It is Wednesday afternoon, and I'm standing on a corner in Nashville, jet-lagged and bewildered. I'm wearing a hat I've just bought, and I feel self-conscious. There is music coming from everywhere: from every bar, from all four corners of the intersection and from down the road in every direction. Sometimes, I think, they must just want the music to stop.

"Excuse me," says a stranger who has paused at the roadside, "but I think I might recognise you."

"Really?" I say.

"Are you a musician?" he asks.

"Well, actually," I say, "I am in a band."

"OK," he says. "What's the name of the band?"

I tell him. He realises he does not recognise me at all.

Our lead singer comes out of a boot shop, holding a bag.

I tell him what happened. "It's probably the hat," I say. "I just look like a musician."

"It's not the hat – it's the wristband," he says, referring to our red Americana Music festival wristbands, allowing us access to gigs and the awards ceremony, at which I will unexpectedly well up while listening to Loretta Lynn sing Coal Miner's Daughter later on. We are one of a few bands to travel here from Britain to perform under the auspices of the Americana Music Association UK. We're honoured and excited and, in my case, shit-scared.

After the awards, we walk from one venue to another, to see bands. At 11pm, we stop at a bar on our way to another bar. There is a band playing downstairs, and another upstairs.

"Did you ever think you'd see this much music in 36 hours?" the accordion player says.

"I didn't even know I could take this much music," I say, dropping on to a bar stool.

A young man in a baseball cap leans across the bar and says his name is Mike. "Are you guys in a band?" he says. He asks us where we're playing. We tell him.

"Good venue," he says. "I might come along to that." He asks what time we're on. We tell him.

"Midnight," he says, his smile fading. "OK."

We do not expect our showcase spot to be well-attended – no one here has heard of us – but when we get to the venue at 9pm, there are only seven people in the room. Over the course of the evening, the crowd swells to about 50, and then dies back. Even so, I remain shit-scared.

Our 35-minute slot goes by in a flash. While packing up, I think consoling thoughts: you can say you played in Nashville, and hardly anyone saw all those mistakes you made.

As I lug my banjo off the stage, someone sticks out a hand for me to shake. I don't recognise him at first, but his face seems strangely familiar. It's Mike, the guy from the bar.

"That was awesome!" he says.

The week ends with another gig: an afternoon barbecue at which all the UK bands are performing. We're first up, introduced by none other than Whispering Bob Harris. Before the third song, I drop my capo through a crack in the stage floor, bringing proceedings to a halt.

Later, while watching Emily Barker and the Red Clay Halo close out the afternoon after a day of beer and sun, I reflect on the week: on rehearsing on the back porch of our rented bungalow while train whistles keened in the distance; on the generosity of musicians; on Mike from the bar; on my lost capo; and on Loretta Lynn.

I experience an unfamiliar sensation: my heart is full. I decide to call my wife.

She answers on the first ring. "Are you mad?" she says. "It's X Factor!"

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