The opening credits begin to roll with an old bluesy roots-rock jam by The Band playing over some juxtaposing imagery of Pikeville, Kentucky. It's decaying infrastructure, baring a scant trace of a once vibrant coal mining community, is now frozen in time and devoid of charm. An open sore of desperation surrounded by a lush environmental majesty beneath the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains that would almost make one believe they’ve found providence.

The voice of a narrator begins over the imagery:

This is Pikeville, Kentucky...

Home to one of the country’s highest poverty rates with a population nearly ninety five percent white, and ninety nine percent Christian; Pikeville is also the most dangerous city in the entire state of Kentucky. On average, the community sees over six hundred property crimes and nearly forty violent crimes per year. That in relation to it’s tiny population leaves Pikeville’s residents susceptible to a one in three hundred chance of receiving monetary and/or bodily damages each and every year.

A once bustling and economically sound blue collar sanctuary, Pikeville, like much of the South, began to expierence a rapid decline in its standard of life due to many factors. Coal companies in the seventies began shutting thier doors to move out west where newer coal was easier and cheaper to mine. That, along with a growing anti-union sentiment led to many good paying jobs leaving the area- turning Pikeville into nothing more than a giant government handout project.

But for all it’s glaring deficiencies, Pikeville at least isn’t without character. There’s a charming little general store and grocery on the corner of Main Street and First Avenue that’s been functioning since the forties. Across the street a local pub where the few coal miners who still exist come to drink and talk politics and sports.

We see the inside of the smoky, dimly lit barroom. Sitting along the main bar counter are several older looking gentlemen- each dressed in overalls of one form or fashion- or the other. They're each drinking a draft beer and reflecting their local high school football team's past season. We pick up mid conversation.

"Well I'd sure as shit like ta' seen em' go further- they'da matched up purty good gainst' Saint X this year."

"Yep"
"Yas'ir yer' right."

The other two men simultaneously respond,

"See I think Coach mighta' had them boys lookin' ahead to the State Title game- but wuddya' do? Helluva season."

"Yas'ir- sho'was"
"Yep yer' right"

"But'cha know- aint a never gunna' be a season like em' boys had in '03."

"Nas'ir- sho'wont be"
"You aint never lied"

The narrator's voice chimes back in as the men continue their conversation inaudibly:

And Pikeville certainly isn't without it's pride. But I'm not talking about their regionally renowned 'Hillbilly Days' expo, or their recent dabbling with white nationalist groups. No, I'm talking about their Pikeville High School Football War Eagles and the young man who became immortalized as a community's dream of decency and success...

We're shown a fading billboard just outside of the high School's football stadium.

Oliver Stone Presents...

No Beds In Nazareth:


The Muddy Waters Story
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