I really hate avid fandom. Not everything, but the part where I get a big schpeel if I haven’t seen a particular movie, read a particular book, or listened to a certain artist. God forbid I don’t like one of those things. I’m then forced to explain myself. Especially if I have neither read, listened to, or watched the material yet I have no interest in or don’t like it. I have neither read nor watched Harry Potter. I have neither read nor watched Lord of the Rings, though to my credit I tried to sit through 30 minutes of one of the movies. I couldn’t. I can hear the cries of suspected heresy—nay, certain heresy on little or no evidence at all.
“You don’t like Dr. Pepper!? How can you call yourself a Texan??”
And yet, I do. Coca-Cola kicks arse. Country music, however, does not. And it is not a matter of taste, either. How does every successive artist through the years pull off the same song wrapped in slightly different paper? There should be certain criteria for a song to be considered country.
1) Play open strum guitars as far back on the strings as possible. Think twang.
2) Always, and I mean always, include that whiny string instrument stolen from old bluegrass ballads. I don’t know what it’s called. If I don’t like it, I don’t care to know.
3) The following lyrical content will pass in this genre with flying colors (all others will be heavily scrutinized and dubbed country-pop):
a. Happiness and contentment at the simplicity of country life (got my girl, my kids, my dog, my land, I don’t need nothin’ else)
b. A great big “up-yours” at snooty yuppies and/or yankees, or anyone else who wants to judge them.
c. Any tear jerker with the main phrase in the chorus or the title being repeated through different stages of life in three verses (most recent example: “You’re Gonna Miss This” by some guy)
d. Patriotic and proud. Not the good kind, but the kind that unwittingly promotes nationalism and the use of the word “raghead” when referring to the Middle Eastern or Central Asian family down the street.
e. Description of an impossibly sensitive, romantic, and understanding lover (female singers only)
f. Use of annoyingly bouncy or catchy meter.
4) Men: must look “sexy” in a Stetson, but surprisingly plain or kind of ugly or old without it. Women: Big hair & makeup, or girl-next-door. Must frequently switch between both during tours.
5) Men: must sing unusually high and nasally, or unusually low and nasally. Female fans will love either. Women: must sound older than you are, especially if you are particularly young. Must yodel (that sudden break to high voice, Sarah Mclachlan would be a non-country example) or have the kind of chest voice that can go really high without breaking.
I could go on. But I won’t. I have a lot of respect for classic country. The first manifestation of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Bill Monroe. It still has the aroma of the blues it’s rooted in. I prefer the jazzy side of blues, but it has a lot of other good hybrids. They can keep their farm theme Opryland costuming, though. Just as strongly as I can make a case against country music, I still wouldn’t slate someone for their taste in music. I did, though, get insurmountably sick of my old roommate’s country ringtone that played every time her boyfriend called or texted. I envisioned myself taking a 12-gauge shotgun to the bothersome phone. But then I remembered how scared I am of the kickback and downgraded to BB. When shooting out in the country with my sister’s boyfriend’s family, I learned that my dominant eye is the left one, despite my right-handedness. It made shooting difficult. It’s okay, because I don’t like loud startling sounds like that, and don’t hunt. We rode ATVs that day. Shotguns and 4-wheelers. Hark, do I hear banjos?
It’s hard to believe that though I grew up around that…it has never been me. I prefer the city. When I drove back from my doctor today—a commute through downtown—I took a detour to the Apple Store in the part of Dallas that most resembles other cities with the markets and arts district, thoroughly enjoying myself. I didn’t buy anything though, Lord knows I wanted to.