Cracking Country on Chandler Street


After brief visits to the DCU Center and the Hanover Theatre, we were at a loss as to where to go next. Teddie pointed the car down Main Street and we continued on. Because she was a native of Worcester, we leaned on her for advice: “where should we go next?” I asked. We were stopped at a red light, and Teddie noticed the street sign. “Oh, Chandler Street!” she exclaimed; we took a quick right and began our journey.

Teddie informed us that the area around Chandler Street is not one of Worcester’s safest, so we came to the conclusion that we should roll down the windows and blast country music on the radio. While the music attracted no more than just wry stares of passersby, it opened us up to the outside environment.

Mixed buildings lined the street. A perfectly preserved five story brick building, straight out of the late twentieth century and complete with a mix of red, green and yellow facets, stood alongside run-down and abandoned storefronts. Polished BMWs pulled out of parking lots into traffic of old Toyota Corollas and Honda Civics, showing the neighborhood’s diversity. An ambulance blared by us, not even waiting for cars to pull over; the vehicle’s siren stung my ears like a child bawling at the top of his lungs.

As we stopped at another red light, cigarette smoke drifted into the car. Latino music blared over Craig Morgan’s voice, mixed with the shouts of men arguing on the street and a woman scolding her children. Car horns shrieked as near accidents were avoided: a white Chevy Lumnia with no hubcaps skidded into the middle of the intersection, nearly blowing through the red light and colliding with incoming traffic. A young woman strung her guitar on a street corner, and I winced as each chord was like the purring of a dying cat.

Ken Jones’ Tire Supply, Worcester House of Pizza, and Kirsch Liquors were some of the drag’s main attractions. Taking advantage of the unseasonably warm temperatures, an old man sat outside the Liquor store on a beach chair, arms folded across his chest as he observed. A woman pushed a shopping cart, full of cereal boxes, blankets, and newspapers; she leaned on the handle as her life support.

As we approached Park Street, where we would turn off to our next destination, I realized that Chandler Street is the epitome of a diverse city like Worcester. One could not imagine the collection of people and what they are doing at any second. While country music might not be a first choice of music for many of the neighborhood’s residents, we fit right in as Blake Shelton screamed his final notes out our windows.

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