With Sufjan Stevens and My Brightest Diamond at the Fox Theatre September 20th, Menomena at Smith’s Olde Bar September 22nd, and Ratatat at The Earl October 2nd , there’s no doubt Georgia’s on my mind. Actually, as natives of the state should have noticed, the city of Atlanta is on my mind. However, it‘s also a six-hour drive through traffic and clay mounds away (not exactly the scenic, moonlit hayride Django Reinhardt‘s “Georgia on My Mind “ would suggest), and though it’s on my mind, so is this month’s rent.

But as it stands, the versatility of this song is inexhaustible. Its significance to others varies not only in content but also delivery. Ask any fan of the television show Quantum Leap and they’ll lament the copyright issues behind its elimination from the DVD. Ask a fan of American Idol and they’ll extol Taylor Hicks. Then, of course, there are those who’d never heard the song until they saw Jamie Foxx’s rendition in the Ray Charles biopic Ray.

The covers are numerous, and while there’s quite a difference between, say, Billie Holiday’s “Georgia on My Mind” and Michael Bolton’s version, most of them are painfully magnificent. James Brown, in exuberant James Brown fashion, can’t help but pause in the middle and cry “tell me you got your sex machine” before finally ending the song with a scream. Maceo Parker, in what’s considered one of his most soulful performances, does “Georgia on My Mind” more justice than (I believe) any other artist. Then again, that has a great deal to do with the state I’m in, both physically and emotionally. After all, if you ask someone who just had their heart shattered what their favorite Beck album is they’ll most likely take their lips off the bottle of Jack long enough to mumble Sea Change, even if they spent hundreds on a record player for the sole purpose of listening to Odelay on vinyl. In any case, Maceo Parker’s version, while most touching, is far from my favorite; that title belongs to Willie Nelson’s cover of “Georgia,” because in the end it’s a bittersweet sensation to be so close and yet so far from one of the largest music hubs in the country.

Initially I had meant for this to be a nobody-loves-us post, a grievance regarding the state of indie music, whatever that means, in Florida. And the reason this post was about Atlanta instead of, say, Athens is because Atlanta is usually the furthest South my most beloved bands are willing to go.

It seems as though Florida, as far as indie artists are concerned, is the unsightly flaccid member of the United States. We’re the unmentionables, the musically impotent. We’ve got punk. We’ve got jam bands. But I live in a city without a single venue dedicated to blues or techno. Granted, this year Miami opened Arturo’s, its first official jazz club, owned by famed trumpeter Arturo Sandoval. And when it comes down to it, we do have our smatterings of Indie venues across the state (The Club Down Under in Tallahassee, The Social in Orlando, The Freebird in Jacksonville). The thing is, I can’t shake the feeling that artists’ ventures into this sunshine state are more a matter of novelty than any attempt to please or cultivate an alleged fan base, an escape from the cold more than a submission to public demand.

Xiu Xiu, Man Man, and Tapes n’ Tapes (pattern much?) recently announced they’d venture down the Flor pipe throughout October. A Tribe Called Quest is coming to the Hard Rock Café in less than a month, which is located right in the center of Downtown Disney World. Somehow I’m having difficulty believing it’s for the fans more than the roller coasters, even for grown men.

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