Country music

I must confess, I often forget Rolling Stone magazine still exists. Once the zeitgeist-surfing Holy Writ of American counter-culture, it hosted the pioneering writers of the boomer generation: Tom Wolfe, Lester Bangs, P.J. O’Rourke, Hunter S. Thompson. Even as recently as 2020 the magazine boasted accomplished journalists such as Matt Taibbi. But over five decades, the magazine withdrew into the Establishment, just as their boomer readers did. And every now and then the Rolling Stone’s pale cadaver makes a misjudged groaning gasp for life, if only to remind us it’s not quite dead. The rag mustered one such gasp this weekend.

Some artists need flash bombs to make an impression on stage. Some need giant screens. Some need to run around like hyperactive toddlers. All Grace Jones needed was a hula hoop – not the delicious potato snack, but the plastic ring. For the ten minutes or so of ‘Slave to the Rhythm’ that ended her set on a balmy evening in the courtyard of Hampton Court Palace, she languidly rotated the ring around her hips, all while she strode across the stage, then climbed a set of stairs. Not a single revolution was missed. I realise that you don’t come to these pages for reviews of hula hooping, but by God, it was astonishing. I like to think it was what Henry VIII would have wanted. It was a fitting end to a brilliantly unhinged show.

Obese people in skintight, skin-baring outfits. Face tattoos. Throat tattoos. Enormous, exposed chest tattoos. Nose rings. “A minuscule black latex bra.” No, I’m not describing the Met Gala; I’m setting the scene of the 56th annual Country Music Awards, now the trashiest show on earth (see here). Now, the features mentioned above are can’t-unsee elements of the awards show's red carpet. The show itself was slightly less awful because it was infused with throwback music, vintage artists and Peyton Manning. But without these saving graces resurrected from a bygone era, the CMAs, and mainstream country music as a whole, would be almost entirely devoid of any character.

Country music superstar Loretta Lynn died last week at the age of 90. Many in the media are remembering her as a feminist and several of her songs as feminist anthems. Yet Lynn herself said, “I'm not a big fan of Women’s Liberation, but maybe it will help women stand up for the respect they’re due.” It’s not surprising that the left wants to claim Lynn as one of their own — she was a badass and extremely successful. But in listening to her music and digging deeper into Lynn’s life, I’ve come to view “The First Lady of Country Music” not as a typical man-hating feminist, but rather as someone who was proud of the heritage that made her a tough woman and who wanted to use her remarkable musical gifts to uplift millions of women who shared her experiences.

Country music singer Maren Morris is so open-minded, inclusive, and tolerant that she’s considering not attending a major country music awards show because someone she disagrees with will be there. Here’s the backstory: country star Jason Aldean’s wife, Brittany, posted on Instagram a video of herself getting glam, along with the caption: "I'd really like to thank my parents for not changing my gender when I went through my tomboy phase. I love this girly life." Her husband commented: “Lmao!! I’m glad they didn’t too, cause you and I wouldn’t have worked out.” The post got a ton of support — including a pair of heart-eye emojis from Lara Trump. Then Morris lashed out online, writing: “It’s so easy to, like, not be a scumbag human?

Have you tuned in to a country radio station the past few years? You might have been surprised at some of the sounds coming through your speakers. A famous old-school Webb Pierce tune is chopped and screwed into an up-tempo hip-hop beat. Lyrics about an Applebee’s milkshake are accompanied by a booming bass. P!nk and Justin Bieber croon alongside Country Music Award winners. You’d be forgiven for thinking that all mainstream country really has to offer is saccharine, trope-filled pop music with a Southern accent. Nashville’s stranglehold on country radio has given the genre a bad rap (sometimes literally — here’s looking at you, Lil Nas X).

I am aware that the music I enjoy is widely considered to be the worst ever produced in human history. Worse than a roomful of children with recorders, cymbals and malice; worse than a poultry abattoir. Every so often, someone will ask me what I listen to, and I’m forced to tell them the truth. ‘These days,’ I’ll say, ‘it’s mostly country.’ Their nose will wrinkle, as if I’ve just let out a stealthy fart in their direction. ‘But old country, right?’ they’ll say, almost pleading. ‘Classic country?’ No, not classic country.

 Grade: A I have persisted in buying everything Neil Young releases since I first heard On the Beach as a callow but pretentious 13-year-old. To tell you the truth, the past 27 years have somewhat tested this commitment. There has been a fatal laziness in the songwriting, lyrically and melodically, since 1994’s Sleeps with Angels and the preaching has become ever more tiresome. But I continued forking out in the increasingly forlorn hope that he’d turn out something if not wonderful, then at least reminiscent of wonderful things past. And for lo, the grizzled old troubadour has done exactly that. This is a subtler incarnation of Crazy Horse, helped incalculably by the presence of Nils Lofgren on flowery bar-room piano and sweet guitar.

They got him! Another prominent white male called out by the mainstream media for being racist has had his career destroyed, tossed down the memory hole, never to drawl about beer, trucks, or girls ever again! Or did they? In January 2021, the 28-year-old, mullet-rocking, cutoff flannel shirt-wearing, small-town Tennessee country music star Morgan Wallen arrived home late at night (or early in the morning?) with his friends and yelled by means of farewell to one of them, “Take care of this p****-ass mother******  — Take care of this p****-ass n*****.

As a Taylor Swift fan, I’ve greeted the past year’s cornucopia of fresh content with joy and gratitude. Every day, I wake up and wonder: will there be a new Taylor Swift album today? With astounding frequency, there is! The latest entry into the T. Swift COVID-era canon, following folklore and evermore, is the re-recording of her 2008 smash-hit album Fearless, now available as a 27-track pop-country marathon known as Taylor’s Version. Of course, the original Fearless was also, strictly speaking, ‘Taylor’s Version’. But the master recordings of that album, which can be monetized through lucrative avenues like sampling and commercials, belonged to the label she signed with as a teenager, who refused to sell them back to her.