What’s more American than America?
Country music. It’s the stereotype. In the eyes of the world you’re all thigh-slapping, yee-hawing h-h-hillbillies. And that’s cool. But I’ve been here six months now so I thought it was about time that I got to grips with the genre. So I went to see Darius Rucker at Turning Stone.
Where I learned this: country music is folk music that has spent too much time in the wilderness. It’s got all hairy and forgotten its manners.
It seems that there are a couple key elements to a country song. You’ve got to talk about trucks and dirt roads, of course. And if you haven’t mentioned how great America is at least three times over the course of your track then you’re not doing country music right.
In some ways that seems a bit elitist. What if you’re from somewhere that has proper roads? But somehow “Talkin’ bout well-paved multi-lane highways” just doesn’t sound as good. And travelling in a Prius, dirt road or not, is going to leave you looking a bit feeble, no matter how stained your tank top or how massive the brim of your ridiculous hat is.
Because you’re trying to get girls into your truck. That seems to be the main purpose in life for a man: get lots of girls into your truck. Now, that is already creepy and is made even creepier by the fact that in the mind of country music singers, women don’t have names. It’s always “Hey girl” or “Get up in my truck girl,” never “So your name is Amy? Nice to meet you. Do you need a ride anywhere?” Remember girls: if a man tells you to get up in his truck to travel down some dirt roads because America, you can say no. That’s allowed. In fact, it’s actually encouraged.
You can still say no even if he tells you that he has got the good stuff. At no point does anyone clarify exactly what the good stuff is, but you can sure that if it’s a country song then there will be some good stuff. They’ve got the good stuff in their trunk, on a blanket by a river, in their house, on their porch, in the backseat of their cars. They’re drowning in the good stuff. If only I knew what it was… I hope it’s not bananas. I don’t really like bananas.
A lot of my female friends tell me that they hate it when guys come up to them in a bar and pester them, but they still feel guilty when they have to shoot them down. But luckily country music has a solution. According to literally every country song ever, unless you’re a girl in blue jeans that have been painted on tight, no guy will want anything to do with you. You’ll be completely safe. So if some guy approaches and is irritating you, just draw his attention to your jeans: “Hey. Have you seen my jeans?”
“You mean those blue jeans painted on tight that everybody wants on a Saturday night?”
“Yeah. Those ones. They’re actually gray, sorry…”
And woosh… the man disappears. Easy-peasy. You can thank me later.
Country music is ridiculous. It’s the musical equivalent of getting drunk and walking to your ex’s house to shout at her window from the sidewalk. It’s just slightly pitiful and should never happen.
And yet it kind of works.
Hating country music is easy. But liking it isn’t that tricky either. I like country music. I didn’t, but I do now. Because you can’t really truly hate it. Sure, it’s stupid and annoying. But so is my little brother and I’m very fond of him.
