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“It’s the studio where Loretta Lynn recorded.”
Before I had a chance to respond, Sierra was telling me to park on a street corner in residential East Nashville.
Vines growing through the rusted chain link fence catch the eye. When the eye adjusts and looks beyond the vines, the house remains barely visible, overshadowed by an oak tree with a trunk reaching four feet in diameter.
Walking up uneven concrete steps the house comes into full view. The fresh coat of white paint that keeps the building inspector at bay draws the eye away from the paint peeling off the uneven porch boards.
The window pane shakes as the door opens.
The eyes dilate. The only light comes from slivers of daylight passing through clouded window panes and the glow from the Apple computer.
The chipped plaster walls are adorned with guitars, banjoes and posters promoting music concerts. The furniture in the first room consists of a piano, a sound mixing board, and a stool. The center room is darker, as the carpet remnants covering both floor and walls suck in the daylight. A sliding glass door opens to a side room furnished with antique chairs upholstered in velvet.
The kitchen is defined by a butcher block island, a perfect cube reaching almost three feet wide and long. The block competes for the eye’s attention with a pedal steel guitar. In contrast to the dull, rough surface of the butcher block, the pedal steel shines brightly.
The ear picks up the squeal emanating from the strings as thin, lanky fingers move the steel cylinder moves back and forth across the black frets. The sound of metal on metal mixes with the creaking sound of the floor boards rubbing against the aging floor joists.
A freshly sliced ghost pepper sitting on the block emits a slight odor, allowing the mouth to feel the sting of the pepper.
“It’s not the studio where Loretta Lynn recorded,” I say.
“It’s the studio where Sierra Ferrell records.”

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