My Heroes Have Not Always Been Cowboys
My Heroes Have Not Always Been Cowboys
One of the most humiliating experiences of my last few years has been that I’ve started to like county music. This is snobbish, but when I was growing up, the only person in our house who listened to The Grand Old Opry was the maid. I never DREAMED that I would marry someone who listened to county music—let alone consider having children with him.
And then on our honeymoon, my husband said, “Oh, look, honey, it’s five! Let’s listen to Hee Haw!”
I assumed at first that he was joking and then when I realized that he wasn’t, I went in the bathroom and tried to figure out what I’d do. Was it too late for an annulment? Yes, it was. There was nothing that could be done. People marry people all the time and are surprised by what they don’t know. Those women on Donahue who marry guys who have eight other wives in other states and you can’t imagine how they got that way. That’s exactly how I felt. Completely stunned. No-it-could-never-happen-to-me stunned.
So I took the only approach I could. I kept my mouth shut. After all, there are not support groups for relatives of people who like country music. I just assumed that everyone who liked country music was stupid, dirty, irrational, and likely to die young so it was really just a matter of time. And keep the kids away from his records.
And that’s what I did. I still hated country music and I was sort of right about them being dumb sometimes—the music, anyway, not the devotee, I guess. It seemed like all the songs were about bad women and drunk men and sleazy bars and good mothers. If there is anything I don’[t want to have rammed down my throat it’s somebody else’s good mother.
One time we drove to Wyoming, this is an absolutely true story, with one Marty Robbins tape. He’s the one that sings that song that ends, “One little kiss and Felita good bye,” after he gets shot riding away from the bar where she works because he had to see her one more time. That’s the way cowboy songs think. They never tell about guys who ride off from a fight so that their kids don’t have to go on welfare the whole time they’re growing up with no dad.
So anyway, we played this tape the whole time—all the way to Rock Springs. This was during the first five years of our marriage when I was still afraid to sound like the witch I really am. I thought it would sound kind of un-American and snooty if it turned out I didn’t like someone as nice as a man who would risk being killed saying good-bye to a bar girl. When we got home, I vowed that I would never listen to a county song again if I lived to be a million and someone threatened to spear me to a turntable and rotate me to death.
I still contend that it’s country music that changed and not me. For one thing, they got rid of those people that sound like Marty Robbins. Today’s groups wear tuxedos and sound like rock and rollers with a heart. They’re cute too. The women still have that real poofy hair and cheap make-up but they don’t whine so much. And they don’t seem to “cheat” as much. You’d think that all people do in those little cow towns is run around on each other. Of course, maybe they do. But they don’t have to brag about it all the time.
Another reason possibly is the decline of rock and roll—my music of choice. You see, I like any music that’s REAL music. Rock and roll, Zambesi war chants, Beethoven’s Fifth. I can’t stand that Wynton Marsalis, airhead, elevator stuff. I want people to scream and shout and emote. Even Debussy emotes more than some of this elevator stuff. I want to know that I’m listening to real human beings.
And I guess I like to turn on the radio and listen to people sing about the daily things of life. I like it short and easy. And I don’t want to listen to the Shirrells on Hits From the Past.
Those are all just excuses though. As the poet said, “First we pity, then we endure, then we embrace’.” He meant it about sin—but it could probably apply just as well to county music.
How many country singers does it take to screw in a light bulb? It takes five; one to screw in the bulb and four to sing about how much they’ll miss the old one.
One of the most humiliating experiences of my last few years has been that I’ve started to like county music. This is snobbish, but when I was growing up, the only person in our house who listened to The Grand Old Opry was the maid. I never DREAMED that I would marry someone who listened to county music—let alone consider having children with him.
And then on our honeymoon, my husband said, “Oh, look, honey, it’s five! Let’s listen to Hee Haw!”
I assumed at first that he was joking and then when I realized that he wasn’t, I went in the bathroom and tried to figure out what I’d do. Was it too late for an annulment? Yes, it was. There was nothing that could be done. People marry people all the time and are surprised by what they don’t know. Those women on Donahue who marry guys who have eight other wives in other states and you can’t imagine how they got that way. That’s exactly how I felt. Completely stunned. No-it-could-never-happen-to-me stunned.
So I took the only approach I could. I kept my mouth shut. After all, there are not support groups for relatives of people who like country music. I just assumed that everyone who liked country music was stupid, dirty, irrational, and likely to die young so it was really just a matter of time. And keep the kids away from his records.
And that’s what I did. I still hated country music and I was sort of right about them being dumb sometimes—the music, anyway, not the devotee, I guess. It seemed like all the songs were about bad women and drunk men and sleazy bars and good mothers. If there is anything I don’[t want to have rammed down my throat it’s somebody else’s good mother.
One time we drove to Wyoming, this is an absolutely true story, with one Marty Robbins tape. He’s the one that sings that song that ends, “One little kiss and Felita good bye,” after he gets shot riding away from the bar where she works because he had to see her one more time. That’s the way cowboy songs think. They never tell about guys who ride off from a fight so that their kids don’t have to go on welfare the whole time they’re growing up with no dad.
So anyway, we played this tape the whole time—all the way to Rock Springs. This was during the first five years of our marriage when I was still afraid to sound like the witch I really am. I thought it would sound kind of un-American and snooty if it turned out I didn’t like someone as nice as a man who would risk being killed saying good-bye to a bar girl. When we got home, I vowed that I would never listen to a county song again if I lived to be a million and someone threatened to spear me to a turntable and rotate me to death.
I still contend that it’s country music that changed and not me. For one thing, they got rid of those people that sound like Marty Robbins. Today’s groups wear tuxedos and sound like rock and rollers with a heart. They’re cute too. The women still have that real poofy hair and cheap make-up but they don’t whine so much. And they don’t seem to “cheat” as much. You’d think that all people do in those little cow towns is run around on each other. Of course, maybe they do. But they don’t have to brag about it all the time.
Another reason possibly is the decline of rock and roll—my music of choice. You see, I like any music that’s REAL music. Rock and roll, Zambesi war chants, Beethoven’s Fifth. I can’t stand that Wynton Marsalis, airhead, elevator stuff. I want people to scream and shout and emote. Even Debussy emotes more than some of this elevator stuff. I want to know that I’m listening to real human beings.
And I guess I like to turn on the radio and listen to people sing about the daily things of life. I like it short and easy. And I don’t want to listen to the Shirrells on Hits From the Past.
Those are all just excuses though. As the poet said, “First we pity, then we endure, then we embrace’.” He meant it about sin—but it could probably apply just as well to county music.
How many country singers does it take to screw in a light bulb? It takes five; one to screw in the bulb and four to sing about how much they’ll miss the old one.
Comments