Local and regional music scenes are great. There’s a lot to be said for communities of artists, promoters, and fans forming support systems to enable success outside of the mass mainstream model that so often squelches the independence of its stars. Or forming support systems to help catapult local/regional acts to that national level so that they can have their independence squelched (if that’s what they want). In his excellent Red Dirt: The Power of Infrastructure at The 9513 last year, Ben Cisneros (himself active in the Southern California scene) concluded:

I, for one, hope that not only does Red Dirt music continue to thrive, but that folks in other regions of the country follow Texas/Oklahoma’s example, get organized, and work together to enable regional success for independent artists playing new, original country music.

Amen to that. I’m all for getting organized and supporting the music.

I’m not as crazy about the insular, myopic attitudes you sometimes find within these scenes. Like rabid Red Dirt fans loudly proclaiming the superiority of everything Texas to everything anywhere else (especially everything Nashville). Or some Nashville industry type who hangs out with bassists from justly forgotten ’90s bands proclaiming that Texas music is “quite un-polished (poorly recorded both vocally and musically)” compared to “the polished sound of good vocals and fine musicianship that Nashville is known for.”

Sometimes it’s outright antagonism, deliberate ‘us’ versus ‘them’ posturing: selling t-shirts with silly slogans on them or making a career of singing songs about how Nashville sucks. Or, on the flip-side, assuming that the world revolves around Nashville, that music made elsewhere is music on its way to becoming something good enough to make a dent in the consciousness of Music City. As though Nashville is the endpoint of every artist’s musical evolution. (Boy, wouldn’t that be terrible.)

Sometimes it’s just ignorance. People who spend most of their time wrapped up in the Texas scene or the Nashville scene or any other scene assume that whatever they’ve got going is better than what happens anywhere else… without really bothering to expose themselves to or understand music from outside.

Maybe my attitude toward this is partially informed by my own location. If I were in Nashville, I might be content to focus on the music happening around town without bothering to look elsewhere. There would certainly be enough happening to keep me occupied. I’m sure the Texas circuit could keep me busy too.

In Northern California, though, I get used to looking elsewhere. Because if I didn’t, there wouldn’t be much to look at. I like country music from Nashville, Texas, California, Kentucky, Illinois, North Carolina, New York, Oregon, Australia, and lots of other places. I just like country music, period, and don’t care where it comes from. The internet makes it easier than ever to be this type of music fan.

I’m glad that regional scenes exist to support the careers of acts I enjoy, so I guess I’m also glad (in a certain way) that some people militantly support these scenes to the detriment of all others. That sort of fervor keeps people coming out to shows and keeps musicians working. As a consumer of music, though, I can’t imagine imposing those restrictions on myself. I listen with my ears, not with my geographical biases.

Roger Miller once sang that “it takes all kinds to make a world.” Since Roger Miller is sort of my spiritual guru, I try to keep those words in mind as I encounter things and people I don’t understand.

But sometimes it’s too much. Even though I generally avoid visiting country gossip sites, their very existence bugs me. Who are these people demanding the latest pictures of Taylor Swift shopping and Kenny Chesney being bald as soon as they’re available? Why have they chosen to associate themselves with this genre? Are any of them over the age of 14? Is this a sign of the apocalypse?

Gossip sites have a right to exist, and they absolutely have an audience. In fact, if I were mostly interested in having a heavily-trafficked blog, I would probably be well-advised to start up another online gossip rag instead of continuing to plug away at this thing I’m doing now. I just don’t have it in me.

Beyond my longstanding distaste for gossip in general (as a precocious lad, I would advise chattering adults to “cut the small talk,” which I’m sure they must have found adorable), there’s something about country music in particular that makes it a terrible fit for the gossipy format. Isn’t this supposed to be a music of substance? A music of adult complexities and hard truths? The antithesis of the superficial youth- and image-centered world of Hollywood? Right, so remind me again: why do I need to know what Chuck Wicks ate for breakfast this morning? I’m more interested in whether he can sing a good country song.

One explanation for the popularity of these sites is the personal connection many fans in this particular genre feel to their artists of choice. They see them as friends. That’s the whole idea behind the CMA Musical Fan Fest Fair FunTown or whatever they’re calling it these days. Up close and personal with your favorite singers. Fan appreciation. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Sure, I’m living in a nice house and being flown around the country because you’re buying my albums, but we’re also buddies. And the relationship obviously isn’t one-sided because I’m taking these two days out of my year to thank you for the 365 days per year you spend worshipping me. That’s fair, right? Good, now wait in a seven-mile-long line just to shake my hand.

Sorry, got a little carried away there. The point is that even if fans do see their favorite singers as friends, that doesn’t explain needing to know every solitary thing about them. If my friends were that demanding, I’d disown them. Luckily, they don’t usually chase me around with cameras or call for constant updates.

It’s no coincidence that one of the major gossip songs in country music is actually an anti-gossip song. “Harper Valley PTA” was a huge hit for Jeannie C. Riley in 1968. Penned by legendary songsmith Tom T. Hall, it’s all about Mrs. Johnson “socking it to” a judgmental (and, as she points out, quite hypocritical) group of her peers who apparently have nothing better to do than involve themselves with all her alleged problems. The message is simple, clear and (in terms of the country music canon) familiar: butt out. Country gossip sites are often more like the meddlesome Bobby Taylor or the nosy Shirley Thompson than the admirable Mrs. Johnson.

That’s all for now. I’ll play you out with some Hank Williams:

Oh, the woman on our party line’s the nosiest thing
She picks up her receiver when she knows it’s my ring
Why don’t you mind your own business, mind your own business
Well, if you mind your business, then you won’t be mindin’ mine.

I don’t claim to be the greatest reviewer in the world. I’ve only been doing it a few months and wouldn’t necessarily call it my strong suit. But one thing I think I do have going for me is that I always start from a reasonable understanding of what a review is (though where I’ll end up is anyone’s guess).

That’s not much, but it’s something. Many of the reviews I read around the internet and, to a lesser extent, in print publications seem to start from a flawed understanding of the review format. Flawed too strong a word? Okay, an understanding that is foreign to my own. I’m talking about “reviews” that…

… aim chiefly to let you know that something’s available (announcements).
… are basically just descriptions of what a song/album is about (summaries).
… are built on colorless, unfailingly positive language (press releases).
… merely describe the author’s personal relationship to the song/album (diary entries).
… are mostly interested in predicting airplay/sales rather than assessing quality (chart predictions).
… say nothing more substantive than “like it” or “hate it” (ratings).

Don’t mistake this for a comment on review length: a pithy paragraph is oftentimes a lot more interesting and insightful than a rambling, ill-considered rant. Also, don’t think that I’m opposed to any of the above styles of writing; in fact, I do some of them myself on a regular basis. I just don’t usually call those pieces reviews.

Summaries, ratings, personal responses, and chart predictions can all be parts of a review, but it seems to me that the most important element is also the one most often missing: the analytical component. My favorite reviews are the ones that begin from a gut response (love it, hate it, think it’s boring, etc.) but don’t stop there; that go on to explore the why and craft a whole argument around it, shedding new light on the original work in the process. If your review amounts to a “love it” or “hate it,” all the reader can do is agree or disagree. That’s boring. Complicate it. Add new layers. Develop an argument and see how far you can push it. Just do something interesting.

Adopting the approach that I’m espousing here doesn’t guarantee a quality review. There are still plenty of opportunities to mess up in the actual writing of the review (and I should know). But I do feel like it would raise the general quality of discussion if everyone at least started from a similar understanding of the term.

Losing a major label record deal can be a mixed blessing. The heartbreak that accompanies the deferred dream of stardom is often balanced by the hope of finding greater artistic freedom outside the confines of the big label machinery. After recovering from the initial disappointment of being dropped, many artists go on to record some of their most honest and vital work.

That’s what happened with Jamey Johnson, whose 2006 debut on BNA scarcely hinted at the revelatory That Lonesome Song, which Johnson self-released late the following year (his short stint on BNA by then already a distant memory). In fact, that home-brewed sophomore effort was so good that it won Johnson critical acclaim and a new major label deal with Mercury in 2008.

For every story like that, though, there’s a story of things heading south when an artist goes indie. Consider Clint Black, whose 2004 Equity debut (after more than a decade on RCA Nashville) took his already spotty, largely self-penned catalog to hitherto unknown lows. Or Buddy Jewell, who was a solid up-and-coming star on Columbia Nashville before becoming a shrill voice for love-it-or-leave-it nationalism on My Little Jewell Music. One more? Toby Keith, whose Show Dog stint has revealed the extent to which the Big Dog Daddy’s personality and musical sensibilities are best buried beneath layers of focus groups, overbearing producers and people willing to boss him around. Was the guy who gave us “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” and “Who’s That Man” just a Nashville factory creation? Whatever. I want him back.

The anti-establishment revolutionary in me has long held that sometimes the smartest thing a middling mainstream favorite can do is get off of a major label (willingly or otherwise) and take a long, lonesome walk toward self-discovery on the indie road. But sometimes that’s not how it plays out once the ties are broken.

It seems like I’ve been hearing about the CMA Awards nonstop since the nominees were announced two months ago. Predictions, editorials, and history lessons were all good fun, but at a certain point it got to be too much. The awards season, like the election season, wore on too long. I was burnt out weeks ago. Unlike the election season, the end result was not change or the making of history; in this show, the winners were the safe bets. It was like the world’s longest build-up to the same old thing.

Last night, I was thankful for small favors – Taylor Swift not being acknowledged (beyond nomination, at least) for her vocal prowess, the sparse “Stay” rightly being rewarded, some of the performers not sucking. Today, in the sobering light of morning – okay, in the sobering light of almost-noon – I’m reminded of just how irrelevant the proceedings of the night were to me. When I sat down to write this, I didn’t pop in a CD by Carrie Underwood or Rodney Atkins – I popped in a CD by Kasey Chambers & Shane Nicholson, who have approximately zero chance of being featured on the CMAs despite putting out one of the best (and most unabashedly country) albums of the year. Because apparently someone thinks I would rather watch Kid Rock and Lil Wayne.

I’m glad to see the wrap-ups posted today because that means the awards season is finally over and I can go back to doing what I do best: not caring about the CMAs.

When a singer sends every radio station a personalized version of his* current single with that station’s call letters not-so-subtly slipped into the lyrics, it always makes me cringe. Sure, it might give the artist a slight competitive edge, but it’s also like a confession that the song probably can’t compete on its own merits: it needs to resort to flattery. And seriously, why should the station be flattered? The singer probably burnt through a huge list of call letters in the span of an hour. It’s highly unlikely that he knows KNCI from KTOM… or cares. He’s just stroking radio ego.

This whole trend reminds me of the developmental stage where toddlers will, with utter incomprehension, repeat anything they’re told. Sure, it can be entertaining to hear the little tyke repeat classic lines from The Godfather. But look at the way he watches you for affirmation, measuring the effect of what he just said, and try not to feel a little guilty for abusing the privilege. Kids are more interesting when they stop parroting and start taking some stances. The same is true of musical artists. When they’re willing to sing any station name handed to them just to get a nod of approval from Papa Radio, they come across as weak and needy. How about going out on a limb and having a little faith in the song and performance as it is?

* Why does this seem to happen most often with male singers?

From a marketing standpoint, maybe there’s no such thing as album release overkill. Doing everything within your power to get people excited about your artist’s new music makes good business sense. From a consumer standpoint, however, there is definitely the possibility of being overwhelmed or put off by too much promotion. When an artist’s promotional team starts piling gimmick upon gimmick, it can sometimes seem more like pushy desperation than savvy marketing.

Take all the hoopla about Kenny Chesney’s new album, for example. The talk show tour happening this week is standard for artists of Chesney’s magnitude; what isn’t – or wasn’t until recently – is the fact that by the time of the release week blitz, we’ve already been subjected to a weeks-long iTunes promotion that has gradually leaked bits of the album in an effort to work anticipation to a fever pitch. Oh, and each of the two major country music television channels is airing its own exclusive Lucky Old Sun special. And did I mention that as soon as we’re through with all the release hubbub this week, the album will come out again next week?

Rather, the album will almost come out again next week. It will be short some songs and videos. In what basically amounts to a semantic mind game, they call the big version of the album “deluxe” and the smaller version “standard.” Even though the deluxe version is the first to hit stores and the media blitz is timed to coincide with its release. The other (supposedly ‘standard’) version arrives later without much fanfare. If the album is due on October 21 but you release an expanded version on October 14, guess what? The album came out on the 14th. That’s the real one. In terms of the way it’s released and promoted, the deluxe edition should be considered standard. If they called it as such, though, they would have to come up with a new name for the second release of the album – perhaps something like ‘the skimpy edition.’

Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer albums that are released once. Not now and again next week, and certainly not for weeks leading up to the ‘official’ release. I shouldn’t have to play name games (deluxe? standard?) or get a PhD to understand exactly what’s available when. Just give me a single release date. If I want the album, I’ll go buy it. Simple, right? You can still go out on your promotional talk show tours; just don’t introduce all sorts of unnecessary complications to the actual release of the album.

I can’t help but wonder if all the energy and resources that go into turning the release of a measly CD into a never-ending promotional event might be better funneled into – oh, I don’t know – improving the music itself. Ten years from now, I won’t remember how creatively an album was released. The music is what lasts and matters, all the flash and sizzle of marketing notwithstanding.

I fell into the WMA format like an arranged marriage. I wanted to rip music from CDs onto my hard drive. Windows had set me up with Media Player, so I used it. This was long before I even entertained the idea of getting an mp3 player, so compatibility wasn’t a concern. I just wanted to be able to listen to music on the computer and burn some mix CDs (for personal listening in a confined area far away from all other human beings… please don’t arrest me). WMA was as good as anything.

By the time I started caring about different audio formats a couple years later, I already had a couple thousand songs in WMA format. I learned that MP3s would give me more flexibility, but at that point it seemed more practical to deal with the limitations than to re-rip all my music or convert it and sacrifice some sound quality. When it came time to get my first mp3 player, I bought one that played WMA. No big deal. Four years later, that player is still working perfectly. In that respect, I’ve had no reason to switch sides. I’ve never had any problems with Windows Media Player, either. It’s not hip, but it’s functional and now even quite handsome in its eleventh version. I like it.

Recently, though, the limitations have been bugging me. I don’t necessarily want to buy an iPod or adopt iTunes as my music management software of choice, but I sure wouldn’t mind having those options available to me. Having a sizable music library in WMA format is like being locked into a relationship with someone who’s pretty okay on their own but never lets you talk to other people. I wish I had turned back at 2,000. Now I’m up to ~10,000, which makes the prospect of re-ripping or converting my entire library more burdensome than ever. What’s a guy to do?

Obviously, country lyrics are not going to be written in the Queen’s English. Different language rules apply, and that’s fine by me. However, it still bugs me when a songwriter or singer leaves just one word out of place. Especially when the correct word would have fit just as well. Taylor Swift’s line about “talk[ing] real slow ’cause it’s late and his mama don’t know” comes immediately to mind. “Talk real low” would sound virtually the same and make a whole lot more sense, so why not use it instead? Probably just to bug me. That’s more of a diction thing than a grammar thing, though. (Okay, it should actually be “talk really slowly,” but we’re not old schoolmasters here.)

More troubling is the 2002 Travis Tritt album cut and cowrite “Time to Get Crazy,” which seems hellbent on repeating the phrase “as bad as I hate to” as many times as possible in a three-minute timespan. I’m not the anointed master of language, so let’s turn this one over to the people for a vote.

Google, do your thing:
Search results for “as bad as I hate to”: 18,400, with Travis Tritt lyrics at #4
Search results for “as much as I hate to”: 1,210,000

Go go gadget calculator:
1210000/18400 = 65.76…

“As much as I hate to” is over 65 times more common than “as bad as I hate to.” This means that if you were in a room with 100 other people and polled them on this question, there would most likely be just one person arguing for “bad” against the protestations of everyone else. If that person insisted on loudly singing the incorrect phrase over and over again in a mocking fashion, he would probably get mugged.

They’re both monosyllabic words. Why do you insist on giving me pain, Tritt?

Things That Threaten My Sanity: Inaudible Influences

I understand that singers aren’t usually going to sound just like the people they claim as influences. That would be mimicry, not artistry. But I think they should sound somewhat like their influences. There should be something – the voice, the phrasing, the instrumentation, the lyrical preoccupations – that puts you in mind of an artist’s heroes. Without reading the PR material. Without thumbing through the iPod. Without them having to tell you. It should be in the music.

Take Dwight Yoakam as an example. He’s a true original, fusing disparate elements from his diverse musical background in a way that keeps all those elements distinguishable in the mix. There’s a lot going on, but the result isn’t just a big confused mess. You can hear Buck and Merle and Johnny Cash and Elvis and Ralph Stanley and others – sometimes all at once – but the sound is still distinctly Dwight. No need for name-checking or photo-ops with his heroes or anything of the sort. It’s all in the music. And when Dwight does take the time to talk to some reporter about the lasting legacy of Buck or Elvis or anyone else, he can speak with authority. Because he lives it.

On the other end of the spectrum, there’s Crystal Shawanda. I realize that as a new artist on a major label she doesn’t have the same creative freedom or right to self-expression as Yoakam. Maybe she wanted to debut with a very traditional country album and her label nixed the idea, though the rocked-up, bluesy version of “Your Cheatin’ Heart” which she apparently brought to the table herself makes me wonder. Whatever the reason, the idolization of Loretta Lynn that came up in virtually every pre-release interview is in scant evidence on the album itself, which owes much more to Gretchen Wilson and Jo Dee Messina than the Coal Miner’s Daughter. I don’t care what style of music you make as long as you’re honest about it. When you promise me Loretta and give me Jo Dee, you’re starting our relationship off on the wrong foot.

Perhaps Shawanda just wasn’t specific enough in her Loretta references. If she had said “I personally relate to the attitude and songs of Loretta Lynn, but musically I have as little to do with her as anyone else on the radio these days,” maybe I wouldn’t have gotten all mixed up. There are different kinds of influence. I didn’t understand. It’s great to like artists, to have been raised on their songs, to identify with their stories. But, as a music listener, I only care about influence I can hear.