I grew up in Louisville Kentucky in the 1950s and 60s. It was a strong and highly segregated culture. (Jefferson Davis was married there.)
It was awash with musical crosscurrents. Harvey Fuqua, who founded The Moonglows was from there. PeeWee King, co-writer and performer of The Tennessee Waltz lived about a mile away from me. One set of Elvis’ grandparents lived there. Kids tore up every blade of grass from their lawn the night before he performed at the Armory on November 25, 1956. Wilson Pickett is buried there. I saw the now-largely-unknown-outside-of-Louisville Sultans about 100 times from 1957 to 1965. The Symphony Orchestra had a national reputation for breaking avant-garde pieces, much to the delight of a particular component of the town’s high society. You get the picture.
Needless to say, Louisville probably best known as the birthplace, home, and resting place of Muhammed Ali.
Mitch McConnell is a very distant second.
Of course, the Kentucky Derby sort of epitomized a blue collar town that was best known for making great whiskey, cancer-producing cigarettes, and wanton gambling when I was there.
I’ve always thought and wanted to write a song about this place where people worked all week, got really and truly drunk on Saturday, and repented with hosannahs and tears on Sunday.
It is a good place to be from.
