There’s only one ghost in Nashville, he wanders alone at night in a green haze; I just call him Nash. Every singer who ever ended up in Nashville got beaten, stabbed, and died of rot chasing Nash, who plies you with booze and a bit of the green. One or two escaped, they ended up in Texas; Willie got out, Waylon barely got out. Nash was never about music, he just lured those who were told they had talent, “an original voice” he whispered in their dreams. “Everything turns green in Nashville,” they say, but when the singer turns green it ain’t because of cash, it’s the rot that sets in.