Over the years, I've seen a lot of country bands. To be clear, a band in country terms is distinct from a rock band. In the sixties a country band played "backup" to the star. That said, some bands distinguished themselves ~ The Buckaroos and The Strangers, to name two. I would add the little-known Po' Boys, who backed Bill Anderson, and get zero mention.
By the seventies things began to change. Alabama was self-contained; Randy Owens was the lead singer, but the band in its entirety was the star. In the eighties, NGDB (The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band) were iconic. The Mavericks, in the nineties, distinguished themselves as seminal musicians.
But the best true band I ever saw live was Diamond Rio. It was a small, intimate venue, in a casino many miles from home. Having dinner in the restaurant prior to the concert, I spied Gene Johnson at a table alone, endeavoring to eat his steak and baked potato, when a couple of frenzied female fans accosted him, and I thought, wow, leave the poor man alone. He was gracious, but I would never do that to another human being. It was an eye-opening revelation; thus when my then-husband and I passed by his table on our way out, I deliberately ignored Gene.
At half past eight o'clock, we settled into our third-row seats in the venue and proceeded to be wowed by a phenomenal band. I think there was actually a red velvet curtain as a backdrop.
Marty Roe was a true bluegrass singer who tucked himself into the country genre and embraced the role of showman. Lead guitarist Jimmy Olander exuded perfection and personality. Gene Johnson, despite the heartburn interference, was a master. The band was rounded out by Brian Prout on drums, Dan Truman caressing the keys, and Dana Williams plunking the bass.
There are great artists who are duds at live performance. See: Alan Jackson. I wouldn't even remember the Jackson concert I attended except for a skinny elm tree perched in front of the mic wearing a white cowboy hat.
Diamond Rio was no Alan Jackson.
I love this song:
I'm partial to this one, too:
Barney Fife and a country band? C'mon!
Sadly, I don't know if DR was oblivious, but they never made an official video of this song?
All Rio's songs weren't about the fun.
Yes, George Strait did it, but Diamond Rio did it first:
The nineties can be summed up for me in two words ~ Diamond Rio.
I'm beginning to get a bit pissed off about nineties country artists being ignored. It may have begun with Ken Burns' "Country Music" series, which completely overlooked the most iconic artists of a decade when country music was at its best (see: George Strait). For me, country was represented by artists like Tracy Lawrence, Mark Chesnutt, Clint Black, Diamond Rio, Dwight Yoakam, Patty Loveless, Collin Raye, Randy Travis, Travis Tritt, Clay Walker, Restless Heart, Earl Thomas Conley, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Foster and Lloyd, Ricky Van Shelton, Trisha Yearwood, et al.
The nineties was when country and our hearts soared. Even the sad songs made one at least feel alive. I don't know what country's like now; and frankly, from everything I've read, I don't care to know. Country for me was laid to rest somewhere around 1999. I'm told, though, that it's a pallid imitation of the genre formerly known as country.
So for the uninitiated, I'm bringing the nineties back. Mark Chesnutt warranted his own singular post, but let's not overlook the others. In posts to come, I will introduce novices to actual country music and remind those of us in the know of artists who may have slipped our minds.
I'm a big booster of Tracy Lawrence, as described here.
In case you've forgotten or never knew, watch these:
Yep, I'm bringing nineties country back. Stay tuned.
Some asshat at an event called the Du Quoin State Fair in Illinois decided to fire the band Confederate Railroad from its grandstand lineup (after signing a contract with them) because of their name. The band was scheduled to perform with Restless Heart and Shenandoah under the banner “90s Country Reloaded Day” (one of my all-time favorite country eras).
The "woke" imbecile went on to state:
“While every artist has a right to expression, we believe this
decision is in the best interest of serving all the people in our
state.”
Confederate Railroad was formed in 1987and hit its stride in the early nineties with country hits like "Queen of Memphis", "She Took It Like a Man", and "Trashy Women" (not a personal favorite). While not by any means one of my preferred bands, they were innocuous; and you know, I never gave the band's name a second thought. Every band needs a name, after all.
In the case of the Blah Blah Blah State Fair, apparently some annoying political blogger (is there any other kind?) complained that someone's (his) fragile feelings would be hurt by a band he'd never in his life heard of taking the stage in front of...you know, people. And who reads blogs anyway? Apparently only beta boys from the Illinois Ag Department.
Here's the deal, Ag Dude: It's just a name.
Coming up with a band name can be a tedious process or a spur-of-the-moment one. Sure, you could use a random word generator, which would produce a result like Fungus Quarry; or you could fret about it for months and quibble with your band mates until the resulting animus causes the group to break up. And if you do decide to stay together and ultimately land upon a name that everyone is okay with, then hit the big time, how could you know that some thirty years later a quivering mouse will pull the covers over his head and sob because your moniker has triggered infantile PTSD?
Sure, it starts with Confederate Railroad, but where does it end? We could dissect every country band name and find something to enrage us.
For instance, did you know that Oak Ridge, Tennessee was the place where in 1942 the first atomic bomb was built? Bye bye, Oak Ridge Boys. Sorry.
The name Asleep At The Wheel offends me because it promotes drowsy driving. Ray Benson, you had a great run. Now it's over.
I suppose you didn't know that The Statler Brothers were named after a brand of facial tissue. Is tissue bio-degradable? The environment is too precious to risk it. Harold, Don, et al ~ you've gotta go.
Restless Heart? Making fun of cardiac patients? Real sensitive.
Don't even get me started on Alabama. Roy Moore? Come on...
When it comes to Diamond Rio, I'm stringently opposed to sullying the earth to mine precious stones for the top one per cent to flash.
Oh, so you call yourselves Highway 101? I'd suggest Bike Lane 101 as an alternative. Need I explain?
The Judds ~ I don't know what "Judds" are, but I'm pretty certain I'm opposed to them.
Soon all the billboards will advertise, "Band ~ Your Name Here ~ Coming Soon!", and one can roll the dice on purchasing tickets for the show.
I'd vent my rage at the dolts who work for the Illinois Department of Agriculture, but it's all so silly (except not silly for the band, who lost a crucial paycheck).
I always liked getting in on the ground floor. When LaBelle's Department Store opened, all of us were new. It tends to even the playing field. Cliques have not yet formed; there's no, "Jenny never did it that way". Because there was no Jenny. US Healthcare was brand-spankin' new, at least in my city.
I knew nothing about health insurance, but I did possess a brain. I wasn't concerned about ranking at the bottom of the clump of thirty new employees. I didn't have to be the best, but I was not about to be the worst. If there existed a health insurance company in my town before US Healthcare, I plead ignorance. There may have been a two-room alcove somewhere above a furniture store that sold "health and life" to ranchers who couldn't legitimately form a group and therefore paid five thousand dollars a month for major medical. I therefore didn't know from whence the other twenty-nine girls were plucked ~ maybe they had a "semblance" of medical knowledge, like me.
Our new digs were a rented floor on the second story of a bank. We were granted parking passes, as long as we utilized the parking "arcade", which was a queasy sphere of lightheadedness I managed to maneuver each morning without passing out. In the office we were seated in sequential rows of five, in front of green-screened CRT's with impatiently-blinking cursors. Our trainers had been shipped in from Philadelphia and thus two wildly divergent cultures collided. East-coasters did not suffer fools or even semi-fools. Every raised hand was met with an attempt at a civil response, but disdain dripped like cheese steak from their lips. The travelers did not enjoy their sojourn to the hinterlands, as much as the idea had seemed like a fun lark when it was first presented to them. We were "rustic". Our local restaurants especially offended them. Amongst themselves, they pondered whether we had indoor bathroom facilities.
It had been determined that we would learn how to process eye exams. How bad could we fuck those up? If we managed to master that "skill", we might eventually advance to office visits. With three trainers and thirty trainees, one would have to hold her hand in the air for ten minutes before someone wended their way to the table, only to answer, "It's fine". Oh, okay. There goes my production, I guess.
Essentially, what we were learning was how to navigate US Healthcare's operating system. It makes sense in retrospect. But still, the scorn oozed.
On morning break, we all rode the elevator downstairs and streamed out to the concrete flower planters along Third Street. I gravitated to fellow smokers and found myself in a clutch of two much younger gals, Sherry and Marla. They may have told me where they'd worked before, but I have no recollection. After a couple of weeks, Sherry informed me one morning on break that I had only secured the position because someone dropped out. She didn't say it maliciously, but it still stung. At least I now understood why USHC had waited so long to call me. I don't know how Sherry knew and I didn't inquire. It might not have been true, but I think it was. Sherry was a nice person and she had no reason to jerk me around. Now that I knew I was an afterthought, I became more determined than ever to show 'em.
Our local supervisors had been pre-selected ~ Kim, Barb, and Connie. They didn't do much during training; essentially hovered about trying to appear knowledgeable. When they ventured an answer to someone's raised hand, they were tentative, glancing up at the Philadelphia experts for validation. The rest of the day they huddled in a tiny back office and did...planning or something. There was also a manager; Marian, I believe her name was. She didn't stay long; I have no idea why. Maybe working with Connie was just too keen a punishment.
As the days dribbled on, I pondered who my supervisor would be. I liked Kim. He was an affable sort. Barb seemed a bit uptight, but harmless. Connie was a red flag. She didn't appear "real"; a person who went through the motions like she thought a normal human would, but couldn't quite pull it off convincingly.
Toward the end of our training, it was announced that three assistant supervisor positions were available. I applied. What the heck? Most everybody else did; I didn't want to seem unambitious. I didn't get it, of course. I didn't think I would. Girls named Carlene and (another) Shelly and somebody else who apparently was not memorable because I can't remember her, were granted the promotions. At least no one in my little three-person clique got it, so we could go on smoking and making small talk and anticipating our move to the new building on the north side of town that we'd all driven past a time or two and spied the formulating blue and white construction.
My supervisor would be Barb. When the building was completed, we moved into our respective units with their pre-ordained cubicles; Barb seated in her extra-special glass-enclosed case up front. Bye-bye sickening garage precipice.
And life went on.
As did country.
My man, Mark Chesnutt:
Pam Tillis:
And still there was Ronnie Milsap:
Some new guy:
Another new guy:
A new duo:
Yes, like me, all the way from '73, Tanya was still live 'n kickin':
As stressful and time-consuming as my job was in 1998, at least it sheltered me from the tunes on the radio.
The last thing I wanted to do was give up on country music. I'd been drenched in country for thirty-odd years by then. That was a hard habit to break. I think country radio knew how bad the songs were, but they were slaves to programmers -- no more would a disc jockey break a hit record -- there were no more Ralph Emerys or Bill Macks. Spinning records was akin to a job ringing up a cash register.
The country landscape was barren. George was beginning to drift toward treacle (it would get worse). But he still had a couple of good tunes:
Diamond Rio was close to wrapping up. They'd had a phenomenal run, but I guess everything (except George Strait) comes to an end eventually:
Yes, this was an Aerosmith song, but Mark Chesnutt was always a good song picker. He would get better after this (believe it or not), and would go on to reach the pantheon of my all-time favorite country singers. This isn't my favorite, but hell, Mark was still keepin' on.
Clint was back. He wrote this song with Steve Wariner. Aside from "Better Man", this is one of my favorite Clint Black songs:
I thought I would throw Reba in here, because she actually recorded a country song in '98. I wasn't a fan of Reba's theatrics. They were "tricks". I like a singer who sings.
Who was hot in 1998? Well, there was Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. There was Jo Dee Messina. There was the Dixie Chicks, who I liked a lot until they (Natalie) went nuts. A lot of my standbys had hits, but not hits that I liked -- Steve Wariner, Brooks and Dunn, Shania Twain, Randy Travis.
Somebody who didn't even reach the Top Country 100 had the best album of the year. I don't understand popular tastes. I don't understand why this wasn't one of the top hits of the year. But you know what? Quality survives. That's why Dwight Yoakam is still one of my all-time favorite singers.
From "A Long Way Home":
Sometime in 1999 I abandoned country music all together. That's where it ended for me. I miss it, but it's not coming back. Now I listen to Sirius, when I listen to music at all. I don't listen to music much.
I suppose others experience it, too -- when a company to which they've devoted their best years disappears. It's eerie to think that one's past is gone, just like that, never to be retrieved or visited, except in memories.
There once was a company called US Healthcare. Really. Even though I can't even find a picture of its logo on Google images. The company was founded in 1975 by a man named Leonard Abramson. The company started small. It was first called HMO of Pennsylvania. There was one office, in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania. I had no clue where Blue Bell, Pennsylvania was, but the city had a rather pretty name. (I now know, in hindsight, that Blue Bell is a suburb of Philadelphia.) In 1983, Mr. Abramson took his company public and renamed it US Healthcare.
In 1990 Mr. Abramson was looking to expand his operation and began a search for a city whose citizenry possessed a good work ethic. That's where I came into the picture. Somehow, Bismarck, North Dakota was chosen. I say "somehow" because Bismarck never got chosen for anything except possibly "world's windiest town". It's true we had (have) a good work ethic. We didn't know any better. We all just naturally assumed we were supposed to work. We didn't know there was a choice. Perceptions of work vary by geographic longitude. I understand this now because I live in Minnesota. Perhaps we Dakotans had an innate guilt that if we didn't go the extra mile we'd be viewed as lazy. Thus we always did much more than was asked of us. Other big companies eventually learned to exploit that guilt, but US Healthcare was the first.
The Blue Bell employees worked thirty-seven-and-a-half hours a week and got paid for forty. We clocked forty hours a week and were grateful for the opportunity. Our Blue Bell trainers viewed us as utter morons, but we abided that and held our collective breath until they whirled back on the jet plane home to PA. Condescending disregard was de riguer for us.
I only secured my position by divine providence, but I held on for dear life. After all, it paid $6.00 per hour, which was twenty-five cents more than I was making as a Farm Records Secretary. We were the experiment. Let's see how they do and if they can hack it, was the mindset of the Blue Bellians. Well, we did great. Because we worked our asses off. We cared about getting it right. I didn't know anything about health insurance, but I knew how to follow instructions. I began life at US Healthcare as a claims examiner and eventually convinced someone to take me on as an assistant supervisor, and then as a full-fledged supervisor.
I excelled in supervision because I knew how people wanted to be treated from my many years of being a nobody. It's not rocket science, people. I understood how far a good word could propel even the lowliest of us. How bestowing a modicum of respect could engender results that surprised and delighted even the most self-effacing wallflower. In 1996 Freaky Phil called me into his office and presented me with an offer that I could "think about overnight and then come back and say yes". It was a pilot program the company called "IKFI" - "Integrated Key From Image". It was a glorified data entry unit that US Healthcare was ready to pilot. Phil's offer felt like a demotion. I was a claims specialist and now I had been selected to slum into the realm of data entry, with a three-person staff of temps. I guess my construct of making peace with Phil hadn't worked after all. I knew my fellow supervisors would look down on me and thank the lord it hadn't been them. That sense of mortification haunted me. I went home Friday evening and fretted for two long days. Some divine sense of approbation told me that this was an actual "opportunity". I didn't see how it could be, but I knew, instinctively, that it was.
I carried my claims binders over to an unused, echoey area of the building. There were cubicles set up, but their desks were loaded down with broken computer monitors and other miscellaneous castoff equipment. A fine layer of dust covered every surface. Someone, in an optimistic frame of mind had long ago constructed a glass supervisor's enclosure in the corner. I grabbed a tissue from the box and tried to scour a peephole in the greasy film. I sat down behind the desk and squinted at the squiggly lines and numbers on my monitor that represented "something", which I would eventually learn was the workflow I was tasked with managing. I received a crash course in the keying process by phone from another Philly Patronizer. I don't remember her name, but her voice dripped with a combination of pity and disdain. Thus, I sat alone in a ghost unit and played with my new toy for three days, until my three temp workers showed up to begin their assignment. I think the company hired temps -- and only three of them -- because they were not convinced this new experiment would work out. The IT guys back in Pennsylvania were like actual humans. They were invested in making their new process work, and they didn't treat me like a simpleton. I appreciated that. My three new employees were surprisingly awesome. One girl, Gaby, had emigrated from Germany. She was quick to learn and a joy to be around. The four of us stepped through the ether together and bonded, like hostages do. Phil stopped over often and sat down in my visitor's chair just like he used to do. He never offered any words of wisdom or counsel. He was just bored, and this area of the building was a new place for him to peruse. He exhibited zero interest in this new US Healthcare experiment, which perhaps signaled his confidence in me as a manager, but I don't think so. I think he simply didn't care. Dave called a couple of times. Dave was the VP of Something or Other -- possibly the Claims operation -- the guy I'd spilled my guts to a couple of years earlier regarding Evil Connie. I never knew how I ended up on Dave's radar. Maybe he chose me for this new position because I'd demonstrated that I was a fighter. And there was no question that Dave chose me -- Phil was simply his imbecilic conduit.
Dave was a yeller. He loved to yell at and scare people and take their measure. It was an odd management style, but one that lots of executives use. Dave called one day and yelled at me about something. I responded with facts and figures, not necessarily calmly, but I didn't back down. Dave never again bothered me. I think I garnered his stamp of approval that day. My state of mind was, no other fool will take this job, so sink or swim or stand on the unemployment line, which was a definite possibility, take me or leave me. I never asked for this.
From three to twelve to nineteen, the temps began to stack up. The building manager began constructing additional cubicles. I finally said to Phil, "Come on! Let's hire these people!" Let's make them legitimate. My staff was supporting an entire company, lessening claims examiners' load. We garnered zero respect -- we were, after all, data entry drones -- but I knew and my staff knew that our results were pivotal. Suddenly I had thirty-seven folks. I had to designate an assistant/trainer. Kristen had begun as a temp, like everyone had. She was whip-smart and fast, and better at the nuts and bolts of the job than I could ever be, and I was pretty good. She was a kid - maybe twenty years old. I picked her. Kristen handled the day-to-day operations while I composed performance reviews and dealt with the Philadelphia overseers. In the blink of an eye, things began to spiral exponentially. I had thirty-seven employees and was instructed to add a second shift. Then I inherited the referral process, which encompassed another twenty-two people, plus their two supervisors. By the end of 1997, the IKFI Department had one hundred and fifty staff and five supervisors. And I never received the designation of "manager", even though that was definitely what I was. My new overseer was named Peter. He was a kid, but I ignored that because he was ostensibly my new "boss". Peter resided in the hallowed confines of Blue Bell, Pennsylvania, so our interactions were mostly by phone. Peter took a trip out to the hinterlands a couple of times a year, to check in and assert his authority. He was a decent guy, albeit "by the book". On one of his semi-annual visits, he mandated that we do a survey of our IKFI employees. The next day he paged through the survey results and iterated that there was a consensus that I practiced favoritism. I protested strongly. Peter responded, "Perception is the truth". "Perception is the truth" is one of the few management principles I've always remembered. Meaning, whether it's true or not, if people believe it, that is their reality. Peter bestowed upon me my most vital takeaway from my lone foray into management. The other thing Peter did for me was to survey the building landscape and recognize that I was sorely being squeezed out, between my five supervisors and the paucity of real estate. "There's an empty office in the corner, just sitting there. Why don't you move into it?" he asked. I stared at him wide-eyed, feeling like a common criminal.
"You think?" I asked.
"Why not?" And thus I claimed the very first and only office I ever owned.
My relocation was not viewed warmly by Claims management. In management's eyes, I was a pretender; an interloper. After all, IKFI was the branch's unwanted stepchild -- not a "real" department. It didn't have the cache of Claims. Phil was still nominally in charge of the office, but he had acceded the bulk of his duties to his new assistant manager, Linda. Apparently an assistant was needed, because Phil really didn't much feel like working, and someone had to do the actual job of managing. Here is where men and women differ -- Phil didn't care if I had an office or whether I'd pitched a tent in the parking lot. Linda viewed my new digs as a threat to her dominance. Linda had clawed her way to the top by the sheer force of naked ambition. She was a skinny bleached blonde who was a mom in the sense that she waved hello to her kids just before their bedtime, and left the actual child rearing to a paid "girl". She was the kind of mother who acknowledged she actually had children only when they did something she could boast about, which was apparently not often. She had a boy and a girl, Boy and Girl, we (and she) will call them. Linda's background was not in health insurance, which was perfectly okay by me. My background wasn't in insurance, either. Everybody's gotta start somewhere. But whereas I had found my way to management by enduring the scourge of barely minimum-wage jobs, Linda was a person who inserted herself into her every boss's good graces by flattery and batting her eyelashes. I got the measure of Linda the day I phoned her to tell her my mother-in-law had passed away and that I would be taking my three days of bereavement leave, and she responded, "Do you have all your work caught up?" Linda had initially been hired as a claims supervisor (a nice leapfrog I wished I'd been granted), and then proceeded to kiss as much ass as was required to boost her way to the top. She'd been a sycophant of Connie's, and Connie loved nothing more than boot-licking toadies. Once Connie had been shown the door, Linda latched onto whichever manager happened to occupy the corner office. Thus she eventually became the Dwight Shrute of Claims, Assistant To The General Manager. In her new position (and new office), she had everything she'd ever demeaned herself to be. It was an out-of-the-way means of accessing the building, but occasionally Linda took the detour to climb the steps outside my new office, just so she could amble by and shoot disdainful glances in my direction. Some days I'd pretend not to notice her; some days I'd give a little wave, which took her aback, and she'd jerk her hand in the air in an awkward faux-Nazi salute.
Linda deplored the fact that she no longer had control over me, but she made up for that helplessness by denigrating my department in passive-aggressive comments. I didn't care. I loved the fact that my manager resided fifteen hundred miles away. I had never before noticed, but now, in my new office, the office's piped-in music was unnaturally loud. I kept hearing this song, and had no idea who sang it or what the name of the song was. Google didn't exist yet. I think all we had was America Online and maybe Netscape. My local music store, Musicland, however, had bored personnel who stood around waiting to answer stupid questions, so I stopped in one evening and repeated a few lines of lyrics to the clerk, and he pointed to a section of CD's labeled, "Boz Scaggs". I love this song and I don't care if it doesn't fit any musical category.
Let me just say that Boz Scaggs is ultimately cool. From "Lido" to "Look What You've Done To Me", he was always there, beneath the surface; under my consciousness. But always there. It was weird hearing songs from the fabricated tape loop. The company who supplied the tunes didn't want to offend, so they were never too country or too rock -- middle of the road was where they landed. They were inexplicably big on Steve Wariner songs, one of which sort of broke my heart a couple years later, but that's a whole other story. I didn't pay a lot of attention to radio then, because I had a lot of work stuff rattling around in my brain, but my kid liked this song, and therefore I rather liked it, too:
Make no mistake -- I was still buying CD's -- but country was beginning to disappoint. George released a mediocre album, the new people weren't very good singers (Tim McGraw). Thank God for Mark Chesnutt:
And Diamond Rio:
A singer who rarely got her due, but one of the all-time best singers (country or otherwise) of the modern era, Trisha Yearwood was possibly eclipsed by her future husband's success in the nineties, but wow, I love this:
This was not a great song, but it stands out for two reasons -- one, it was played on the radio ad nauseum, and most importantly, the lyrics featured Bismarck, North Dakota. Sure, you may scoff, but how many songs feature your hometown, unless you live in Amarillo or San Francisco?
As out of touch as I was with the musical world in 1997, I still vaguely remember the media-created controversy regarding who sang this next song better. I know one of the versions well, because it has been my personal earworm for over a year (and I have almost rid myself of it; yet, here I go again). The other version I frankly don't remember, so I'm going to play along and then issue my official decree. (And all this drama for a crappy movie.)
I like Leann Rimes (or "liked" Leann Rimes when she took music seriously, which she apparently no longer has time for, what with her beach bikini pics and all). I loved "Blue". She sang the hell out of that song. But here's the difference for me: Trisha has a warmth to her voice -- like honey. And Trisha's singing is not forced. It just is Trisha on her front porch, maybe with her farmhand husband, Garth, strumming an acoustic guitar. Trisha doing what comes naturally and drawing in neighbors from miles around, just to hear an angel sing.
My new career path of "being in charge" became exponentially better in 1994, once Evil Boss From Hell was canned. Connie, as I detailed in my previous post, had committed an error many in the corporate world make; becoming drunk with power. It's silly when you think about it -- a company only wants you around as long as you are useful to them. The corporate bosses don't care how high an opinion you have of yourself.
Our little office being a far-western outpost of the East Coast Insurance Corridor, we'd had little oversight. As long as our numbers were good (really good), as far as our overseers were concerned, everything in Bismarck, North Dakota was peachy. They didn't know, and probably didn't care that Evil Connie had created her own little fiefdom on the prairie. The office dynamic was much like all offices; underlings who gushed over her, their red lipstick prints imprinted on her butt. The rebels, who either didn't know any better (me) or just said "F it". A couple of us thought our charge was to produce results and to treat our employees like "people". Ha. I was desperately naive, but this was my first time being "in charge", so I operated on instinct.
I stepped confidently into Evil Connie's office for my annual review. My unit's numbers were superb. I was expecting a few kudos and a decent bump in salary. Instead, I was accused of "making the other supervisors look bad". I'd brought caramel rolls for my staff one overtime Saturday morning. "LeeAnn didn't bring caramel rolls!" she charged, jamming her bony finger at me.
I was upbraided for not stopping in to say goodnight to Evil Connie on a daily basis. As the haranguing continued, I began to cry. The evil woman refused to even reach behind her to grab a Kleenex out of the box to quench the ugly snot that was now dripping from my nose.
Evil Connie's parting words to me were, "Either you become part of my team or I'll replace the team."
The only person I ever told (I didn't even tell the person I was married to -- I was too mortified and ashamed for jeopardizing our family's well-being) was my mentor; my fellow supervisor, who I called that evening. She'd endured the exact same diatribe the same day. Carlene was maybe the rebel of the bunch, but not really. She simply had conducted herself the same way I had -- with a modicum of respect toward her employees. It was maybe a bit better to know I wasn't alone, but I still scoured the newspaper want ads that night. It was clear my days at US Healthcare were limited. I would stop in every evening from that point forward and say goodnight to Evil Connie, and hold onto my job as long as I could, or until I could find another source of income. Our town was tiny and open positions were nearly non-existent. I stepped inside my glass-enclosed cubicle at the front of my unit every morning and tried not to break down in sobs.
(FYI -- #metoo isn't just about sexual harassment. Abuse comes in many forms.)
The Philadelphia honchos generally showed up once a year, if they couldn't find a way to get out of it. To us, they were voices over the phone; I barely recognized their faces when they appeared in the office. I'd see strange men tramping through the corridor and it would dawn on me that these were "the bosses". One was named Dave and I don't remember the other man's name. They showed up unexpectedly in the summer of '93 and sequestered themselves in an unused office. We supervisors gaggled about, speculated. This wasn't a scheduled visit. Eventually, around 1:00 p.m. my phone rang and I was summoned. Dave and Other Guy asked me questions about Evil Connie. I have no recollection what I spilled. I do remember telling them that Peg and Inez deserved to become supervisors (they had languished as assistants for far, far too long and they were smart). I must have said things about Evil Woman, but I don't remember. I do remember wondering why, of all the supervisors, I was the one they zeroed in on.
That was the day I sat in my car at 5:00 and watched, before I shifted into reverse, Evil Connie exit the building with two paper grocery bags and a potted plant. I slumped down in my seat and stared. It seemed like she was leaving forever, but I was disoriented; flummoxed.
I will never know how it happened that Dave and Other Guy homed in on me. Carlene was the only one who knew and she professed innocence and I believe her. She had her own story to tell -- she didn't need to use me as a surrogate. Am I sorry I helped to get Evil Woman fired? No. I've learned that karma doesn't always work, but sometimes it does. After all these years, do I feel sorry for Evil Connie? No. I will say that she taught me one thing, though -- always watch your back. There are always more people who'd rather shoot you than shake your hand. And it's all based on their insecurities; their shortcomings. Their inherent flaws.
(Shortly thereafter, both Peg and Inez secured supervisor positions. It remains one of the few times in my life I ever felt listened to.)
Once Evil Bitch was gone forever, some poor decent, capable, professional man got shipped in to take over.
I don't remember his name (alas), but someone back in the home office must have been jealous of him; wanted to get rid of him, so they gave him the least desirous post they could find on the map. New Manager was a good company man, so he (no doubt reluctantly) acceded to his new post (I would soon enough find out how that whole scheme worked).
This man was completely hands-off, which is how a manager should have been. But he did understand that we were all winging it, and he brought in professionals to teach us how to be supervisors. We all met at lunchtime in a conference room and were schooled in management theory. Our new manager passed out paperback copies of "Leadership Secrets of Attila The Hun" and sent us home to read and absorb. This man is now long retired, but as professionally distant as he was toward us, I will never forget what he did for me. I didn't need to get up close and personal with him; I didn't need to shed tears in his office. I needed him to manage and mentor, and that's exactly what he did.
As the soul-crushing cloud of Evil Woman dissipated, life at US Healthcare became sweet. Somebody came up with a "get to know you" game, in which we devised ten questions for each person to answer, and we had to find someone whose answer matched the one on the card in our hand. It was a free-for-all of everyone milling about, trying to notch ten correct responses so we'd win. It was a game without a prize, but that wasn't the point. I remember one of us supervisors came up with, "What kind of car do you drive?" and our aloof manager had answered, "Infiniti", a make of car of which I'd never heard, but I realized this guy had money, and why not? He had a thankless job in a rustic wilderness. He deserved some kind of reward.
Me, being me, devised the question, "What's your favorite song?" That was fun. I soon learned that, out of the one hundred and fifty-or-so of us, one hundred and forty-nine loved country music. That warmed my heart, because country deserved to be loved in 1994. Diamond Rio, Collin Raye, Mark Chesnutt, Dwight Yoakam, Vince Gill, Joe Diffie, Little Texas, George, Pam Tillis, Clay Walker, Alan Jackson. It was a country music renaissance in '94.
Life was suddenly good and we had music like this:
Sorry, no live performance video of this one, but come on:
My man:
I confess; I love this song:
I saw Diamond Rio in concert once, in an intimate casino setting, and I also saw the mandolin player, Gene Johnson, eat a steak and baked potato in front of me, bothered by autograph-seeking fans, but while I was seated behind him, I gave him his space. Anything else would have been disrespectful, but I did and do love Diamond Rio:
They used to make heartbreak songs:
Alan Jackson's flame had turned into more of a smolder already by '94 -- he was settling into a real career that would eventually land him in the Country Music Hall of Fame. That doesn't mean he wasn't still making good records; they just weren't Oh Wow! records. I like this one:
This recording did sound familiar, but I didn't know (or had forgotten) that it was a Jackie DeShannon song. In my defense, it had been the B side of another track, and it was released in1963, when all I cared about was Top Forty (though I had no idea what Top Forty actually was). Regardless, Pam Tillis did Jackie DeShannon proud:
I could include tons more hits from 1994, but suffice it to say that it was the tail end of the golden age of country. I was thirty-nine years old and on my way to horizons and heartbreaks I couldn't even conjure.
1994, however, was the last time music played a huge part in my little life story.
I wrote a whole long thesis a few days ago about how 1994 was a bad year in country music, and lo and behold, as I found various music videos from that year, I realized I was completely insane. 1994 was actually a good year. What I meant was, 1995.
As the picture above shows, 1995 was apparently the year of "Friends", and some other things, but the pictures are too small to really identify. Looks like maybe Brad Pitt and Sandra Bullock, so I guess we're still partying like it's 1995.
But country music in 1995 was not a party.
And I can prove it.
In scanning the list of hit songs from 1995, the first thing that strikes me is, I don't even recognize most of these titles. And let me tell you, I was still a pretty big country fan during that time. So, because most of my memory is still quite intact, the fact is that there were very few memorable hit singles released in 1995.
And even the old standbys, you know, the good guys, were releasing some pretty awful songs.
For example, Collin Raye. I love Collin Raye as a balladeer. As they say, stick with what you know. Because I really dislike this song:
Then there was this next song that was a big hit, and I just hated it. I don't necessarily have a rational reason for hating it, but music is like that. I will say, however, that the lyrics seem to be about some old guy leering at a young girl, and really?? Well, that's very family-friendly.
David Lee Murphy:
And here's ol' Tim McGraw again. I will say that, unlike 1994, at least ol' Tim emerged from the pity party that was "Don't Take The Girl", and amped things up a bit. However, this song, although catchy! Is still rather grating, after about 100 10 listens.
John Michael Montgomery had "I Can Love You Like That". Poor John Michael. Tagged with the unfortunate reputation of not being able to sing on-key without autotune. I'm not reporting that to be mean. I can't sing on-key most of the time, either. But I'm not a recording artist, now, am I?
This next video is not "I Can Love You Like That", because I can't find it, but it really doesn't matter. All his songs were pretty much the same; covers of boy band hits, and why he felt this was a good career move, I do not know.
Remember Tracy Byrd? That's okay. That's why I'm here ~ to remind you.
Like the David Lee Murphy song, I always had a distaste for Tracy. That sounds mean. And it's nothing I can put my finger on, actually. I'm sure he's a great guy, and he's a good friend of Mark Chesnutt, and I love Mark Chesnutt. I guess it is that he always came across to me as disingenuous. He recorded these songs that he thought would make him a star (and they did for awhile), but it was so fakey; artificial. Hence, "The Keeper of the Stars":
Alan Jackson is better than this. Better than this corny novelty song. That's what I mean about 1995. These guys weren't playing their "A" game. Nobody remembers this song, nor should they:
So, that's about it. I do slightly remember some of the other titles, but I'm not really interested enough to search out videos for them. 1995 was rather a blase year.
Some hokey ballads, some hokey novelty songs. Some boy-band covers. Kind of shameful, for country music.
But, you know, all is not lost.
Because there were some good songs.
And I could always rely on George Strait:
From the ridiculous to the sublime; that was Alan Jackson in 1995. Bless you, Bob McDill. I love the sarcasm; or is it irony? And now were are in 2012, and be careful what you predict.........
What's not to love about Diamond Rio?
Not sure what became of the Mavericks, but they should still be around, making music. Although now, it wouldn't be considered "country" music, of course.
One could pretty much share any video from Mark Chesnutt, and not go wrong. Let me tell you, Mark ranks right up there. I don't know why he's been pushed aside, but I also don't know why Gene Watson was pushed aside, either. It's an enduring mystery. We live in a disposable society? We throw away the good stuff in order to experience a new crop of crap?
You may not remember George Ducas; he had one, maybe two albums. Again, there is no accounting for taste, because this guy should still be a big star. Watch and listen to "Lipstick Promises":
If you think David Ball was just about thinkin' problems, well, he wasn't. He also had a follow-up hit, and I like it, because it's country, and I miss country:
I say, thank goodness for CMT in the nineties. Because, without CMT, I would never find these songs, and they're worth finding. Lari White had another good song, this time in 1995, and it was this one:
And now we get to the superstar of the 1990's. No, it wasn't Garth Brooks. And you thought it was! Ah, but you forget! I doubt that Garth sits home at night, at his kitchen table, nursing an iced tea, ruminating about how some woman outshone him in the 1990's. But there it is.
And here it is:
And, oh, did I forget to mention her name? It's Shania Twain:
I leave 1995 behind, but not without this song, by Vince Gill.
In summation, 1995 had its bad, and it had its really, really good. As do all years.
I enjoy reliving those times, and while I am quick to disparage, I always come back to the really, really good. Because that's just me. I like the good.
I won't say that "Crazy Over You" is the all-time best two-stepping song. Okay, I will.
This is how I first got to know Radney Foster:
Is that a kick or what? I love this song.
So, my introduction to Radney Foster was through his partnership with Bill Lloyd. Foster & Lloyd weren't around for a long time (although they're now back together), but they had some fine recordings.
Here are two (and regretfully, the guys only seem to have a couple of actual music videos from their halcyon days):
True music aficionados, I believe, pull out that little booklet from a new CD and check out who the writers are. As well as the lyrics, of course.
I always read my little booklet.
So, I found that Radney didn't just write for Radney. He wrote hit songs for other artists, too.
Like this one, by Tanya Tucker and T. Graham Brown (what the heck ever happened to T. Graham? He's a great singer!)
And this one, by Diamond Rio (Wasn't this DR's first hit song?):
How about Nitty Gritty?
Ha ~ and just to prove that I'm hip; I'm "with it" (although I have never in my life heard this song before), this is one that Radney wrote for Keith Urban:
Back in my sordid musical past, when I finally decided to give country music another go, I bought a couple of cassette tapes. One was by the Sweethearts of the Rodeo (and I don't remember the other one). I'd heard the SOTR a couple of times, and I liked their sound. It was, you know, country-sounding, as strange as that may seem today. I didn't know that Radney had written this song; I just knew that I liked it (and sorry for all the chatter in this video, but hey, it was the best I could find):
Lest we forget that Radney Foster is also a performer, here are some songs from his solo album, "Del Rio, Texas, 1959" (My, he looked much younger then!):
I'm kinda partial to this one:
And then there is this one, recorded by Sara Evans.
This song reminds me a lot of Texas in 1880. I think it was released around the time that I started to wean myself off of country music (not because of this song!), but it's kind of the last good one that I remember hearing on the radio.
The thing that I find about Radney Foster's songs is, melodically, they're superior. I, in fact, at one point, looked up the chord progression for this song, and tried to incorporate it into one of my own. Well, that didn't work.
What makes a good songwriter? Magic fairy dust? I don't know. I still say, either you've got it or you don't. You can't force things like that. Unfortunately.
I watched a video interview with Radney, in which he said that he has written between 25 and 50 songs a year for at least thirty years. I can't even comprehend that. Does he eat or sleep? Does he get any of that good exercise? I think he should get out and walk around a bit; stretch his legs; soak up a few rays. Man does not live by song scribbles and guitar chords alone. Does he?
Maybe writing 25-50 songs a year for thirty years makes one a master songwriter. But I truly think that if I wrote 25-50 songs in 30 years, I'd just have 750-1500 crappy songs. And what would be the point of that? How many crappy songs need to exist in this world? I'll say one. One crappy song. Just to have something to contrast with the good ones.
And to prove that good songwriters beget good songwriters, here's Radney's version of you-know-who's song:
If I was asked what my most powerful memory of September 11, 2001 is, I would say, it's not a memory. It's that the world changed, while I was just living in it.
I was born long after Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941. My parents knew it, though.
I was in the third grade when President Kennedy was assassinated. They used to always ask, where were you when the President was killed? They don't really ask that anymore. Maybe it's because most of the population wasn't even alive back then, so the question would be moot. They'd probably look at you quizzically and ask, "President Kennedy? Was he the one after Lincoln?" (They don't quite teach US history as comprehensively as they used to).
But maybe it's because something much more horrific has overtaken that moment.
You see, when President Kennedy was shot, everybody was horrified, but they didn't think, my life is in danger! I could be next! That would be silly. He was the President; we were just "people".
On September 11, 2001, our blase attitude toward random violence was shattered. "Oh yea, those things happen overseas. Too bad for them, I guess", were things we couldn't utter anymore.
Tom Burnett was just trying to get home to his family. It was an average day; an average business trip.
The traders at Cantor Fitzgerald were just trying to get through their eight hours. Another long slog; just like every one of us endures every day.
Average, everyday stuff. We're preoccupied; thinking about what we have to do when our shift is over; looking forward to spending a few hours with our families. Writing out a shopping list. Sharing a laugh with our co-workers.
Then, in an instant; less than an instant, really, everything changes.
No, the world didn't stop turning that day. It would have been better if it had.
I think about the people who found themselves in unspeakable circumstances. Tom Burnett and his fellow passengers knew that they were going to die. Yet, they fought it to the end. We, as humans, have to do something. We're not going to sit and cry and accept that this is our fate. This thing, that was thrust upon us, as if we didn't have any say in the matter.
Those firemen knew; yes, they knew, that they were trudging up the stairs to face an inevitable conclusion. Yet, they still did it. They were going to fight this thing until the end.
The thing about September 11, 2001 is, we are stronger than you (al qaeda) can even comprehend. We don't go down without a fight.
And the world did not stop turning.
You may, or may not, remember the songs from that year, 2001. Some of them are prescient, in retrospect. Some of them are sad, even if we're not sure why they're sad. Maybe it's just that 2001 was a sad year.
Maybe they speak to us now in a way that they never did before that day. I don't know, but here are some of the top songs of the year 2001. You can make your own judgment. Or you can just relive the year in song. Whatever you choose.
(I apologize for the ads attached to some of these videos, but I have no control over that. I wish I did.)
And let's talk about country. We're more straight-forward in the country world. You don't have to wonder what the song means. It means what it means.
We're countin' 'em down, folks! Gettin' nearer to the finish line (at least my finish line). At a certain point, this whole CMA awards retrospective will need to end for me, not because I've run out of years, but because I will have run out of patience (with country music, that is).
But that time is not now! In 1992, country music was still alive and kickin' (which is also the name of one of my favorite local bands from that time, Alive & Kickin' - wonder whatever happened to them).
First, of course, a bit of background on the year that was 1992.
In perusing the world events of that year, I find that war broke out in Yugoslavia, and there were some other unpronouncable countries in the news, such as Bosnia and Herzegovinia.
Closer to home, Ross Perot announced his candidacy for President of the United States. Watch it here:
And I REALLY, REALLY miss Phil Hartman.
In the world of movies, A League Of Their Own was a hit:
In pop music, and delving right into the CMA awards, I am thrilled to include probably the biggest hit of 1992; country or non-country.
SINGLE OF THE YEARACHY BREAKY HEART - Billy Ray Cyrus
Sure, it got sickening. But not "Friends In Low Places" sickening. And dang it, it's catchy and I LIKE it. If you watched CMT back then, like I did, you saw this video scores of times. And what better lyrics than, "you can tell my arms go back into the farm"? What?
The sad news, aside from Billy Ray's mullet, is that he has spawned some sort of freakazoid teen daughter, who has consumed the music business with her questionable "singing skills", but yet has ensured Billy Ray a very comfortable retirement, albeit at the expense of we, the listening public. But hey! Much like the line dancing of yore, we are adaptable! And we aren't actually forced to listen to her! So it's a win-win. I guess.
The MUSICIAN OF THE YEAR was once again Mark O'Connor. Yes, Mark had a good run (for a couple of years), but selfishly, I'm hoping that he doesn't continue to win, because frankly, the number of Mark O'Connor videos is severely limited.
But, for at least this time around, here's one, called, "Bowtie":
MUSIC VIDEO OF THE YEAR went to Alan Jackson (the fifth finger of the hand that was the nineties ~ I guess you have to read my previous posts to make sense of that).
I'm a sucker for those minor chords and, of course for anything relating to Hank Williams, so this song by the tall lanky Georgian is tops in my book.
Here's Midnight In Montgomery:
SONG OF THE YEAR was this one, written by Vince Gill and Max D. Barnes (wonder what the "D" stands for, and why he feels that it's necessary to include it ~ but I'm just riffing because I already included this song in my last retrospective, and I don't really have anything more to say about this song, except that I'm a fan of it!
Here is, Look At Us:
Was this Vince's only award in 1992? No. It wasn't! Vince was also named MALE VOCALIST OF THE YEAR.
I'm ecstatic that I was able to find this beautiful live performance of Vince, singing, "I Still Believe In You":
Finally, FINALLY, I get to include one of my favorite country artists EVER, in the pantheon of CMA award winners.
The VOCAL EVENT OF THE YEAR was won in 1992 by Marty Stuart and Travis Tritt, for "this one", coincidentally called, "This One's Gonna Hurt You (For A Long Long Time)":
Seems that there was a new VOCAL DUO on the scene in 1992; a couple of guys named Ronnie and Kix. Wonder whatever happened to them.
In the great tradition of Billy Ray Cyrus, these two guys cornered the line dancing market in the 1990's. Yes, set foot inside any honky tonk at that time, and one would immediately be accosted by this song (not that that's a BAD thing). One of the greatest country voices, combined with one of the most enthusiastic duet partners, made for one class act; the act they call BROOKS & DUNN.
The VOCAL GROUP OF THE YEAR is one that I can definitely get on board with ~ Diamond Rio!
I actually had the opportunity to see the group in concert at a casino, and as I was eating my dinner, I noticed poor Gene ("mandolin") Johnson just trying to eat his steak dinner in peace, while numerous fans came up to his table to bother him. I thought, how rude. I was sitting at a table right behind him, and I wouldn't have even considered bothering the poor man. All he wanted to do was enjoy his baked potato. Poor guy. But the concert (later) was fantastic! Here's Mirror, Mirror:
I always liked Mary Chapin. Where did she go?? Oh, here she is. Still singing, still writing. Not incognito, per se; just not getting played on the radio anymore....but then again, who over age 30 is? Well, I, for one, am glad that Mary Chapin got her award in 1992 (and maybe even one in 1993 ~~ time will tell).
The HORIZON AWARD in 1992 was bestowed upon another great female vocalist, Suzy Bogguss. Yes, another "old" (a year younger than me) artist that radio threw away. I think Suzy had the last laugh, though. She took charge of her career, and by the sounds I heard on her website, she still sounds wonderful.
Here's a nice live performance from Suzy, of "Someday Soon":
This all leads us, of course, to the ENTERTAINER OF THE YEAR award.
No offense to Garth (and his hat), but I'm hoping (for my blogging purposes) that Garth doesn't win again for awhile. Because I am having a heck of a time finding Garth videos, and the ones I do find aren't really faves of mine (but that's just me....and my hat).
This single was actually released in 1990, but eh. I do what I can do.
Garth Brooks is/was a great artist, and a heck of a nice guy, and I know that I sound rather blase about him, but he just never was one of my idols. So shoot me.
Anyway, after that wonderful introduction, CONGRATS, Garth. Oh, and here's "Unanswered Prayers":
COUNTRY MUSIC HALL OF FAME
Frances Preston
Frances Preston began her working life as a receptionist at a life insurance company in Nashville. (Did all those people back then work for a life insurance company? I read about this all the time. Is Nashville, unbeknownst to me, the life insurance capital of the world?)
Luckily for Frances (and through hard work, too, I'm sure), she went on to eventually become president and CEO of BMI. I'm guessing there was a pay raise, too.
Since I have no video of Frances, here's a picture:
(Frances is second from the right).
George Jones
It actually took until 1992 for George to get into the Hall of Fame?? The HOF is not known for its promptness.
Well, what's there to say about ol' George that hasn't already been said? Nothin'. So, let's just enjoy some videos, instead, okay? (and I purposely looked for some older performances).
Walk Through This World With Me
The Race Is On
White Lightning (vintage!)
Milwaukee, Here I Come (with Tammy Wynette)
One Woman Man
Love Bug
She Thinks I Still Care
The Grand Tour
A Good Year For The Roses (with Alan Jackson)
And, of course:
He Stopped Loving Her Today
That's a pretty dang good career, Possum. In the interest of brevity (ha!), I left a lot of great ones out.
Congrats, George Jones, for your belated entry into the Country Music Hall of Fame.
So, 1992, in a (really huge) nutshell. We saw the yin and the yang of country music, from "Look At Us" to "Achy Breaky Heart". We saw big hats. We saw some classic singers that we won't ever hear again on the radio. We saw the Possum put most of them to shame.
;)
