Peter Cooper is the senior music writer and columnist for The Tennessean.
by Peter Cooper
To most every male country singer I’ve heard on the radio this morning.....
First, I’m on your side. I’m rooting for you.
I think we’ve got a lot in common. We probably like a lot of the same music.
But I don’t believe you.
All day, you’ve been singing rock songs to me about how country you are. And even country songs about how country you are. It’s been “dirt road” this and “back road” that, and “party in the woods” this and “redneck, hillbilly” that.
Then there’s been some stuff about fishing with cane poles, and skinny-dipping in the lake with some two-named girl. Was it Betty Sue? Wanda Lou?
And I don’t believe you were on the dirt road to the barn party with your redneck, hillbilly friends. I don’t believe the story about the lake. I don’t even believe anyone under the age of 30 is named Wanda.
I know there are probably exceptions, but I will not be considering them on a case-by-case basis. I don’t know why we’re so adamant about all of this, anyway. Why should I be interested that you’re so proud of where you say you’re from? Wasn’t it kind of an accident of birth?
Anyway, I like where I’m from just fine, but it wasn’t exactly my idea. It just sort of happened that way. And I could write a song about where I’m from — the Palmetto State of South Carolina — and make it chock-full of country references and stuff about the cradle of the Confederacy and the buckle of the Bible Belt, about tobacco fields and whacky politicians (I guess I’d leave out that last part).
But the truth is, you and I are from exactly the same place. We’re from the home pretty near the interstate exit. You know the exit: The one with the Waffle House and the Sonic and the Applebees, close to the big box retail store.
Ah, the stuff of great country songs. Perhaps I’ll write an up-tempo number, bragging about how I’m from one of the toughest suburbs in Columbia, S.C. Folks, you didn’t want to mess with the Gardendale boys if you crossed over the wrong side of Pine Forest Trail.
Anyway, you and I, if our necks are red, it’s not from plowing the fields, it’s from leaning out the driver’s window on a hot summer day to place our onion ring order at the Sonic.
There exists a grand country music tradition of writing about southern lifestyles, about good country people and bad country people and about the ways that common men and women bide their time, mourn and celebrate. I dig Hank Williams’ “Jambalaya” and Mel McDaniel’s “Louisiana Saturday Night” and Jason Aldean’s agrarian rumination, “Amarillo Sky.”
But this morning, most every male country singer on the radio, your antics have grown tiresome.
I’d rather be hit by a can of your favorite domestic beer than hear you name-check that beer one more time when you’re singing about the party in the woods that you know darn well the three people who wrote the song in a metropolitan Nashville office absolutely, for sure, did not attend.
I’m sorry, I’m unduly irritated. Truth is, I’m a little hung over from the big party out in the woods, down the dirt road. I don’t even remember the ride back home, so it’s a good thing Wanda Lou had the keys.
But I’ve heard your albums, most every male country singer. And I know you can deliver songs of substance, songs that speak even to the 99.9 percent of the earth’s population who would not describe themselves as rednecks or hillbillies. I know that you sing things that make people think and feel, that make people feel connected to each other by more than beer brands.
I also know that the hillbilly redneck party down in the country song is trending well on the radio stations these days. It’s summertime, and the youngsters are out of school (We remember those days, don’t we, most every male country singer?) and all over the South, radios are blaring and pickup trucks are gathering and the redneck kids are kicking it country-style.
In the parking lot.
At the Sonic.
Reach Peter Cooper at 615-259-8220 or pcooper@tennessean.com
