Liz Riggs

“Swoony, sexy, and melancholy. . . a tattered love letter to youth, music, and Nashville.” —Daisy Alpert Florin, author of My Last Innocent Year In the sweaty music clubs and late-night house parties of Nashville, an aspiring songwriter tries to make friends, find love, and write songs—without losing herself Alison Hunter came to Nashville for the music, a town where everyone—herself included—wants to make it in the business. Most nights, you’ll find her at The Venue, the kind of sweaty Nashville spot that’s on the circuit for bands like Bon Iver and Death Cab. Sounds glamorous—but not for Al, who stamps hands at the door with Julien, the quiet coworker who treats her like a little sister. She bums drinks from the tattooed bartender and watches the bands, wondering if she’ll ever finish a song of her own after her disastrous attempt to play in public. After a once-in-a-century storm hits and her lead singer ex-boyfriend shows up at the door, Al finds herself stuck in a perpetual cycle of late nights, new flings, and old flames. Obsessed with the disappearance of a troubled indie star, she slowly starts to lose it herself—until one reckless night threatens to derail everything. As propulsive and sexy as the rasp of a static-driven amp, Lo Fi is an open-hearted tribute to the messy truth of the creative life, the clash of lust and love, and the yearning to be heard.

A Novel

Lo Fi

Amelia

She thought I'd like the town,  but mostly I liked the boys. The baristas who always had a day's worth of scruff and Saturday nights free, the skinny guys in leather jackets drinking two-for-one beers at the dive bar down the street, the songwriters with vintage instruments who weren't famous themselves but wrote songs for people who were, the drummers with sleepy eyes and callused palms, the guitarists with front-man energy and long fingers, the lead singers with full lips and perfect voices and charm in overdrive. Even the law students drinking at the bars on Division and staying until last call with their flavored vodka and low-calorie beers, the bartenders who actually played the drums, played the drums for a friend, played the cello, played the upright bass, played the banjo, played pedal steel, played the fiddle, played the session fiddle, played the harp. I loved them all. None of them had real jobs, but they all had good hair.

I fell for Nick — and all those boys in all those bands — the same way I fell in love with music: some combination of melody and chemistry, all of it crystallizing into sharp little memories over the course of days or months or years. The bands don't ever love you back, of course. They say they do, but what they really love, mostly, is just that you love them. 

Most of the bands will split up. In the moment, of course, it doesn't feel that way — even though we know better, even though all the evidence points that way. No one does this shit until they die. The lead singers sometimes disappear completely; the guitar players join other bands, become session musicians, backup guitarists, producers. Others will thread themselves into a different fabric of the city, settle down as baristas or bartenders or graphic designers or stay-at-home dads. But here, right now, it's hard to imagine any of us ever doing anything but this. 

Lo Fi quotes

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