Why I Like Country Music

I like country music. I really, honestly do. These days, with all the genre-bending tunes coming off the internet, radio and MTV (When MTV actually, you know, plays music videos), it’s hard to file your musical tastes by type anymore. When you ask people what they like to listen to, this is what most people say (ok, almost every person born north of the Mason-Dixon Line says):

“Oh, just about anything. Except country, of course.”

What the hell? How did America’s second-best musical export (after rock and roll; fuck you, Paul McCartney, we got there first, deal with it) become the red-headed stepchild of the musical family?

I guess maybe it isn’t true everywhere. I hang out with the fantasy/gamer/nerd crowd a lot, and they have about as much in common with pickup trucks and beer halls as Travis Tritt has with Ninja Scroll. But damn, a group that seems to like finding the appeal in the unlikely (a lot of them listen to Journey, and how much sense does that make?) categorically condemning an entire genre of music? My supposition is that none of them have ever actually listened to any of the good stuff.

To be sure, there are some shitty country musicians out there. Every musical genre (hell, every style period) has its wannabes, its really-shouldn’ts, its pretty poseurs and its that-just-plain-sucks-who-gave-this-asshole-a-shot musical wankers. But there is some good stuff out there; I know, I listen to it. So, here’s a bit of background…

Historically speaking, country music’s pedigree comes from Scots-Irish settlers fleeing famine and war to settle in the American Appalachians. They brought their songs with them; tunes depicting the simple loves, losses, and life of a farmer and working man (starting to sound vaguely familiar?) They sung them to the accompaniment of fiddles, pipes and occasionally accordions (again, remind you of anything?). As these settlers spread, they picked up other influences; blues from the Delta, mariachi and classical Spanish guitar work from the south of Texas. Thus, the sound and feel of what we now call “country” (in Bob Dylan’s day, when the hippies got hold of it, people called it “folk”) music was born. You can even hear the similarities in New-Age Celtic themed music; If you don’t believe me, play Lorenna McKennit’s “All Soul’s Night” and Steve Earle’s “Copperhead Road” back-to-back and tell me they don’t spring from the same source.

And there’s some good music to be found if you know where to look. I’m not going to tell you to move to Houston, buy a huge Stetson and a five-pound belt buckle with a “Bud Light FOREVER” logo on it (I don’t own either and personally like living where it rains once in a while), but take a deep breath and actually listen to some country for a change.

Country music is the voice of the common man. I mean the real common man; the flawed but noble beer-drinking pickup driving working stiff. His wants are simple, his problems easy to understand. And personally, listening to someone lament his lost wife or anorexic wallet (or terrible hangover, who hasn’t been there) resonates with me a lot more than some anorexic combed-over hipster fuck making neo-darkwave protest tunes about starving Somalis. And if one more teenaged pop-tart writes a song about her high school boyfriend and even ATTEMPTS to make it sound like it matters to the world, I’ll put her in a Texas cage match with Bonnie Raitt and gleefully watch Ms. New Thing get her plastic ass firmly kicked.

Don’t condemn something you’ve only nibbled on; get into the meat of it and then decide if it’s not for you. Just stop slamming one of my musical genres please, unless you want me to do more of the same. I’ve heard plenty of metal / pop / techno / emo / hip-hop / whatever musicians that scream “I suck, please shoot me” whenever they open their pie holes to “sing”. But I like parts of all those musical styles. I give everything a fair shake before dismissing it. And so should you. Who knows, you might find something you really like that you never knew existed.

Personal Note: All this support and brotherly love does not mean I’m against the idea of forming a posse and lynching Billy Ray Cyrus. Hell, I’ll drive the getaway car. I like championing some pretty weird causes, but some things are beyond the fucking pale. “Achy Breaky Heart” indeed…