A little bit of country and a little bit of rock'n'roll in Tennessee

Robert Mighall discovers there is more to Nashville than big hair and steel guitars

US customs officials aren't the most welcoming people on the planet. The one who glowered at me from behind the blue line at Cleveland airport was no exception. "What is your destination?" "Nashville." "The purpose of your visit?" "Holiday, err... vacation." "You a country fan?"

US customs officials aren't the most welcoming people on the planet. The one who glowered at me from behind the blue line at Cleveland airport was no exception. "What is your destination?" "Nashville." "The purpose of your visit?" "Holiday, err... vacation." "You a country fan?"

My negative was met with incredulity, not to say suspicion. To a Clevelander, and probably to most Americans, Nashville means country music. "So you're not going to Opryland? To Dollywood? To the Country Hall of Fame?" Rehearsing the standard interrogation for those who did claim to be fans, he was also unwittingly drawing up my itinerary of places not to visit.

For me, C&W meant big hats, bigger hair and twangy twaddle about faithful dogs and faithless women. I once lived above a maniac who liked playing bad country records at full blast at 4am on a continuous loop. Not surprisingly, I had developed an aversion to the sound of steel guitars. So it was with dread that I boarded my connecting flight to Nashville, Tennessee, visiting friends who just happen to live there.

I learnt from my guidebook that the city has more churches per capita than anywhere else, and is the centre for the Contemporary Christian music industry. A fact that somehow failed to cheer me. So what was a sane person to do in Music City, USA, in the heart of the Bible Belt?

As it turns out, plenty. Nashville is a very modern, civilised, friendly city. It is Tennessee's state capital, and the financial and insurance centre of the mid-South, with a stunning downtown skyline dominated by the unique Batman-shaped Bell South Building. Down there you could almost imagine yourself on Wall Street, were it not for the occasional midday cowboy moseying in and out of the bars and boot stores.

Nashville's largest industry is not music but medicine. It is the home of some of the best research hospitals in the US. It has 18 universities and colleges, second only to New York City (the most prestigious is Vanderbilt, a fine parkland campus like a backdrop from an American teen movie, complete with frisbee-throwing frats on the glorious sunny day I visited it).

It can't compete with New Orleans and Memphis for the cuisine of the Deep South, but Nashville has a number of fine eateries where you can gorge on fried chicken and biscuits (savoury scones to you). Try "grits" for breakfast, too, but only if you like salty semolina.

Nashville is also steeped in the history of the South and proud of this heritage. It joined the Union in 1797, and marked its centenary by holding a grand fair in what is now the Centennial Park, constructing full-sized wood and plaster replicas of a pyramid and of the Parthenon. The Nashvillians liked the latter so much that they kept it, rebuilding it in concrete. It stands as a bizarre testament to Nashville's former title - "Athens of the South".

Two hours' drive away is Lynchburg, the home of the Jack Daniel's distillery, the oldest in the US. This is well worth a visit, not least for the glimpses afforded on the way of Spanish-moss-draped woodland homesteads. Admission is free, and the tour conducted by a genuine good ol' boy straight out of Dukes of Hazzard is entertaining, if not a little frustrating, as you inhale from the seething vats. Sniff, but don't slurp. Lynchburg, like many towns in this state of whiskey-soaked lyricism, is dry. You can't get a drink in the whole county.

If you like fields and have a good imagination, you can clamber over the numerous Civil War battle sites that surround Nashville (there are more than 420 in the state of Tennessee alone). Or you can visit Belle Meade, a grand plantation house, which was caught in the crossfire at the Battle of Nashville. The bullet holes are still visible in the columns of its Southern-style Italianate portico.

A finer example still is found at The Hermitage, a short distance out of town. Once home to President Andrew Jackson, this 1,500-acre cotton plantation is preserved in all its antebellum glory - and shame (a few of the shabby dwellings of the 150 slaves who worked the lands provide a contrast to the grandeur of their master's house). It even has a guitar-shaped driveway. This ancestor to a thousand rock stars' swimming-pools is actually original to the 1825 mansion, designed for the president's wife, whose favourite instrument was the guitar.

Perhaps rocking Mrs J is responsible for what followed, for, try as you might, in Nashville you can't stop the music. And that music is country. Like Hollywood, it is the undisputed centre and focal point of a multimillion-dollar industry. Home to 39 record labels, 150 recording studios, and 45,000 registered songwriters (so many to produce one sound?). You find hatted, booted hopefuls strumming on nearly every downtown street corner, and you can bet the man or woman waiting your table would burst into song at the drop of a Stetson if they thought you were a record exec.

It all started in the late 1920s with the Grand Old Opry, a live radio showcase for the various styles that would come to be classed as "country". You can visit the original site of this event in the Ryman Auditorium, preserved, like just about anything associated with the history of the music in this city, as a museum.

The Opry show itself moved to the Opryland hotel and convention centre, where the WSM radio station is just one of Nashville's dozen or so country stations pumping out that good old sound around the clock. This has to be seen to be believed. A hundred acres of Southern-fried kitsch all under a vast glass roof, where sanitary engineering conventioneers in dude-ranch duds stroll around its landscaped walkways complete with scenic cascades, a Mississippi river boat, and mocked-up Old South mansions. There is even an ersatz reconstruction of a New Orleans French Quarter street, exact in everything except its oppressive spotlessness and cosiness, a far cry from the edgy charm of the original.

At Opryland, mullets appear to be obligatory (like crew cuts in the military), and every ashtray displays a guitar-shaped design. "You should see it at Christmas," enthused Lorie, a local country fan, "with snow and elves, for a real country Christmas. It sure is purty then." I think I managed not to shudder.

The Opry brand dominates the city. Shortly after I left, the Opry Mills 1.2-million sq ft shopping mall was expecting 100,000 visitors on its gala opening day. Amid its combined "retail and entertainment" facilities, shoppers will presumably search out bargains as piped steel-guitar music numbs their critical faculties. Nashville's Inaugural Country Music Marathon took place while I was there. Each mile was marked by a sound stage for country bands and Stetsoned cheerleaders. Seven thousand rhinestone Nikes flashed in the Tennessee sun.

But country can't just be big business, packaging and an infinitely extendable brand. In the spirit of if you can't beat them, join them, I went in search of the authentic article. Trashy tourist traps they may be, but the downtown bars are still the best place for cheap live music. Sweaty and beery, the honky-tonks on Broadway are the spittoon to Opryland's decorative crystal decanter. In Tootsie's Orchid Lounge or Robert's Western Wear (combined cowboy-boot store and bar), Japanese and Germans in implausible attire rub shoulders with the locals, as hopefuls churn out standards for tips. I wouldn't know the real thing if it slapped ma thigh, but I think I came close to it on my last night in Nashville.

Every Tuesday The Linemen play Bluegrass at The Station Inn, a hole-in-the-wall dive on the wrong side of town. Low on steel guitar, high on fiddle, double bass and banjo, this band made up of local session musicians dished up a storming set that got even my toes tapping. The joint jumped when followers started dancing Bluegrass-style - an enthusiastic jig that betrays the Celtic provenance of this music: think Riverdance but with arm movements. I experienced a partial conversion and bought a CD, fully aware that it would not sound quite the same in west London, but wishing to take back some authentic slice of Nashville. The Stetson wouldn't fit in my suitcase.

Getting ThereAmerican Airlines (tel: 0845 7789789) offers return flights from Heathrow, Gatwick, Manchester, Birmingham and Glasgow to both Memphis and Nashville (via Dallas or Chicago) from £531 and £602 respectively in July.

MemphisAmerican Dream Safari (tel: 001 901 527 8870; www.americandreamsafari.com) organises the Delta Day Trips, which cost $175 including breakfast and lunch; a Greatest Hits tour of Memphis costs $50; and a Saturday Night Juke Joint tour of Beale Street and Wild Bill's costs $65.

The Rock 'n' Soul Museum is in the Gibson Guitar Building at 145 George W Lee Avenue. Entrance costs $6.

The most dependable free guide to music in the city is the Memphis Flyer.

NashvilleA night at The Doubletree Hotel costs from £72. Book through Hotel America (tel: 01444 410555), which also organises hotel accommodation in Memphis.

Further InformationTennessee Tourism (tel: 01462 440784).