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Harlan found it on a Tuesday. The Copper Spur was a dive off Music Row where the real songwriters went when they wanted to forget they were songwriters. The walls were paneled in fake wood, and the smell of stale beer and desperation hung like fog. Behind the bar was a woman named Jade, thirty-five with crow’s feet and a smile that had seen too many last calls.

That came three weeks later, when rent was due and the guitar was still in its case. He’d been sleeping in the storage room of a boot repair shop owned by a man named Silas, a fellow refugee from the Smokies who let him sweep floors for tips. “You got the look,” Silas said one night, wiping grease off a cowboy heel. “The hungry one. City eats hungry boys for breakfast, son.” countryboy crack

The studio was a converted garage in East Nashville. For two weeks, Rickey worked him like a mule. “Faster,” he’d say. “That bridge? Trash it. Put a beat behind it. No one wants to hear about your dead well, they want to hear about getting drunk and getting laid.” Harlan found it on a Tuesday

“Told you,” Silas said. “City eats hungry boys.” Behind the bar was a woman named Jade,

And that was the only crack worth chasing.

They wrote a song called “Dirt Road Dynamite.” It had a thumping bass line, Auto-Tuned harmonies, and lyrics about tailgates, tank tops, and tan lines. Harlan felt sick recording it. But when Rickey played it back, his foot tapped. He hated himself for that.

The turning point came in Tulsa.