Monday, May 23, 2005
God Loves Cuntry Gals
Last week's Country Music Awards trundled another year's worth of what's wrong with America across the stage. This year's award roster rings like a muffled bell—not a one has enough sustain to last half as long as even Shania Twain.
Isn't it bad enough that Country has to bear a direct relationship to presidential politics, but that she has to also represent America in the drabbest, most cornpone terms? See, Country is a lady some disrespectful folk might call "easy." Lotsa bastards mother's a whore, though, but we still get pissed when she's abused. Right now, Country's being made to dance dressed all gussy in faded gingham.
That skirt of Kenny Chesney is so drab. Gretchen Wilson's blouse can only fit a supermodel, but Country's blouse of Gretchen Wilson is a threadbare linen. And what the hell is up with Big & Rich? Surely they'd get shot if they showed up at an Arizona cathouse lookin' like they do. They should be scraped from Country's shoes.
Today's performers have copped out so thoroughly that no one except Big Media and white Middle America are even paying attention. Hopefully the rest of the world isn't, because they are sure to get the wrong impression. The main problem is that the stars all seem as if they would be stars no matter what they tried: modeling, Broadway, internet porn—they just settled for Country Music because the work is easier.
Where would Ashley Judd be if she sang instead of acted? On the Billboard with her mother and sister, you can be sure. Take America's sweethearts: Faith Hill and Tim McGraw—either of them could've been movie stars, and anyone else—even that St. Lunatic Nelly—could make their music (as long as it was recorded in Nashville.) Terri Clark and Cowboy Troy could be selling jeans to anorexic preteens. Even LeAnn Rimes, who I once thought as God's Gift to Country, has retired her pipes in favor of MC'ing CMT's version of American Idol. It is so sad that there is no Country equivalent to Mary J. Blidge in the business today: someone who would have to sing or die. Perhaps those artists have starved in this age of Crossover...
Though I've never really proclaimed myself a Country fan, I can still see where she got her soul. I believe Carter & Cash gave her soul while Cline & Williams gave her brith. Some say Crossover killed her soul, but I disagree. I've been digging Crossover since before it was named. First Bob Dylan and the Band, then the Grateful Dead and Eagles—all brought that draw-from-the-roots primal spirit of Country into the underground rock of the Sixties. They spawned a generation of Country-Rock the next decade; in the Eighties, Waylon & Willie pimped Country to Pop, furrowing a litter of Crossover pups. The Oak Ridge Boys might've been the runts, but Garth and Shania were the pick, weren't they?
Why did Rock quit flirting with Country after that? Surely the lady hasn't aged into a raggedy hag? Suddenly it became easy to rock a little Country, but it became impossible to mellow out the Rock Music. The only successful group after that Urban Cowboy, quasi-disco faze was the Replacements. Frontman Paul Westerberg could pepper up some damn forward punk with a crazy splash (I know, there were a few unsustained attempts, what with X and Violent Femmes, to infuse Country into Punk, but in my opinion we were just left with a gritty salad dressing that you couldn't even pour on radishes.) I mean, Rock is even foraging in Latin American garbage looking for some miraculous tonic. Picture a duet between Linda Rondstadt and David Byrne—still, I'd pay to see that before buying Kieth Urban's album!
Thank God for Jack White and the White Stripes. As much as anyone wants to argue with me, the White Stripes are NOT Rock 'N Roll. They are Blues first and foremost: a sound like the thundering hangover from getting caught in a fight at the roadhouse after too much white lightning. That is what Country should be too: that dirty, guilty feeling from missing church 'cause you were up way too late last night cheating with your best friend's wife. Black revived that sleazy feeling on her majesty Loretta Lynn's album, Van Lear Rose last year.
Yet this is all not to say that there still aren't many who know how to treat a lady. I am anxiously awaiting Dwight Yoakam's new album, Blame The Vain, to be released next month. Ricky Scaggs keeps making that delicious bluegrass blend. Dolly Parton can do just whatever the fuck she wants. Any comments, additions, suggestions or whatever is greatly welcome. Please add your comments by clicking the link below.
Isn't it bad enough that Country has to bear a direct relationship to presidential politics, but that she has to also represent America in the drabbest, most cornpone terms? See, Country is a lady some disrespectful folk might call "easy." Lotsa bastards mother's a whore, though, but we still get pissed when she's abused. Right now, Country's being made to dance dressed all gussy in faded gingham.
That skirt of Kenny Chesney is so drab. Gretchen Wilson's blouse can only fit a supermodel, but Country's blouse of Gretchen Wilson is a threadbare linen. And what the hell is up with Big & Rich? Surely they'd get shot if they showed up at an Arizona cathouse lookin' like they do. They should be scraped from Country's shoes.
Today's performers have copped out so thoroughly that no one except Big Media and white Middle America are even paying attention. Hopefully the rest of the world isn't, because they are sure to get the wrong impression. The main problem is that the stars all seem as if they would be stars no matter what they tried: modeling, Broadway, internet porn—they just settled for Country Music because the work is easier.
Where would Ashley Judd be if she sang instead of acted? On the Billboard with her mother and sister, you can be sure. Take America's sweethearts: Faith Hill and Tim McGraw—either of them could've been movie stars, and anyone else—even that St. Lunatic Nelly—could make their music (as long as it was recorded in Nashville.) Terri Clark and Cowboy Troy could be selling jeans to anorexic preteens. Even LeAnn Rimes, who I once thought as God's Gift to Country, has retired her pipes in favor of MC'ing CMT's version of American Idol. It is so sad that there is no Country equivalent to Mary J. Blidge in the business today: someone who would have to sing or die. Perhaps those artists have starved in this age of Crossover...
Though I've never really proclaimed myself a Country fan, I can still see where she got her soul. I believe Carter & Cash gave her soul while Cline & Williams gave her brith. Some say Crossover killed her soul, but I disagree. I've been digging Crossover since before it was named. First Bob Dylan and the Band, then the Grateful Dead and Eagles—all brought that draw-from-the-roots primal spirit of Country into the underground rock of the Sixties. They spawned a generation of Country-Rock the next decade; in the Eighties, Waylon & Willie pimped Country to Pop, furrowing a litter of Crossover pups. The Oak Ridge Boys might've been the runts, but Garth and Shania were the pick, weren't they?
Why did Rock quit flirting with Country after that? Surely the lady hasn't aged into a raggedy hag? Suddenly it became easy to rock a little Country, but it became impossible to mellow out the Rock Music. The only successful group after that Urban Cowboy, quasi-disco faze was the Replacements. Frontman Paul Westerberg could pepper up some damn forward punk with a crazy splash (I know, there were a few unsustained attempts, what with X and Violent Femmes, to infuse Country into Punk, but in my opinion we were just left with a gritty salad dressing that you couldn't even pour on radishes.) I mean, Rock is even foraging in Latin American garbage looking for some miraculous tonic. Picture a duet between Linda Rondstadt and David Byrne—still, I'd pay to see that before buying Kieth Urban's album!
Thank God for Jack White and the White Stripes. As much as anyone wants to argue with me, the White Stripes are NOT Rock 'N Roll. They are Blues first and foremost: a sound like the thundering hangover from getting caught in a fight at the roadhouse after too much white lightning. That is what Country should be too: that dirty, guilty feeling from missing church 'cause you were up way too late last night cheating with your best friend's wife. Black revived that sleazy feeling on her majesty Loretta Lynn's album, Van Lear Rose last year.
Yet this is all not to say that there still aren't many who know how to treat a lady. I am anxiously awaiting Dwight Yoakam's new album, Blame The Vain, to be released next month. Ricky Scaggs keeps making that delicious bluegrass blend. Dolly Parton can do just whatever the fuck she wants. Any comments, additions, suggestions or whatever is greatly welcome. Please add your comments by clicking the link below.
