From Preservation Online, the online magazine of the National Trust for Historic Preservation

www.preservationonline.org

Just off the riverfront on Frederica Street, an old downtown theater is all lit up for a big Friday night. Bright bulbs atop the marquee spell out … "GOLDIES"? What kind of name is that for a movie palace? And on the marquee: no film titles or names of stars. Instead, Tara Noel, Eddie Rector, Travis Estes. They sound like regular folks.

That's because this 1906 theater, which showcased vaudeville in the days before films, has become Goldie's Best Little Opryhouse in Kentucky, a place where local talent belts out country, bluegrass, and gospel music for family, friends, and neighbors every Friday and Saturday night. Inside, platinum-blonde Goldie Payne exuberantly rules the stage, introducing acts and singing in the spotlight herself as the house band plays. "Hello, precious. How are you?" the rhinestone-sprinkled MC calls to somebody in the audience. Some 300 people, many of them munching popcorn and sipping soft drinks purchased in the lobby, are jammed into the theater and its balcony. Goldie seems to be bosom buddies with each and every one.

Welcome to the warm-hearted world of little oprys, the out-of-the-way offspring of the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. Their blend of commercial venture and local folk culture occupies a distinctive corner of today's country music scene. And a frequent byproduct of little oprys is keeping older structures up and running. It's not uncommon to find grand buildings restored as little oprys in old downtown areas as well as in "one-traffic-light, crossroads towns," says folklorist Amy Davis of Durham, N.C., who wrote her master's thesis at the University of North Carolina about little oprys. "Often the renovation of an old theater is part of the draw of the show."

Little oprys come out of the American tradition of gathering to enjoy live, local music at barn dances and countryside jamborees. In the mid-1920s, "radio broadcasts transformed the idea of a barn dance into a commercial product," explains Michael Ann Williams, a professor of folk studies at Western Kentucky University and the chair of the Kentucky State Preservation Review Board. When listeners clamored to see the studio-produced shows they heard on the radio, the live-show broadcast was born. Among the best known was the WSM Barn Dance broadcast from Nashville. Announcer George Hay came up with the sophisticate-sassing word "opry" in 1927, and the show's name changed to the Grand Ole Opry.

As many as 1,000 little-opry venues can be found throughout the 50 states, says Davis. "Well, maybe not in Hawaii." Their stronghold is areas where men named Travis are statistically overrepresented—that is, a swath running from southern Illinois and Indiana, through Kentucky and Tennessee, across the rest of the upland and lower South, and into Oklahoma and Texas. Many little oprys began in the 1970s and '80s, when interest in folk music and rural styles surged, Davis says. They tend to take place only on weekends and make a point of offering up wholesome family fun.

When it comes to buildings, little-opry operators and their supporters are most interested in large, empty spaces they can fill with music on a regular basis. Basically, any place with enough room for performers and an audience works. Old schoolhouses, former post offices, courthouses, even historic log cabins are all being used as country music venues. So are barns, country stores, VFW halls, and community centers. On Main Street in Dickson, Tenn., an opry called the Grand Old Hatchery nests in what once was the nation's fifth-largest chicken hatchery. A former car dealership in Old Fort, N.C., was converted into Old Fort Mountain Music. In Cave City, Ky., a former boat trailer factory is now simply The Factory, where "All We Make Is Music."

But old movie houses are the buildings of choice; many of the best-known little oprys occupy them. The Allegheny Jubilee (1934) in Sparta, N.C., removed some theater seats to make room for dancing during little-opry performances. The Palace Theatre (1939), extensively refurbished in 2000-01, has been the home of the Grapevine Opry in Grapevine, Tex., since the 1960s. And a live, two-hour radio broadcast of old-time mountain music and bluegrass airs from the Rex Theater (1948) in Galax, Va., every Friday night. Movie palaces are "stylish, preexisting buildings with plenty of space, comfortable seats, and often a stage," Williams says. "Add lights and a sound system, and performances can start right away."

Unless operators are able to buy the buildings, the oprys' sites aren't permanent. Some oprys charge admission; some don't. It's often hard to make money, so buying a building is a big challenge. Goldie Payne started the Owensboro opry house in a leaky building where the can lights were just that: "old green-bean cans spray-painted black," she says. It took Goldie and her husband, Charlie, 20 years to achieve opry permanence, but they eventually leased the Frederica Street theater and then managed to buy it. Oprys aren't "a static performance form," Davis says. "They frequently come and go." The Rand Ol' Opryhouse in Randolph County, N.C., was in an old movie theater for nine years until recently, when the building's new owners didn't renew the opry's lease.

No matter where little oprys are located, there's generally a lot of goodwill and a lot of good music. They're places where neighbors chat, 12-year-olds in family bands do professional sound checks, and folks fiddle like all get out. And there's the possibility that someday, someone you've seen up on stage will be recording in Nashville. Factor in a historic venue and you have a grand ol' opry-tunity for a memorable evening.

Ellen Ficklen is a writer living in Washington, D.C.

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