Joseph Martin. Nashville, TN. est. 2024
Volume 12.
When I was in fourth grade, my mom promised me that if I got straight A’s and was a really, really, really good boy, I could get a dirt bike. At the time, all I wanted to be was an extreme athlete. I lived and breathed the X Games. I cherished those two weeks in the summer and winter when I would sit in front of the TV and watch in awe as Tony Hawk, Kelly Slater, Shaun White, and Jeremy McGrath flew and flipped with the grace of a gazelle. Motocross, BMX, skateboarding, snowboarding, surfing, you name it. Like Ralphie with his Red Rider BB gun on Christmas, I was obsessed. I loved it all but was most obsessed with the dirt bikes. We didn't have snowy mountains or ten-foot waves in Mississippi, ya know?
After studying hard all year to get straight A’s and doing my best to keep my yap shut in class to avoid any negative marks on my report cards, the day had finally come. Time to reel in my prize tuna. The day I would mount my moto stallion and ride off into the sunset in a swell of golden glory. Except, that moto stallion never reared his head. Instead, I walked outside to see a brand new two-seater Yerf Dog Go-Cart. The wise woman she is, my mom knew I would “shoot my eye out” with a dirt bike, and she was probably right. Considering the wild little daredevil I was, I probably would have done a lot more than shoot my eye out. At first, I was more than disappointed and livid, and to be honest, I still am a little, but the Yerf Dog was what was right for me. I ripped and roared around the neighborhood in that thing like a little Evil Knievel. Before I knew it, the initial despair faded and was quickly eclipsed by an enthusiasm brighter than any sun I could have imagined. I traded one dream for another.
If you have been a reader of my Substack for a while, you have heard me refer to my search for a shop space in San Diego. It was my dream. My dirt bike. After much thought and consideration, I determined Nashville was the best place to launch my business. I traded my dreams of cruising to work down the Pacific Coast Highway for dreams of backstage access at the Ryman and Grand Ole Opry. Yes, yes, I know. Nashville is NOT San Diego, but it is, without a doubt, my Yerf Dog.
San Deigo was to be an entirely selfish pursuit. California. Palm Trees. Sunshine. Beaches. Impeccable weather. The list goes on. As a Mississippi boy, it was a fantasy. Magnetic almost. A world of pure imagination captured ever so brilliantly in the lyrics of The Beach Boys songs and on the silver screen in films like Point Break. One I have attached ideas and dreams to since I was a kid listening to The Eagles and singing along to Hotel California in the back of my dad's car. It was like an oasis on the horizon. One that always seemed just out of reach. Until it wasn't. It all became very possible. I could have made it happen. I probably could have pulled it off, but it was also sort of a mirage. A mirage that carried an equal amount of hope and delusion. I was holding on to this dream I had spun up in my head since I first visited San Diego in February 2022. This romantic idea of California and a do-no-wrong sort of denial. When I started to look at things from a business perspective, I realized I was probably going to shoot my eye out.
Nashville, on the other hand, is to be a pure business decision. Between the loads of friends, connections, and burgeoning potential market for hats, it was a no-brainer. Not to mention, there is no one operating at the level I aspire to in Nashville, and California is basically a hotbed for hatmakers. I would really have had to sing for my supper in San Diego. Not knowing many people there was going to be a huge hurdle. Personally, socially, and from a business perspective. This would have looked like a much greater push on all fronts social media and online marketing. Which, in reality, could have been a huge success or a huge failure. I don’t know. All I know is that it felt like I was basically showing up with a knife to a gunfight, and I think it would have been a lot harder to get this hat plane off the ground. In Nashville, it will be a much more boots-on-the-ground approach. Instead, I feel like I am walking into a gunfight with an M2 Browing ready to mow them dow, and I feel more adequately equipped to see this thing soar like I feel it has the potential to.
As of last night, I have officially signed my shop lease in Nashville and expect to sign my apartment lease sometime today. I am packing up my tiny little hatmaking kingdom and moving in less than two weeks’ time to a bit bigger kingdom. One I couldn’t be more excited about. The shop will be in Edgehill Village, just South of downtown, in a renovated historic manufacturing building. Think exposed brick walls, iron beams, and such. I have no doubt that it is going to be a VIBE. My neighbors will include RRL Ralph Lauren, Billy Reid, Aesop, Consider The Wldflwrs, Barcelona, and Sadie’s, among others. Not to mention, I will be two blocks off Music Row with some of the biggest music labels in town offices just across the street. I’m really not sure I could have found a better space.
This all happened rather quickly. After a business trip to Nashville/Oxford in late February, this whole Nashville idea snowballed and grew faster than I ever expected. I think it was part of my buddies Cole and Jack’s scheme all along, but they may tell you differently haha. Before I knew it, it had replaced the San Diego dream. Also, it made sense to go ahead and make the jump because of my next two pop-ups.
I have yet to announce them on socials, but I am doing a pop-up with Blue Delta Jeans in Oxford at Double Decker Festival on April 26th and 27th and at SOHO House in Nashville on June 4th alongside several established and up-and-coming country music artists. More to come on this later, but had I not pulled the trigger and decided to make the move now, I would have spent nearly 100 hours driving back and forth across the country over the next month and a half. Basically, I had to go NOW.
As I am making all the arrangements to move, I am sort of in my feelings. I really have come to love Arizona, and I am going to miss it and my Arizona family tremendously, but I also recognize the gaping opportunity before me. It's a mosaic of sentiments, no doubt, but that's how it goes: “Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony, that’s life.”
Much like the dirt bike, I still romanticize San Diego, but who's to say I won't end up there down the road? Maybe I'll open another shop there years from now. Who knows. That is the plan, after all. I merely want Nashville to be the flagship of the brand as I build and expand into new territories. As I grow the business, introduce more products (in fact, the Cowboy George photo above is to be our first bandana) and bring on more help, I want to see my hats and garments in stores nationwide. All across the world, for that matter. In reality, though, it all starts in Nashville. Feet on the ground, moving this thing forward one day at a time.
I ended my last Substack by saying I have never been more excited in my life. While that is true, I also have never been more terrified in my life. This all feels a bit surreal, and signing that lease last night felt like I was signing my life away. After being paralyzed by fear and virtually accomplishing nothing last week, I woke up Monday morning and told myself I was done with fear. This is what I asked for. This is what I dreamed of. How will I let fear rule the roost when it is all finally coming to fruition? I WON’T. No more letting fear dictate my next move. Is there a risk? No doubt. But what is the alternative? To not do it? And be filled with regret and longing? That scares me even more. I am determined to march through the fear with my head held high. I may stumble and fall, but I am making the promise to myself to keep getting up and trying again. It may take a lot of Phoebe Bridgers, Lorde, and Taylor Swift to get me through, but it WILL happen. I promise.
Sure, I can't help but think about what happens if this all falls apart. If this thing doesn't pop off like I hope it will, then I am reminded of the Erin Hanson poem my aunt recently shared with me.
“There is freedom waiting for you, On the breezes of the sky, And you ask “What if I fall?” Oh, but my darling, What if you fly?”