Greetings, from the dusty plains of Longview. Where we just finished the fall roundup, said goodbye for the winter, and unloaded a whole summer’s worth of angst with the rest of the ranch crew. Of course it goes without sayin’ we done a little drinkin’ too. We got to chin-waggin’ about country music as we always seem to do in these parts, and I took a lot of heat from the boys who were headed up to Calgary, to see the Keith Urban show. I told ‘em that kinda’ shit wasn’t country, and they set to tryin’ to tell me different, but I wasn’t havin’ none of it. I think I made some of ‘em a bit testy when I said it was cowpop, and not country music they were listenin’ to. Maybe ya’ll agree with me. Sit down on that bale of hay, let me bend your ear for a second, and tell ya’ just why I feel that way.
I don’t dislike Keith Urban, or Toby Keith, or Reba McIntyre, personally. I’ve never met them, so I can’t hate them just because of who they are. I dislike them because of what they represent. I just can’t stomach the kind of music that they produce. I’m all about the music, you know what I mean. It is what happens to you when that perfect storm hits you right between the eyes. A song so wicked, you can’t get through the day unless you hear it again. I’m as much of a sucker for a hook, and a sweet chorus as the next person. But the anger starts for me when the song is over-shadowed by the singer. When it’s all about how you look instead of how you sound. Owen Bradley fucked it all up in the 1960’s with his orchestrated sessions, which produced symphony-like songs with no soul.. Listen to Merle Haggard’s “Tonight The Bottle Let Me Down, Waylon Jennings “Ain’t Living Long Like This” or the Old 97’s “Salome”. The pain in the singers voice is real, not something conjured up from an acting class or a something a song factory drone popped out while trying to write the next monster FM Radio hit. The music itself, doesn’t come across as forced, or over-produced. It sounds like it is supposed to; edgy and powerful and sad, like good people in a relationship gone bad. It doesn’t sound contrived or fake.
The twang is real, not imagined by some song factory drone who grew up listening to Perry Como. It’s hard to describe, hell sometimes the lines get so blurry I can’t even tell the difference and get fooled. Not very often though kiddies…
Deep down in my heart, where the lonesome wail of a freight train reminds me of the girl I lost forever, I know the difference. Sometimes it’s subtle. Words can’t even do it justice, you just know this shit ain’t real. It’s like what Neil Young said so long ago, ‘You meet the losers in the best bars, and the winners in the dives.’ Many times it’s not even the singer, it’s the song. I’ve seen people perform in front of thousands of people, passing off their particular brand of crap as pure country, when it’s as far from pure country as maple syrup is from sea salt. Meanwhile, across town, on the other side of the tracks, a girl sings in a half-empty honky-tonk, beggin’ her man to put the bottle down and come home. She sings songs that she wrote herself; experiences, memories of a life she once knew . Tiny parts of a life that knows no real success other than dragging her ass out of bed to work a dead-end job, just so she can spend weekends in a smoky bar, endlessly repeating her sad refrain. That’s country.
You all should know that country music ain’t about beautiful people living the good life. Sometimes it’s about being so broke, you can’t even pay attention. Or enjoying Saturday night with friends; it ain’t about having everything spelled out for you, or handed to you on a silver platter. Do you know that Johnny Paycheck died broke and alone? Spent his last days handing out posters to his shows, recording the music in his basement, not in some multi-billion dollar Nashville studio? Did you know his wife had to raise money so he could be buried properly? Did Shania Twain or Brad Paisley ever have to pound the pavement in search of fans to sell their music to? I know a few people in this business. Before I hung my shingle at the ol’ Double Bar C Ranch, I worked the show circuit so I got to know more than a few.
singers and players. Most of them worked the road forever, always payin’ their dues, and what do they have to show for it? Maybe a couple of albums, a few die-hard fans, and some damn good memories? Where is the justice in this world, when someone like Carrie Underwood is groomed for success because of how popular she is to a TV audience, meanwhile life-long musician Billy Cowsill dies penniless and alone, a victim of his lifestyle? What about Fats Domino wandering the streets of New Orleans before he died because he never got the success he deserved or worked all his life to find?
I know there are other circumstances surrounding these stories. Plenty of which I don’t know. I also know that just because you have a steel guitar in the band, doesn’t make you a country singer. Maybe I’m full of shit, but I know what I feel and when I listen to mainstream country radio, I don’t feel it. Yet when I listen to the kind of country that’s real, I not only feel it, I get it too. I’m talking about music that sets your soul on fire, and rearranges you deep down inside. Whether Hank Williams Sr, Johnny Cash, or Lucinda Williams, are singing the song; that’s what is important comrades. The songs. Not how good the singer looks on TV.
When the sun sets, fellow babies, the only way is to do it yourself. Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise. Get your ass down to an honest-to-god honky tonk. Maybe you can afford to hit the road, and if you do, head South to Austin, Texas, and visit The Broken Spoke on a Saturday night, or the Continental Club in Houston. That’s where it’s at. Maybe the Tractor Tavern in Seattle suits your fancy, or the Horseshoe Tavern in Toronto. If ya’ can do it, do it. But if you’re like me, and don’t wander too far from home these days, there’s somethin’ for ya here in Southern Alberta. I like to sit a spell at the Palomino Club, right in the heart of the Cowtown itself. Those down-home tasty vittles, and lotsa’ good lookin’ folks dancing, and drinkin’ to the best music. I’m tellin’ ya. That’s where it’s at doggies. And the train’s right there too. How can ya’ beat that? Well now doggies.. I hear a beer callin’ my name. Or maybe three or four of ‘em. And I can hear that pedal steel, softly playing San Antonio Rose. I gotta’ saddle up Ol’ Paint, and hit the trail myself. Until next time ya’ll.
I don’t dislike Keith Urban, or Toby Keith, or Reba McIntyre, personally. I’ve never met them, so I can’t hate them just because of who they are. I dislike them because of what they represent. I just can’t stomach the kind of music that they produce. I’m all about the music, you know what I mean. It is what happens to you when that perfect storm hits you right between the eyes. A song so wicked, you can’t get through the day unless you hear it again. I’m as much of a sucker for a hook, and a sweet chorus as the next person. But the anger starts for me when the song is over-shadowed by the singer. When it’s all about how you look instead of how you sound. Owen Bradley fucked it all up in the 1960’s with his orchestrated sessions, which produced symphony-like songs with no soul.. Listen to Merle Haggard’s “Tonight The Bottle Let Me Down, Waylon Jennings “Ain’t Living Long Like This” or the Old 97’s “Salome”. The pain in the singers voice is real, not something conjured up from an acting class or a something a song factory drone popped out while trying to write the next monster FM Radio hit. The music itself, doesn’t come across as forced, or over-produced. It sounds like it is supposed to; edgy and powerful and sad, like good people in a relationship gone bad. It doesn’t sound contrived or fake.
The twang is real, not imagined by some song factory drone who grew up listening to Perry Como. It’s hard to describe, hell sometimes the lines get so blurry I can’t even tell the difference and get fooled. Not very often though kiddies…
Deep down in my heart, where the lonesome wail of a freight train reminds me of the girl I lost forever, I know the difference. Sometimes it’s subtle. Words can’t even do it justice, you just know this shit ain’t real. It’s like what Neil Young said so long ago, ‘You meet the losers in the best bars, and the winners in the dives.’ Many times it’s not even the singer, it’s the song. I’ve seen people perform in front of thousands of people, passing off their particular brand of crap as pure country, when it’s as far from pure country as maple syrup is from sea salt. Meanwhile, across town, on the other side of the tracks, a girl sings in a half-empty honky-tonk, beggin’ her man to put the bottle down and come home. She sings songs that she wrote herself; experiences, memories of a life she once knew . Tiny parts of a life that knows no real success other than dragging her ass out of bed to work a dead-end job, just so she can spend weekends in a smoky bar, endlessly repeating her sad refrain. That’s country.
You all should know that country music ain’t about beautiful people living the good life. Sometimes it’s about being so broke, you can’t even pay attention. Or enjoying Saturday night with friends; it ain’t about having everything spelled out for you, or handed to you on a silver platter. Do you know that Johnny Paycheck died broke and alone? Spent his last days handing out posters to his shows, recording the music in his basement, not in some multi-billion dollar Nashville studio? Did you know his wife had to raise money so he could be buried properly? Did Shania Twain or Brad Paisley ever have to pound the pavement in search of fans to sell their music to? I know a few people in this business. Before I hung my shingle at the ol’ Double Bar C Ranch, I worked the show circuit so I got to know more than a few.
singers and players. Most of them worked the road forever, always payin’ their dues, and what do they have to show for it? Maybe a couple of albums, a few die-hard fans, and some damn good memories? Where is the justice in this world, when someone like Carrie Underwood is groomed for success because of how popular she is to a TV audience, meanwhile life-long musician Billy Cowsill dies penniless and alone, a victim of his lifestyle? What about Fats Domino wandering the streets of New Orleans before he died because he never got the success he deserved or worked all his life to find?
I know there are other circumstances surrounding these stories. Plenty of which I don’t know. I also know that just because you have a steel guitar in the band, doesn’t make you a country singer. Maybe I’m full of shit, but I know what I feel and when I listen to mainstream country radio, I don’t feel it. Yet when I listen to the kind of country that’s real, I not only feel it, I get it too. I’m talking about music that sets your soul on fire, and rearranges you deep down inside. Whether Hank Williams Sr, Johnny Cash, or Lucinda Williams, are singing the song; that’s what is important comrades. The songs. Not how good the singer looks on TV.
When the sun sets, fellow babies, the only way is to do it yourself. Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise. Get your ass down to an honest-to-god honky tonk. Maybe you can afford to hit the road, and if you do, head South to Austin, Texas, and visit The Broken Spoke on a Saturday night, or the Continental Club in Houston. That’s where it’s at. Maybe the Tractor Tavern in Seattle suits your fancy, or the Horseshoe Tavern in Toronto. If ya’ can do it, do it. But if you’re like me, and don’t wander too far from home these days, there’s somethin’ for ya here in Southern Alberta. I like to sit a spell at the Palomino Club, right in the heart of the Cowtown itself. Those down-home tasty vittles, and lotsa’ good lookin’ folks dancing, and drinkin’ to the best music. I’m tellin’ ya. That’s where it’s at doggies. And the train’s right there too. How can ya’ beat that? Well now doggies.. I hear a beer callin’ my name. Or maybe three or four of ‘em. And I can hear that pedal steel, softly playing San Antonio Rose. I gotta’ saddle up Ol’ Paint, and hit the trail myself. Until next time ya’ll.
“Stay safe and sane”
Slim Nelson
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