|
Recently, on a long drive south, we paused halfway to spend 24 hours in Nashville. There are some places that hold so much gravity, lore, and mystique that there’s no way to understand them without being there in person. Especially music cities. Nashville is every bit one of those places, like New Orleans.  To be quite honest, I had no expectations. But I came away…kind of in love with it all.
This surprised me, because despite my deep love for roots, folk, country, and Americana music in general, I’ve never really been into the whole Nashville thing. I always associated it with tacky ‘90s country schlock that you’d hear on the radio; later, the association became more about the unbearable “sameness” of the sound and, on occasion, its political pandering. Also the forced nostalgia of a simpler, rosier lifestyle that never was. Also the listing of things that seem like a starter pack for a Certain Type of Person, like, This is the kind of beer I drink, this is the kind of woman I like, this is the kind of vehicle I drive, etc. Ooh, and also the fake otherness and persecution that often accompanies the lists. Those people drink X kind of beverage, but I drink Y kind of beverage–see, that makes me a Certain Type of Person, unlike those Other Types of People who look down on the Certain Type of Person I am, and you and I are the same Certain Type of Person *together*, which means THEY look down on US, all because we drink X beverage. (Significant exception: Tom T. Hall’s list in “I Love,” which is as wholesome as it is ridiculous.) Ooh, there’s also the pithy wordplay and awful double meanings. So many of those lyrics are so corny that it’s actually painful to listen to. Especially in the context of the above. (Significant exception: George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” which is basically the perfect country song.) I know, I know, you’re already yelling at me. But I’m not talking about all country music–not even all or most Nashville music. I’m talking about anything bearing those peculiar, particular Nashvillian flavors that give people headaches. You know…That Sound. Because don’t get me wrong, there’s a ton of country that I love, especially the music made by rough, lovable weirdos. It’s just that the stuff that’s always put me off has felt, shall we say, overrepresented in terms of exposure. One of the curiosities of Nashville that I’ll never understand is that there's a lot of great songs that are shrouded in bad taste. Bad hair, terrible denim, cheesy production choices, inauthentic cowboy hattery, etc… But when you strip all that away, there's this beautiful or haunting or painful song hiding in there. You need the calm of a quiet morning on the farm, an acoustic guitar, and a full voice, and daaaaamn there it is. (Significant exception: Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart".) Extremely important side note: My beloved partner feels the opposite. She loves '90s country *in particular*. And as a child, she was a member of the Billy Ray Cyrus fan club during the "Achy Breaky Heart" era. To demonstrate my great love for her, I do not judge her for these things. Anyway, that burying of a good song happens because of the dreaded Machine. You know what I’m talking about–that particular Nashville sound and vibe that comes from inhaling creativity and talent, grinding it up, and spitting it out the other side as packaged, mass-appeal musical ground beef. Sigh. Fortunately, there's a new crop of tremendous music coming out of Nashville (or thereabouts) these days that I really dig–artists who are more Americana than "Nashville" (IMHO) and sound amazing and bring gravity to their songwriting and performances. Brandi, Jason Isbell, Brittney Spencer, Allison Russell, and the like. It's a deep pool. And, I should admit, I’ve always felt a little bad about my broad dislike of Nashvillish things. Like maybe part of my saltiness is that I don't "get" something about it; it's like there's this big, silly, gaudy party, and if you decide to attend and buy in, it's super fun, and if you don't, you call the cops and make a noise complaint. And I'm the incredibly unfun neighbor. I suppose some of the silliness is the point. So much country music is intentionally tacky. It’s kind of an unspoken game: You’re supposed to get as outlandish as possible without blinking. If you blink, you lose. You have to own it with a straight face. Never break character. Remain unashamed. Remain unbowed. So anyway, here I am ranting. Back to the story: There we were, headed into Nashville, with me trying to keep an open mind, the missus overjoyed, and the kids…being kids, caring only about the closest McDonald’s and how soon can we go to it.
0 Comments
|
