Pop 89: Crank Up the Country
By Madonna Hamel
“Anything but country” is a common phrase heard when a group of university students or urbanites, my friends among them, say upon heading out on a road trip and are deciding on what music to listen to. That statement is “riddled with implications,” writes American Noelle Carpenter, whose own perspective changed after finding herself defending her rural roots to her Ivy League college friends.
Carpenter says the person who will tolerate “anything but country” does not understand the plight of rural folk. “This person often fancies themselves sophisticated, so the dismissive phrase—anything but country—exempts them from examination.”
Usually, what is meant by “anything but country” is: I’ll listen to anything but another twangy tune sung by a hapless hayseed about my a) dog, or b) girl or c) train leaving town. But much of the blues and rock are full of the same fodder, and they, like country, convey so much more.
In the early 2000s, when I spent a couple of summers with my blues musician beau, painting houses between tours, the only music we would listen to was country. “For the stories,” he explained. “No one writes better stories or has better hooks.” He introduced me to Trace Adkins’ “You’re Going to Miss This,” Carrie Underwood’s “Jesus Take the Wheel,” and George Strait’s “She Let Herself Go.” Every one of them brought me to sudden, surprising tears.
We also listened to what is now called Classic Country, the tunes by musicians like Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Chet Atkins, and Loretta Lynn—singers who once lived the lives of country folk. Later, I learned that these musicians were enthralled with the country blues and gospel songs of black musicians like Howling Wolf, Lightning Hopkins, Memphis Minnie, and Sister Rosetta Tharpe. (In fact, Tharpe was Johnny Cash’s number one influence. )
In 2010, I presented to my producer at Radio2 in Toronto the idea that I should explore exactly what Americana music was all about. To do that, I would have to drive from Toronto to Nashville and cover the Americana Festival, interviewing musicians and industry types as to what constituted the new category at the Grammys (sadly ousting Polka, one of Canada’s sure winners!). Driving is, after all, one of the main themes in country music, I argued. In fact, The Road is to Country what The Street is to Rap.
She bought the idea, and soon, I was on my way to Nashville. And, like all good road trips, I encountered obstacles and angels, reminding me that life, like all good country songs, is defined as much by the nature and content of the journey as it is by the glory of the arrival. I encountered an ice storm that froze my wipers to my windshield, a detour that led me to a construction dead end, a tiny but cozy room overlooking a monastery and more hot biscuits and gravy than I’ve eaten in a lifetime. I depended on the kindness of waitresses and gas station mechanics and filled my notebooks with fodder for dozens of country tunes. And that was just on the drive down.
Americana is the name given to a category that could be best described as an ethos: creating songs that care about the lyrics more than the rhyme; that embrace the fullness of living and the full span of a life, not just the highs of love, sex and money, that do not steer away from the bloodied, the worn and the weary, and whose musicians don’t autotune every note.
It is worth noting that some of the greatest Americana musicians are Canadian, including The Band, Neil Young, Cowboy Junkies, Corb Lund, and Colin Linden, to name a few.
On my way back home from Nashville, I spent an evening in Knoxville at a live music broadcast from the stage of Tennessee Shines. It was Valentine’s Day. I was invited backstage to talk with Ruthie Foster, a black Texan singer whose band defied all categories - bringing together country, gospel, blues, funk and rock and roll with a touch of Tejano. She talked about music that heals. How bringing together different sounds and styles brings people together as well as parts of oneself.
It was Valentine’s Day, and the ushers at the doors of the theatre gave each woman a rose. After the show, I drove back to my hotel, put the rose in a plastic cup of water, and said a little prayer for my mom, who had died a year earlier. The next morning on the road, the rose seated in its cup in the empty seat next to me, I listened to the Sunday morning gospel hour while travelling along an empty county road. The preacher spoke of constancy and transparency, of truth and healing, of staying humble. Then he played an old country gospel standard: “You’re drifting too far from the shore.”
Not all country songs do justice to rural lives. But far more deceitful are the harrowing lyrics of a lot of celebrated rap that brag about sexual predation and assault. So demeaning and violent are their words I won’t repeat them - it ruined my day to even read them. In a cancel culture so sensitive to triggers, why do these “dawgs” continue to get paid for finding newer and crueler ways of rhyming hate and humiliation?
What are we willing to listen to? What stories set to music move us most? Stories that humiliate or humble us? Stories that ridicule others or welcome others? By all means, crank up the music that salutes a particular wisdom borne of living on the range. Of men and women alone for long stretches of time. Of circumstances that necessitate jerry-rigging tools and equipment when the shop is a hundred miles away. Of being caught in a storm or struggling with a thistle-encrusted fence. Of living as a neighbour to one’s own kids and their kids, too. Of taking cues from critters and weather. And of long, long drives home.