This is one example of why Wal-Mart country will never become unpopular, even though nobody I know seems to openly embrace it: It’s flexible, and it’s reflexive. It’s flexible because nobody in the media (outside of Tennessee) seems to care how it operates, so it can quietly make adjustments and corrections to fit its zeitgeist; country music evolves a little like the stock market. It’s reflexive because it doesn’t place an artistic premium on creating new ideas; nobody expects Clint Black to be the first guy to come up with anything. Nobody even expects him to write his own songs. As a consequence, the organic themes in Wal-Mart country filter up from its audience. They actually come from the people shopping in Wal-Mart. And when those Wal-Mart shoppers eventually hear their own ideas on the radio, it somehow seems fresh. While rock and hip-hop constantly try to break through to a future consciousness—and while alt country tries to replicate a lost consciousness from the 1930s—modern country artists validate the experience of living right here, right now.
This started to become clear as glass in the early 1990s. At the time, the presumption in the media was that grungy Sasquatch rockers were emerging as a more “realistic” reflection of public sentiment, apparently because the musicians dressed like laid-off factory employees and down-tuned their guitars. This was not without justification; I will concede that this posit seemed completely sensible at the time. But—with the exception of the second Nirvana album, the first three Pearl Jam records, and maybe four or five Soundgarden songs—that music has not sustained a significant life outside its brief window of import. Most of that music already comes across as dated as disco. But what has continued to matter are crappy country songs like Trisha Yearwood’s 1991 single “She’s in Love with the Boy,” which probably means it isn’t entirely crappy.
“She’s in Love with the Boy” is almost like something the Ronettes could have done: A sweet girl named Katie is dating a local bone head named Tommy, and everyone in town—particularly Katie’s father—thinks she can do better. However, their love is ultimately vindicated by Katie’s mother, who explains that she was once dating a local bone head whom everyone hated, and that man became Katie’s father. Certainly, this is not an innovative narrative (in fact, I think it was actually an episode from the 1991 season of The Wonder Years, costarring David Schwimmer as “the bone head”). However, there are two elements to this song that make it amazingly evocative to a certain kind of listener. The irony is that they’re the same elements that make intellectuals despise modern country music.
The first is that the lyrics to this song are highly specific, but secretly universal. I’m referring particularly to lines like “But later on, outside the Tastee Freeze / Tommy slips something on her hand / He says, “My high school ring will have to do / Till I can buy a wedding band.” Proposing marriage at a Tastee Freeze is not exactly romantic, but it is important, just as it was when scruffy little Johnny Cougar mentioned eating chili dogs “outside the Tastee Freeze” in the song “Jack and Diane.” Tastee Freezes are iconic structures in the rural Midwest, because they say something about your hometown; they irrefutably prove your community does not have enough of a population to sustain a Dairy Queen. In fact, you don’t even have enough of a population to sustain an ice cream facility with indoor seating (you might notice that both Yearwood and Cougar describe encounters that take place outside the Tastee Freeze, presumably in the parking lot). Tastee Freezes are the places that remind you how isolated you are; a Tastee Freeze is like an oasis. And even though they’re everywhere, you don’t realize that until you move away. It’s a circular reality: Tastee Freezes exist where people are disconnected from the rest of the world—and that very disconnection makes them all seem autonomous. So when Yearwood mentions this kind of coquettish proposal between two overtly archetypical teenagers, it cuts an amazingly wide swath. It’s what David Berman means when he says that Wal-Mart country reflects the lives of its audience. There are thousands of people in this country who still can’t believe Trish Yearwood perfectly described the teenage experience of someone they know in real life. And the amazing thing is that they’re all correct.
However, there’s another reason why a song like “She’s in Love with the Boy” is so successful, and it’s even less complicated. “She’s in Love with the Boy” is easy to understand—and I don’t mean intellectually. I mean literally. A huge part of why somebody like Yearwood connects so deeply with so many people (she has career sales approaching 11 million) is because her words can be easily heard and immediately contextualized, even when a person casually hears them one time. I’m sure that sounds like a moronically obvious argument for what makes a piece of music good, but I’ve come to realize it’s one of those painfully obvious things that everyone who’s allegedly enlightened seems to deny.
Whenever you talk to collegiate musicologists about music, they will often complain that rock writers place entirely too much emphasis on the content of song lyrics. Academics tend to argue that lyrics have only nominal importance; they will say that pop critics tend to see pop songs as having two parts—words and music—and that this is an example of ignorance. They think the words to a song like the Beatles’ “Helter Skelter” are only a fraction of the total creation; the lyrics have no more individual importance than the guitar chords, or Ringo’s drum fills, or George Martin’s production, or any other component. Moreover, they’ll tell you that song lyrics are not really poetry, because they only matter when they’re married to a specific piece of music and are often used as filler; lyrics usually say very little about the songwriter and are more important for how practical they are (i.e., “Can I match a melody to this?”) than for how deep they are (i.e., “What does this mean?”). What’s funny is that rock writers sort of validate those suggestions, but only because they take the appreciation of lyrical content too far. They’re exclusively focused on how clever lyrics are, even if that cleverness is only appreciated by their peers (for example, rock critics love David Berman’s buddy Stephen Malkmus, and he is indeed very talented—although I sometimes wonder how funny jokes about Geddy Lee’s voice are to people who have never listened to a Rush album).3
The net result of all this is that discernible lyrics are—by and large—dismissed. The elitist belief is that hearing what an artist is saying is either (a) totally irrelevant, or (b) only relevant when difficult. And what these elitists forget is that normal people never think like that. Normal people want to hear what artists are saying, and normal people tend to perceive the vox as the sole identity of the artistic product. This is completely clear to anyone who steps back and just looks at what material works outside of New York and L.A. I find it amusing that so many pundits have tried to create explanations for why Eminem is so polarizing (people say that it’s just because he’s white, or that it’s all because of Dr. Dre, or that it’s just because he’s controversial, etc.). To me, the biggest reason is obvious: He enunciates better than any rapper who ever lived. He’s literally good at talking. The first time you hear an Eminem song, you can decide whether or not you find him entertaining. That seems to be a central quality for anyone who deeply resonates with blue-collar Americans. I once did a feature for SPIN magazine that tried to explain why Morrissey has become a cult figure with Latino teenagers in California, and I suggested a variety of explanations for why a forgotten, asexual Oscar Wilde fanatic would resonate with Hispanic kids in EastL.A. What I came to realize is that relating to Morrissey is easy for anyone who puts forth the effort to try; Moz sings about universal problems (loneliness, alienation, emotional fraud), and he sings about those problems in a way that’s oddly literal. His voice is clear, the meanings can be appreciated on two (and sometimes three) different levels, and you can always hear every thought. He lets you get close to him. I’m more surprised that Latinos are the only kids who still love him.
What I’m saying is that lyrics do matter, and people who say they’re overemphasized by critics are wrong. The significance of lyrics in pop music is not overrated
; in fact, it’s probably under-rated. And this is what people overlook about modern country music. They fail to see that it’s a word-based idiom, and words are far more effective than pianos or guitars. The manipulation of sonics makes someone like Moby a genius, but he’ll never have the middle-class importance of someone like Toby Keith.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking that this is a profoundly depressing argument, because it implies that the only things that can be culturally important are things that appeal to the lowest common denominator. But that’s not what I’m suggesting. I realize that Toby Keith seems like a troglodyte, especially when he appears in those long-distance commercials with Terry Bradshaw and ALF—but it’s not his simplicity that makes him vital. It’s his clarity. Keith writes songs like 1993’s “Should’ve Been a Cowboy,” and what’s compelling is that you can’t deconstruct its message. “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” is not like Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive,” where Jon Bon Jovi claimed to live like a cowboy; Toby Keith wants to be a cowboy for real. “I should have been a cowboy,” he sings. “I should have learned to rope and ride.” Somewhat amusingly, the cowboys Toby references in his songs are all fake cowboys (Gunsmoke’s Marshal Dillon, cinematic crooners Gene Autry and Roy Rogers), but fake cowboys are the only kind that Keith—and most of America—ever wanted to embody. When I was fourteen, I liked Bon Jovi, and part of the reason why was because I liked the idea of riding a steel horse and using whiskey bottles as wall calendars. I aspired to turn my life into that of a modern-day cowboy,4 and that always seemed vaguely possible. But whenever I go back to my hometown and see the people I grew up with—many of whom are still living the same life we all had twelve years ago as high school seniors—I realize that I was very much the exception. Lots of people (in fact, most people) do not dream about morphing their current life into something dramatic and cool and metaphoric. Most people see their life as a job that they have to finish; if anything, they want their life to be less complicated than it already is. They want their life to only have one meaning. So when they imagine a better existence, it’s either completely imaginary (i.e., Toby’s nineteenth-century Lone Ranger fantasy) or staunchly practical (i.e., Yearwood’s description of the girl who just wants to get married without catching static from her old man). The reason Garth Brooks and Shania Twain have sold roughly 120 million more albums than Bob Dylan and Liz Phair is not because record buyers are all a bunch of blithering idiots; it’s because Garth and Shania are simply better at expressing the human condition. They’re less talented, but they understand more people.
The paradox, of course, is that I’m writing this essay while staring at my CD rack, which currently holds seventeen Dylan and Phair records and exactly three country records released after 1974. And in a weird way, that makes me happy. I have at least one thing in common with Bob Dylan: Neither one of us understands how the world works. When push comes to shove, we’re both Reba’s bitch.
1. This is similar to the way rich white kids in places like suburban Connecticut fell in love with N.W.A. records in the early nineties.
2. Although it should be noted that David Lee Roth seemed to have no problem with Ronald Reagan hailing from California.
3. And don’t even get me started on the line “You’re my fact-checking cuz”!
4. Like Tesla!
Here is the easiest way to explain the genius of Johnny Cash: Singing from the perspective of a convicted murderer in the song “Folsom Prison Blues,” Cash is struck by pangs of regret when he sits in his cell and hears a distant train whistle. This is because people on that train are “probably drinkin’ coffee.” And this is also why Cash seems completely credible as a felon: He doesn’t want freedom or friendship or Jesus or a new lawyer. He wants coffee.
Within the mind of a killer, complex feelings are eerily simple.
This is why killers can shoot men in Reno just to watch them die, and the rest of us usually can’t.
15 This Is Zodiac Speaking 1:79
The killing machine wore a cowboy hat, and he was a real sweetheart.
Let me drag you back to the summer of 2001. I was in a karaoke bar in a Washington town called Lacey, a little place outside Olympia, which is a little place outside Seattle. That’s when my friend Sarah appears to have danced with a serial killer. Sarah spent ten minutes twirling and whirling to Brooks & Dunn with an (allegedly) fucked-up weirdo who may have killed at least five women throughout the Pacific Northwest. I suppose this fella did seem a tad creepy (at least to me), but not in a “I’m gonna drag you home to rape you and kill you and defile your corpse” sort of way. That would be an exaggeration on the behalf of my memory. He just seemed like the kind of person who aspired to buy a used Trans Am and possibly wore Brut cologne.
The bar was a joint strangely called Mehfil, and—for some odd reason—it’s attached to an Indian restaurant; you could kind of smell curry fused with warm Budweiser, assuming that’s possible (perhaps it was just the scent of lumberjack sweat). The reason we were in Mehfil was because certain friends of mine think karaoke is “fabulously ironic,” apparently because stupid, white-trash divorcées often sing Linda Ronstadt’s “It’s So Easy” in public. What honestly seemed more ironic was that the vast majority of people in this particular bar were semi-intellectual twenty-two-year-old hippies from the nearby fake college of Evergreen, all of whom were trying to feel superior by mocking the (maybe) eight or nine buck-toothed regulars who earnestly sing at Mehfil as an extension of their actual life. In places like Olympia, coolness and condescension are pretty much the same thing.
However, one of those sincere regulars at Mehfil was a man named Michael Braae, and he was getting the last laugh, mostly by (allegedly) killing local girls at random. But we didn’t know that at the time, of course; we were just getting hammered on Maker’s Mark and Pepsi when Braae sauntered up to my friend Sarah and politely asked her to dance.
Now, Sarah is not exactly Giselle; I can recall that there was at least one other woman at the bar that night who was more striking than she. But Sarah is definitely attractive, and she’s a good drinker, and she has luxurious red hair that smells like papayas. Moreover, Sarah just looks nice; she is the kind of person who makes you want to tell your secrets. Her eyes are guileless and enthusiastic at the same time. And part of me suspects that’s why Michael Braae thought she’d be a perfect girl to dance with, and—at least in theory—shoot in the skull, which is what some investigators believe he did to a girl named Marchelle Morgan a month before he was arrested.
Fortunately, Sarah’s brush with Braae did not end with any skull shooting. “Cowboy Mike” (that’s what everyone called him at the bar) merely danced with her twice (and he was a pretty nifty dancer). We all watched them from across the room. When they finished, Sarah sheepishly ditched him and returned to our table of well-acquainted drunks; later that night, we teased her about having a new boyfriend while picking up some relatively terrible food at a Jack in the Box restaurant. And we never thought about Cowboy Mike again…until the Olympia cops apprehended him four weeks later. Sarah got to see his charming face on the front page of her newspaper. It seems he had jumped off a bridge into Evel Knievel’s Snake River, fleeing from local authorities who didn’t want him to kill any more of his guileless, enthusiastic, red-haired dance partners.
Somehow, I seem to have acquired three friends who have known serial killers. I find Sarah’s encounter especially intriguing, mostly because I happened to witness it firsthand; by total coincidence, I was visiting the very night Braae tried to flirt with her. However, the reason I find that encounter so interesting is not because I sat five feet from an alleged monster, nor is it because I’ve casually looked into the eyes of evil, nor is it that I feel like I’ve vicariously brushed against some twisted version of celebrity. It’s mostly because something now seems different about Sarah, even though she’s exactly the same. There’s a sexy residue to the whole Serial Killer Experience; somehow, it morphs the way I look a
t all the people who simply happened to collide with them (either by choice or by accident). There’s something amazingly modern about meeting a man who kills innocent strangers arbitrarily. It has a way of making someone’s personality abstractly sophisticated.
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto Page 19
