Are geeky people also broody?
That stereotype may be passé—unless, of course, you’re talking about Nashville.
I found this out firsthand, by accident.
The whole thing began on September 27, 2025, a rather standard day in the Athens of the South, aside from the fact that I was there.
I was visiting my son, who is not in the early-bird-gets-the-worm phase of life.
Around noon, rather than idly await his wake-up, I opted for a field trip.
Geeky people, not that I would know or anything, make strange choices.
I was in the land of honky-tonks, bachelorette parties, and pedal tours, the so-called Nashvegas.
It was only logical, therefore, that I went to a bookstore—in a strip mall.
Out in a place called Green Hills, the novelist Ann Patchett owns a store called Parnassus Books, and a puzzled but pleasant Uber driver took me there.
Patchett’s books were front and center—she’s written some gems. Bel Canto, Commonwealth, and The Dutch House come to mind.
She’s also a thoughtful Nashvillian, and I had a feeling the collection of local material would be worth a look.
And there, on a shelf of regional nonfiction, began the accident.
The book was black, the first clue as to what I was dealing with. The other clues were even less subtle—published by Vanderbilt University Press, an editor whose work has appeared in The Atlantic, and a roster of authors including Belmont grads and Patchett herself.
This was a book by geeky people, for geeky people.
And $27 and several days later, I had in fact become one of those broody people.
None of this should have come as a surprise.
The population of the Nashville area has more than doubled since 1990. It has gone from having zero major professional sports teams to three and counting. Over that time span, the number of annual tourists has increased by approximately a factor of eight. Major tech companies have opened up shop, and entrepreneurs are thriving.
But all this change must come at a cost.
I’m not talking about traffic, the environment, or any other worthy concern. I’m talking about extinguishing the ingredients that made the place attractive in the first place.
Country music was born from manual labor and hardship.
Hot chicken came from the Southern black tale.
The now-famous Broadway rose from relative grime.
Diversity of thought, commonsensically, owed itself to diversity of experience.
The old Nashville, in other words, was an ugly, creative mess.
The new Nashville has glass towers, duplexes, and hospitals.
Tourists line up for hot chicken at a chain, one that has nothing to do with the fried bird’s origin story.
Old homes, considered less valuable than the land they’re on, are bought—and razed. The displaced residents, some in the creative industries, are forced from the urban core.
There’s all sorts of talk about elevated dining, James Beard Awards, and such. Likewise, hats and boots have given way to ties and suits.
The new Nashville, in other words, is an attractive, corporate thing.
In this new Nashville, private equity bros and tech bros pat themselves on the back.
The place, after all, has become one of great commercial interest.
But, one must ask, is the place still interesting?
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