I love Country Music

It is not black and it is not a Torpedo model, but otherwise, it is exactly like Dad's "Black Beauty"

 

      In the summer of 1941, when I was five years old, my parents went to a dance at the Hotel Lubbock.  I don’t know the occasion, but it was not a usual thing for my parents to go to a dance, much less one held in a fancy hotel.  Dry land dirt farmers just didn’t have that kind of money. 

     My job, for the evening, was to watch over my little brother and sister, and make sure they stayed in the car.  We had no baby sitter, probably for economic reasons, so the three of us stayed in the back seat of the car, parked across a brick side street from the hotel.  Mother came out every thirty minutes or so to check on us.  The evening was pleasant and the car windows were rolled down.  Jerry and Carol were asleep, but I was awake—I had a job to do.  Besides, I was too excited to sleep.  I could hear the music from the balcony of the hotel and see fancy people up there, dancing, talking, smoking, and laughing.

       For the first time in my life, I listened to real music performed by a live band and not shrunk down and squeezed through a squeaky little radio.  The “Sons of the Pioneers” were playing and I remember Along the Navajo Trail, Cool Water, and Tumbling Tumbleweeds, all wafting down on the warm, summer air for my entertainment.  That was over seventy years ago and I still remember the clear, silky voice of Bob Nolan singing those classic lyrics and perfectly enunciating every word.  When the others joined him for choruses, the harmony was flawless.  I will be forever thankful I didn’t have to stay home that night.

       About three years later, Dad got a new car—at least it was new to us—a 1941 black Pontiac, two-door “Torpedo” style with a built-in factory radio and wide chrome stripes down the middle.  Cars were important to Dad—he named this one “Black Beauty.”  One night, as we were driving, we listened to music on the radio.  At the time, radio stations played programs, not records, so I’m sure we were hearing the Grand Ole Opry.  It could have been the Louisiana Hayride.  I think it was the Opry because Eddy Arnold sang a song and I don’t remember him singing on the Hayride.  When he finished, I remember Mom saying, “There will never be another Eddy Arnold.” Another wasn't needed.  Eddy Arnold was a fixture on the landscape of Country Music for over sixty years, releasing hit songs in every decade through the nineties.

     Country Music had character back then.  The music was earthy, plaintive, and passionate--the lyrics were simple, honest, and heartfelt.  The stories were about life and life was hard in the country during and after the depression.  These songs were sung by farm boys, fresh from the fields and close to the soil.   Names like Webb Pierce, Lefty Frizzel, Hank Thompson, Slim Whitman, Don Gibson, Furlin Husky, Carl Smith and Jim Reeves joined Eddy Arnold and Hank Williams on the radio, singing songs such as Back Street Affair, More, More, More of Your Kisses, The Wild Side of Life, and Don’t Let the Stars get in your Eyes.  In 1952, Kitty Wells became the first female solo artist to top the country charts.  Miss Kitty's song, It Wasn’t God who Made Honky-Tonk Angels, answered and rebuked Hank Thompson’s Wild Side of Life.

     I can write reams about this subject, and I will, but not here and not now.  This began as a lead-in to my thoughts on the CMA Award Show I watched last night.  What those people did may have been music, but it was not country.      

     The show originated in Nashville.  It was dark, so it was difficult to tell, but the concert must have taken place in an NFL Stadium strung with high intensity strobe lights, and mined with explosive devices.  For whatever reason, the male singers were kept in near-darkness, with a tiny spot flashing on the side, or sometimes the back of their head.  When these guys reached a dramatic point in their songs, fireworks exploded, strobe lights flashed and steam blew out hidden vents, obscuring everything onstage. Any music that might accidentally have been played was lost in the confusion.

     The female singers were, by contrast, well lighted; otherwise we could not have seen their fantastic anatomies.  Most were almost dressed in something short and tight and low cut, and I loved it, but it wasn’t country.  The skirts were so short that the beautiful ladies could not possibly hit a high note without exposing their assets.  Wardrobe malfunctions were not necessary--the blouses were cut so the top, the bottom, and most of the rest of their breasts were out there in full view.  Only the points of interest were concealed.

     The climax of the evening seemed to be a performance by a new country duo—the Florida-Georgia Line or some such silly name. A guy with a muscle shirt, long shaggy hair, and grotesque jailhouse tattoos (of which he seemed inordinately proud) beat on the face of an electric guitar, jumped around, and screamed something untranslatable into the mike.  An insane drummer with matching unkempt locks went nuts in the flashing, strobe-lighted, white-smoked foreground.  As the camera panned the crowd during this performance, it was easy to see that George Strait was visibly shaken.   So was I.

     As you may have guessed, I came from a more conservative group of country fans.  I think Brooks and Dunn or the Everly Brothers are proper names for Country Duos and the Florida-Georgia Line is geography.  I think Willie Nelson, on a stool with a worn out guitar, singing songs from his And Then I Wrote album is a wonderful concert. I think Dolly Parton, in a cowboy shirt stuffed absolutely full of boobies, is plenty sexy.  I think Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, and Kris Kristofferson are on a poetic level with Shakespeare.  I think Hank, Johnny Horton, Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline, Elvis Presley and Jim Reeves all died too young. 

     As is obvious from the CMA Awards Show, Country Music is no longer confined to remote honky-tonks filled with lonesome people feeling the joys and struggling with the pains of life.  It is no longer beer joint music, created and performed by and for beer joint people.  Madison Avenue has discovered Country Music and a mob of marketing gurus have descended to capitalize on this un-tapped resource, and show these bumpkins how to peddle their product.

     Country Music, as I know and love it, is on the way out.  It is changing and becoming unrecognizable.  It has gone the way of shiny black torpedo-shaped cars, with lots of chrome.  Our world is not a better place because of this progress.   

     Long ago, Hank Williams stood on the stage of the Ryman Auditorium with just his guitar.  He wore a white cowboy hat, sequined western suit, polished cowboy boots.   He pushed back his hat, touched his guitar and, with a shy grin, sang, The silence of a falling star lights up a purple sky….and as I wonder where you are, I’m so lonesome I could cry.

     Me to, Hank.  I could just cry.

Hank burned himself out, feeling guilty because music was easy for him and other folks had to work so hard just to get by.  He died in the back seat of a '52 Cadallic at age 29.