be, then you'll turn and it's at that next corner where First American bank was, the one where Joyce used to work." God bless you if you just got to town.

Dianne Herald has lived here all her life, so she knows her way around, even if most of the landmarks of her youth are long gone. She was born at St. Thomas Hospital—back when it used to have a maternity ward and when it used to be on Hayes Street, before it moved out to Harding Road, near where Jimmy Kelly's used to be. She grew up on Montrose Avenue, about two blocks from where Becker's Bakery stood for nearly 75 years. She remembers stopping in after school for a cookie, and that every birthday meant a cake from Becker's. She started school at long-closed Clemons Elementary and ended it at Overton, which still exists, but not in the same building.

In 1978, she met Bobby Herald—another Nashville native—at what was then simply the Idle Hour and C&G Diner, named for owners Gladys and Charles Kinnard, kin to the folks who had Kinnard's Corner, which used to be at the corner of Blair and 21st. Anyway, Bobby was a bartender and she was a customer, romance kindled and sparked, and before long, the two became so close no one hardly said one name without adding the other. Bobby and Dianne. Dianne and Bobby. The owners asked them if they wanted the place, and they said sure. Loyal Vanderbilt fans, they painted the squat, stucco building bright-yellow with black trim, and added "Bobby's" to the front of the Idle Hour name.

The short front door, which leads into the cave-like, smoke-filled interior, is also painted in Commodore colors, but these days the walls are almost totally obscured by bumper stickers, beer signs, NASCAR calendars from seasons long past, and dozens of yellowed black-and-white publicity photos of stars, former stars and not-quite-stars. Thanks to years of exhaled nicotine, the ceiling is more brown than gold, except for an odd horse-head shape that marks the spot where a salesman once demonstrated a miraculous cleaning product to Dianne. In spite of its obvious efficiency, Dianne didn't buy it. "Do you see anything in here worth cleaning?" she asks with a smile. Even the aloe plant, the sole green thing in the place, sitting incongruously in one of the few tiny windows, has a layer of dust, though it has inexplicably managed to stay alive.

Once they bought the place, Bobby and Dianne shut down the diner, and a pool table went in what used to be the back dining room. They took out the bed that was in the rear area where regulars could sleep off a drunk, not an uncommon occurrence at the Idle Hour.

Though they officially stopped serving food years ago, Dianne cooked up pots of stew at home on Friday nights and would set up a few Crockpots on the pool table for anyone to help themselves. "We never charged anything for it, not a penny. We had a lot of cookouts over the years, on the back patio there. If we had steak, we would charge for that, $3 for the steak, corn and salad. We take care of our bartenders and our customers. We are all family. We've kept 'em up and run 'em off, but even the ones we run off came back sooner or later. We get all kinds in here. I swear, Bobby and I think there must be a sign at the Greyhound Bus Station that says, 'Idle Hour That Way.' "

Fourteen years ago, Bobby and Dianne decided to get married. The natural place to hold the wedding was the Idle Hour. After all, the family was already there. They let everybody know a few days in advance and lined up Bill Covington, county clerk, to perform the ceremony. A few women volunteered to be bridesmaids, and a few men offered to stand up for the groom. The morning of the wedding, Sept. 28, 1990, Dianne went and bought the two rings. When it came time for the ceremony, there were so many people crammed into the bar that they had no choice but to move it outside.

"That video is about the funniest thing you've ever seen," says Dianne. "The person filming it was standing outside, and all you can see is people pouring out the door, and every one of them had a beer in their hand. We were out on the front yard, and Bill asked Bobby if he was ready to get married. Bobby is saying yes and shaking his head no. About that time, the police came. They said we couldn't be outside with open containers. It was pretty silly, because we were spread out over two yards, and there were judges and lawyers and politicians everywhere. Bobby has three brothers—one worked for the water department, one for the fire department, and one was a major on the police force. Anyway, we finished up and went back inside. Everybody had taken up a collection to pay Bill for the ceremony, but he wouldn't take it, so we put it on the bar and bought beer for the house all night. Some of the girls had brought food, and one of our friends got a wedding cake from Becker's. It was all real nice."

"It was the most unique experience of my life," Nicky adds, taking a drink from his beer. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything."

"I'll have whatever the guy on the floor was drinkin'."—John M., from Barely Live at the Idle Hour [Vol. 2]

There is still a menu board next to the door that leads to the back room. It offers—though you can't necessarily get—pizza, popcorn, beef sticks, crackers, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi and, for health nuts, V-8. Customers who want something to chew on can buy a pack of gum; Rolaids and Alka-Seltzer are also on the menu, promising speedy recovery from a few too many cold Buds the night—or the day—before.

"Remember that time that somebody bet J.W. [Lokey, a bartender there] that he couldn't drink a case of beer in one day?" Dianne directs the question to Tommy behind the bar, who momentarily takes his eye off the UT/Alabama game and gruffly replies, "He drank the whole thing in one afternoon, went out and got something to eat, and came back that night to drink some more."

"J.W. passed about six years ago. Sure do miss him," Dianne says wistfully.

Everyone at the bar raises a beer. "Here's to J.W."

"J.W.!"

Some years ago, people took to stapling dollar bills—or fives, 10s and sometimes a 20—on the ceiling, writing their name and the date on it. A cow bell is rung to announce the generosity of a patron who buys a round for the bar. When the phone rings, the bartender asks the room, "Who's not here?" before he answers. If a customer needs to make a call, it's 35 cents to the bartender, who dials out from the one house phone. Then the customer picks up the extension phone—which has no dial or push-buttons—on the wall. "You just can't find those anymore," Nicky observes.

The bathrooms, two sober or three drunken steps from the bar, are an endless source of amusement for regulars as they watch first-timers open the door and walk smack into another door. "We call that the quarter-inch bathroom hall," Dianne notes with a laugh. It's required by the privacy law, which states that if a bathroom is visible from the main room, there be another wall protecting the commode user from prying eyes. Not that very much ever stirs folks at the bar from the business at hand, which primarily consists of drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, telling stories and glancing up at the back or front door to see who's coming in or going out.

"The words on these songs are great, but the lyrics need some work."—Bobby Herald, from Half Live at the Idle Hour

Aside from their affection for cold beer, cigarettes, an old story and one another, what the owners, employees and customers most appreciate is an original song, preferably written by one of them. And there are plenty to choose from.

In a closet are four guitars, a mandolin, a tambourine and a kazoo, Bobby Herald's instrument of choice. An upright piano sits tucked between the front wall and one end of the bar. It doesn't take much encouragement to get someone to start playing on something, whether it's 10 o'clock on a Tuesday morning or 10 o'clock on a Saturday night.

"We never had to hire a band," says Dianne. "We have so much talent here, we never needed one. Some of the greatest writers in Nashville have written in here or sung in here; some of them people know, and most of 'em they don't. But I love every one of them."

There are two CD compilations of songs written and performed by Idle Hour regulars; the first, no longer available, is Half Live at the Idle Hour, which was certified Plywood soon after its release, or so the plaque that hangs behind the bar says. The second is Barely Live at the Idle Hour. Both were recorded in customer Jack Bond's living room, where he served as producer and musician. The cover of each is a reproduction of an oil painting of the building by artist/customer/songwriter Ann Tiley. Credits on both CDs thank Bobby for not playing his kazoo, and Dianne for keeping Bobby out of the "studio" while they were recording.

"The best damned bar I ever crawled out of."—Kenny, from Half Live at the Idle Hour

Since they took over the Idle Hour, Bobby and Dianne never had a lease; it was just, she says, a day-to-day thing, and one day ran into another until more than 25 years went by. About a month ago, Dianne answered their phone at home, and it was the landlord. "I knew something was wrong when he said, 'Dianne, let me talk to Bobby.' I handed Bobby the phone and he listened for a minute, then he said, 'How long do we have?' When he got off the phone, he told me the landlords had sold the property, and we had 45 days to get out. I think I was in shock. I cried for two days. What hurt me the most I think was that they didn't even offer us the chance to buy the property. I know that we could have come up with the money; our customers would have given us whatever it took to keep it." The call from the landlord came on Sept. 28, 2004, Dianne and Bobby's 14th wedding anniversary.

On the third-to-last Saturday night of the Idle Hour's rapidly dwindling time left, nothing seems any different than any of the hundreds of Saturday nights that have come before; the names may change, but the character of the place remains the same. Tommy is behind the bar, Nicky sits on a stool with Dianne on his right, his son Noah on his left. Chuck's girlfriend is at one end of the bar, Randall is at the other. The UT game plays out on the TV before giving way to the first game of the 2004 World Series. Chuck comes in and takes over for Tommy. "The Red Sox can't win; it would mean the end of the world," he opines, taking a drink from a thermal cup inscribed "Asshole." "I got that from a customer; I never saw her since."

Behind him, taped to the bar, are a few handwritten signs. One says, "Get Your Second Idle Hour CD NOW Before We Go Out of Business, Just $10!" Another says, "Thank you Nashville for all the wonderful years and memories." And the third: "Closing Party, November 12th, Friday, All Day." The actual closing is Nov. 15, but the party was set to give Dianne and Bobby three days to clean up and pack things up.

That is, if there's anything left. Dianne has set up two large binders. One is for customers' names, numbers and e-mail addresses so they can all keep in touch, and for use as a contact list in case the couple open another bar. The other is in place of a closing auction, which Dianne just doesn't think she could bear. On the outside, she has written: "If there is anything in this building you would like to have, please put your name and what you would give for it. Be sure to tell us in detail what it is, your name and telephone number. If it is an item we are selling, we will get back to you real soon. Thanks."

The pages inside, which are filling rapidly, make great reading, and the book is passed up and down the bar, provoking laughs and more reminiscing.

"I want my dollar bill back. I'll give you a dollar."

"Please give Mike Phyllis the No Whining Sign."

"I need John Hackett's phone #, $200."

"Ain't gonna give you shit. I brought it in, I'll take it out."

After Bobby and Dianne walk out of the Idle Hour for the last time, the new owners of the property are expected to bulldoze the building, with plans to build town homes on the lot. By next year, the only concrete evidence that the Idle Hour existed will be what customers bring home with them: photos snapped, then forgotten in the back of a drawer somewhere; the promotional pens that say "Idle Down at the Idle Hour"; two CDs of songs that never have and probably never will make the big-time; a painting finished before the life-sized plastic man in overalls had taken residence out front, when the outside walls were still bright-yellow, Chuck's old car was parked out on 16th Avenue and Dianne's roses were in full bloom.

"We're just an old neighborhood bar—there's not many places like this left," Dianne says on this rainy Saturday night, getting ready to go home and make one last pot of stew. "Some people call it a dive, but it's ours and we love it. There's been a lot of life lived here. You know, when Bobby gives me flowers, he has always given me three: one for the past, one for the present and one for the future. We've had a good past and present; I don't know what we're gonna do in the future."

The Idle Hour is destined to become another vanished landmark that we use in our peculiar Nashville way of giving directions. But more than that, it is a personal touchstone for our own place in the past and the present of this rapidly evolving city, like a birthday cake from Becker's, an ice cream soda at Candyland, a hot chicken sandwich at Columbo's, a bowl of chili at Varallo's, or a pound of organic wild rice from Sunshine Grocery. So quick, before it's gone for good, do yourself a favor and go get a beer at Bobby's Idle Hour, even if it's just to say you were there. The door is always open, until it closes forever on Nov. 15, when time will finally run out at the Idle Hour.