I’ve always been enamored with this building.

Tucked into Sylvan Park, quiet but full of character, with a big concrete lot on either side and stories you can feel just standing out front. Over the years, I’ve dreamt up a hundred things it could be—each version colored by some mix of food, music, warmth, and memory.

Recently, I saw a post from Olivia Herrick where she shared her own daydreams—an abandoned building series where she’s reimagined with a full restaurant concept—and I thought: Okay. Let’s actually run with this one. So here it is—New Town.

A love letter to the Nashville that raised us.

Not the new Nashville, but the New Town—a neighborhood riff on what this city used to be.

This isn’t a Brooklyn brand cosplaying old Nashville.
It’s Robert’s when you could park out front and didn’t have to elbow past Californians just to get a High Life.
It’s more like Honky Tonk Tuesdays at the American Legion before anyone knew about it.

Before the write-ups. Before the lines. Just music, cheap beer, and a room full of people who meant it.

This is the version I can’t stop thinking about. And maybe it never existed exactly like this. But that’s the beauty of New Town—it could.

A little bit diner, a little bit dive, a little bit holy.

NEW TOWN

320 44th Ave N - Sylvan Park, Nashville

Named after Sylvan Park’s original name, New Town is a nod to what came before — and a place to remember how good it still can be.

THE CONCEPT

Not a reinvention—a reclamation.

The name New Town comes from Sylvan Park’s original identity. But here, it’s a wink at what Nashville is becoming… and a quiet rebellion against what it’s lost.

THE INTERIOR

The lighting is low—but not “we’re hiding the food” low. More like warm, amber, everything-looks-good-on-you low. There’s a wall of framed photos near the back—no one famous, just regulars. The kind of faces that make a place feel lived in.

The bar is short, like bars used to be. No one’s measuring ice with a jigger. No one’s inflating a menu with 14-syllable drink names. There’s just a chalkboard, a bartender who knows what you mean by “whiskey,” and a martini glass already chilling.

There’s a jukebox in the corner that only plays what it wants. A coat rack near the door that’s always full. A soap dispenser in the bathroom that smells like powdered lemon. You’ll wonder if you’ve been here before—and maybe you have, in some other life.

WHY THE HORSE?

This place has horsepower.

Also:
– It kicks.
– It runs on instinct.
– And it doesn’t come when called.

Just like New Town.

THE EXPERIENCE : THE VELVET ROOM

Behind the heavy red curtain sits The Velvet Room, a moody backroom stage that hosts Backroom Sounds every Thursday night.

It’s all analog, all intimate. No flashy production—just a mic, a tip jar, and a cocktail named after the night’s featured act.

THE MENU

Comfort food, but with edge. Seasonal Southern ingredients, done diner-style but elevated.

Buttermilk Cornbread Madelines with local honey
Smoked Trout Melt with pickled celery + aioli on rye
Charred Okra Caesar with cornbread croutons
Braised short ribs over cheesy grits with tomato jam
Espresso Custard Pie with salt-butter whipped cream

SATURDAY NIGHTS: LOT REVIVAL

“The lot is holy if you let it be.”

Every Saturday from 6–10PM, the big cement lot becomes a makeshift venue for Lot Revival—a neighborhood tradition that feels more like church than concert. Folding chairs. String lights. A makeshift stage. Beer truck in one corner, meat smoker in the other.

Live music all night.
Never over-produced. Always felt.

Americana at golden hour. Real country under stars. Swampy blues as night deepens.

Two acts per night: one rising voice, one hometown legend. Every so often, the local church choir joins in for a surprise encore. Always unplugged. Always reverent.

The Sacred Shift:
At 10PM sharp, the lights dim. The chairs stack. The sound fades. Everyone leaves quietly, making space for Sunday. The spirit and the smell of rosemary smoke lingers in the gravel.

JUKE JOINT CHAPEL

Sundays | 10AM–Noon

No sermons. No dogma. Just vinyl hymns, old soul, and a quiet honoring of what it means to gather. The curtains open. The jukebox plays Mahalia Jackson. The coffee’s on.

Communion looks like biscuits & jam.
You can cry if you need to. Or just sit.
This is church, for the ones who don’t know where else to go.

This is the Nashville you miss, built by people who actually lived it.
A little greasy. A little sacred. A lot of vinyl.

New Town is where you go to feel something.
To remember when Nashville had soul.

Come for the short ribs. Stay for the choir.
Leave with a story and maybe a hangover.

If this were real I would absolutely keep designing…

– A "staff handbook" filled with fake policies like “Booth 4 is for breakups only.”
– A kids menu that just says “No.”
– Neon Sign that reads: “ALMOST CLOSED. COME IN ANYWAY.”
– Matchbooks that say “Light one. Leave one.”
– Napkins with lipstick quotes and whiskey wisdom “Wipe your mouth. Then say what you mean.”
– Jukebox Manual “Repeat: Not recommended. But common.”
– New Town Candle — scent: smoke, coffee, vinyl, cheap perfume.
– Drink Menu that says “Make it a double: $4. Make it a mistake: free.”
– New Town Tarot Deck : Pull a card: The Bar Tab, The Ghost of Booth Four, The Last Song on the Jukebox.

NEW TOWN