Nashville is a place of legends. Jimi Hendrix once lived there, as well as Reese Witherspoon, Oprah Winfrey and just about every country music star you can think of. It’s also the home of Panhead Phil, custom bike builder extraordinaire, and a bona fide hero of Harley restoration. As owner of Music City Motorcycle, Phil’s work has been featured in magazines such as Iron Horse, Easyriders, IronWorks, American Iron and Car Kulture DeLuxe.

I was lucky enough to meet him during a recent trip to Nashville. Big, bald, tattooed and badass, he also happens to be a teddy bear. He greeted me with a big hug and showed me around the shop, which is also where he lives. He tour-guided me through some of his current projects and talked about his life. “Things are slow right now,” he honestly confessed. “The economy’s really messing everybody up.” To supplement his income, he’s been driving a tour bus across the US, toting the post-grunge rock band Saliva and a host of country music legends.

Music City Motorcycle is a mishmash of crazy biker history. Ancient parts, vintage bike frames, memorabilia and old posters are scattered here and there, skeletons of another era. From a corner, he pulled out a mint condition A.E.E. Highback King-Queen chopper seat from the 1960’s, which he’ll incorporate into some future project. Forks and headlights sometimes serve as lighting for the garage walls, along with banners, framed quotes and photos. In the small front window, a cardboard cutout of Kid Rock sports a Panhead Phil t-shirt.

Panhead Phil (aka Phil Hipsher) is an incredibly interesting guy. At fifty-one, he’s mellowed a lot over the years. Clean and sober since ‘92, he attends AA meetings on a regular basis. “You wouldn’t have wanted to know me in the old days,” he said. “You wouldn’t have liked me much.” That may be true, but I like the current day Panhead Phil an awful lot. Many other people do too. It’s hard not to like someone so direct and honest. His life is an open book of biker lore, inner-demon fighting and personal triumph. He’s had quite a ride, and he’s happy to share his stories.

Phil showed me a dismembered ’76 Shovelhead. The owner of the bike has terminal cancer, and the family wants Phil to restore the bike before the man dies, giving Motor City 90 days to complete the project. “We’ll do it in less than 60,” Phil said. These are the builds that give him the most satisfaction. “I’m more interested in family projects or a member of a family who’s had a death and wants a bike restored for sentimental reasons. Anything I can do to help a family out, or a man on the road. I’m more of a giver than a taker—that’s why I don’t own a million dollar shop. I give away a lot of stuff.”

People give to Phil as well. He treasures the Headwinds license plate that owner Joel Felty gave him. “I met him at the V-twin expo. He’s always been very nice to me—very cordial.”

He collects motorcycle jackets, some dating back to the 60’s, and still owns the first one he ever bought. Others he’s picked up along his travels, some have been given to him by pals.

Another good friend, for whom Phil worked on several bikes, saw him admiring a ’73 Moto Guzzi café racer that would have made Steve McQueen drool. “Do you want it?” she asked Phil. He answered yes, and she immediately bestowed it upon him. One good turn deserves another, and it’s easy to see that there’s been more turning in this man’s life than a revolving door.

I followed Panhead Phil up a small row of wooden steps, which led to a combination attic space and living area. Old stuff was stashed here and there—boxes and parts, antique bicycles that his father collected. In one corner was an old sofa, a TV and a coffee table, a place where Phil chills. He led me up another flight, threw open a metal hatch and up we climbed to his sunny, rooftop wonderland. The entire area was carpeted with Astroturf from the Vanderbilt University football field, and it offered a spectacular view of downtown Nashville. The space is dotted with chairs, small tables and a hammock, and it’s obvious that Phil loves his penthouse paradise.

We settled in and talked some more. Phil grew up in tiny Sparta, Tennessee, the son of a Baptist preacher and a schoolteacher. The town was segregated, but that didn’t stop Phil and his friends from crossing over the hill and visiting the “other side” of town. There, just over the ridge, lived a black man named George Gardenhire, a grouchy old guy who’d lost a leg in World War II. “He scared us kids to death,” Phil laughed. Gardenhire repaired lawn mowers, and was known for his mechanical aptitude. Phil overcame his fear and began visiting Gardenhire, asking him questions about mowers and their inner workings and learning loads in the process. He credits Gardenhire for piquing his interest in combustion engines. For Phil, it was a quick transition from mowers to motorcycles. “My first bike was a ’65 Honda Scrambler,” he recalled. “I rode it over to show George Gardenhire, and he just started laughing.” Phil’s next acquisition was a ’73 Ironhead, of which he said, “I pushed more than I rode.”

The bike bug had bitten him though, and one day he passed an old Panhead leaning against a shed. That shed belonged to the Renegades, and one of the club members saw him eyeballing it. “He said, ‘If you can fix it, you can have it,’” Phil recalled. “I ran home and got my mom’s emery board. I filed the points down, kicked that son of a bitch over and waved as I drove it away.”

That moment cemented Panhead Phil’s reputation and earned him his nickname. “I could fix shit no one else could fix,” he said.

What followed were a lot of wild years, when he drank and did drugs and got married a lot. He did a stint in the Navy and a couple of stints in prison, one for drugs, and one because of a fight over a woman. He was mad, bad and dangerous to know. After one wild night, and a near-miss collision, he realized that he wasn’t just harming himself. “What if I’d killed a kid?” he questioned. He began working hard on getting clean, and has been sober and straight for almost twenty years. It was a long, difficult journey.

“My mother died in 1990, before she saw me draw a sober breath,” Phil recalled. “I didn’t speak to my father for five years before my sobriety. He disowned me and wouldn’t have anything to do with me. When I was 3 years sober, he was able to accept me for what I was and I was able to accept him for what he was. We became a father and son again. I loved him for that, and I held him like a baby when he died.” Phil described those beginning days of recovery as “a transition period.” He divorced, tried different ways of living life, and looked for peace of mind. “I had to find my own way again,” he explained.

He did find his way, and while it’s easy to believe that he’s had one hellacious past, the present seems to bring him a lot of joy. Though he’s been tinkering for decades, he opened Music City Motorcycle eight years ago on the corner of Church and 17th Avenue North, and has stayed busy building and restoring bikes ever since. His clients have included a state senator, music industry folks and average Joes and Josephines. He sums up his success this way: “I’m honest but blunt and to the point. I don’t pull any punches, and if you ask me what I think, I’ll tell you. I’m also not afraid to tell you if I don’t know something, and I’ll help you find the answer.”

He possesses a heart as big as the state of Tennessee, and has been known to help out those in need. “I’m a biker as well as a shop owner. It’s not about the money. It’s about living the life and the joy of helping others and trying to be a man of this world.”

He has an amazing array of friends—even the security guard in the adjacent parking lot had nice things to say about him. Phil places a high value on friendship. A couple of times, he roped off the area around his shop for a big biker block party, an intimate gathering of about 1200 of his closest biker buddies, musicians, industry associates and other assorted friends. He set up a huge stage and provided music, food and fun. People still ask him when he’s hosting the next one.

Phil considers himself fortunate to have met many fantastic people over the years. He admires the work of Hot Rod Johnny and considers Andy Anderson an influence. “I admire Andy as much as anybody,” Phil said. “He’s kind of shy and under the radar, but he has a shop here in Nashville and he’s one of the top 25 builders in the nation.”

Another man Phil held in high esteem was Indian Larry. “God bless Larry’s soul,” Phil said. “What I admired about him was his integrity.” He was Phil’s mentor in more ways than one. “Larry was spiritual as well. He was sober nine years when he died.”

Phil shares a birthday with Abraham Lincoln, and counts him among those he admires, along with G. Gordon Liddy, Ben Hardy and Cliff Vaughs. Those last two are the men who created the choppers for the film Easy Rider, including Peter Fonda’s Captain America bike, which is noted for being the most recognizable motorcycle in history. “They built these incredible bikes, but they were black, so nobody mentioned them,” Phil said. “They deserve so much credit, but nobody knows who they are.”

Phil seems to have found peace at last, both personally and professionally. “I feel that over the years, I’ve been able to gain and honor the integrity among the industry.”

Phil completed his famous Black and Brass Bad Ass, a ’53 Panhead Bobber in 2008, and it was featured in numerous magazines. In 2010, he got an offer from a broker in LA, who bought it for a client in Japan. “Don’t know if it made it through the tsunami,” Phil lamented. “But I was pretty honored that it went to Japan, because they make some pretty cool stuff there.” His current ride is a beautiful 2002 Road King.

Phil’s newest project is a ’46 Knucklehead. “I’m really excited about building it,” he said. He’s also become involved in a company called NowRecords, who’ve opened up a small office in his shop. “We produce and record various genres of music, and it’s all for sale on our website.” Phil looked over the side of the roof and shouted down to someone on the street below. “She owes me money,” he explained. “I did some work on her bike.”

His shop and living space are in a rather tough section of Nashville, but he has an understanding with some of the shadier characters in the hood. “Every couple of years, I fire a gun into the air and have the same talk with them,” he said. “I just explain that I don’t care what they do, but that I have kids and they need to keep it away from here.” It seems to be an arrangement that works.

When I asked about his personal philosophy, Phil quietly said, ““Patience, tolerance, kindness and love.”

Phil sat back down in his white folding chair and crossed his tattooed arms. Looking out over the Nashville rooftops, reminiscing about his life, he appeared to be completely at peace.

“I’m a little rough around the edges,” he said, “but I’m a real marshmallow inside.”