O Country, Where Art Thou?

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Music is the heartbeat of Nashville.  It’s why we are the Music City.  Without it, this town would be a façade; like North Korea’s fake grocery stores and uninhabited high-rises, there would be bars and shops with guitars and cowboy boots and hats in the windows, but no sound to fill the walls.

Walking down Broadway on any given night, I would wager you could hear Midnight Rider or Chicken Fried being played at any given time – and you know what, that’s fine by me. The true hits need to be heard and appreciated.  Tourists need to take back a dose of what country music should sound like.  Now, having said that (in my Bernie Mac impression – RIP) “LISTEN TO ME AMERICA!” I am sad to say that country music has all but shriveled up like a forgotten foreskin on a cold hospital floor. Ouch.

As a native middle Tennessean and the son of a bluegrass and country music musician it hurts me to say this.  I’ve been exposed to just about every genre of music since I’ve been able to form a syllable.  Not that this bears any weight –look at Hank Williams III, but I think if we revived his grandpapa and let him listen to one hour of top 100 country radio, he would hang his head low, find his way to the top of the highest available building and prepare to return to the grave.  Yet just as he makes it to the roof, there’s  Chris Stapleton, Eric Church and Sturgill Simpson to reassure him there’s still a glimmer of hope.

Now, I’m not saying anything that anyone who knows Mr. Stapleton isn’t already aware of, but he’s been a jet stream of fresh air in mainstream country.  Granted, Church and several others have held it down since giants like Brooks and Dunn, Garth and Strait have become dormant, but the past five or six years have really felt like a candy shop shit-show that’s formed today’s genre.  Hell, I’ve even sought refuge in Chesney’s coconut coma throughout the first decade of this millennium.  But since then, it’s been a while since a true country song has given me the feels.

In fact, I remember the first time I cried hearing a country music song.  I was six years old sitting in Pizza Hut with my dad before a t-ball game and Tim McGraw’s Don’t Take the Girl came on.  I wouldn’t tell the waitress or dad why I was crying, mainly because I was embarrassed, but frankly I don’t think I even know exactly what moved me about that song, but it’s one of my favorites to this day.

The second time I cried was the first time I heard and saw the music video for Blake Shelton’s The Baby on CMT Countdown.  If you don’t feel anything listening to that song, don’t worry, you’re probably dead.  Now, as I sit here streaming today’s “country” hits, Keith Urban and Carrie Underwood’s latest and greatest – The Fighter is playing.  I do hate to evoke the Lord here, but Jesus Christ, I want to cry again. This shit is awful.

For those who make the pilgrimage from all parts of this great country to grace us with your presence at events such as CMA fest, do yourself a favor and skip the fest next year. Don’t buy the touristy cowboy hat from some shop on Broadway (or do, fuck it) and come to the Tin Pan South festival.  You will witness much less glitter and over-produced sound, and get an intimate glimpse into what writers from all over the region are up to – these folk keep the Music City gears turning.  They’re also responsible for most of the material I’m bashing here, but unfortunately, that’s the cash cow and the milk just doesn’t seem to run out.

Bob is the Music Columnist for SoBros Network and one of the Executive Producer’s of SoBros Jam Session. He’s a second generation musician, and has been exposed to every genre of music since he was able to form a syllable.

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