Showing posts with label george strait. Show all posts
Showing posts with label george strait. Show all posts

Saturday, November 12, 2022

Reviewing The Top Ten Country Hits From Today In 1988

 

1988 was a time of change for me. In May I'd left my eight-year job at the hospital, a job I actually loved, but felt forced to abandon. In retrospect, I made a rash decision on a particularly chaotic night. The medical floor was hopping with new admissions and our staffing consisted of generally one RN and two LPN's at each of the three stations the floor supported. I did my best to distribute new patients equally, but circumstances were such that one of the stations became overloaded. An RN I considered a friend dressed me down in front of the other nurses, and I felt put-upon and humiliated. I went home that night dejected. I began to question my ability to handle my job, a job I'd excelled at for eight years; and I began to question my so-called friendships. I honestly didn't want to leave, but I couldn't conceive of another option. I searched the job openings and found one downstairs in the Admissions Department, which would still allow me to maintain my second shift status. I applied and was accepted. I hated (hated!) it. Downstairs was eerily quiet and dark; one tiny light barely illuminating each of the three check-in windows. My responsibilities essentially consisted of spelling the new patient's name correctly and verifying his or her religion.

I lasted about two weeks. Instead I scoured the want ads and found one for a Farm Records Secretary at the local PCA office on the far edge of the neighboring town. I applied and was accepted. It was a true demotion. And truly desultory. My tasks included serving as a de facto receptionist, transcribing my Oklahoma boss's twangy dictation, and making copies ~ reams and reams of copies. My boss didn't particularly like me, nor did I particularly like her.  I'd descended from the heights of intensity to the bowels of gloom. 

My only redemption was listening to my portable FM radio during the quiet times, as I typed up yet another address label on my IBM Selectric. I was still mostly into rock, so my dial was tuned to Y93 and its morning show that at least offered a laugh or two with its song parodies and its droll DJ, Bob Beck. I had only recently dipped my toe back into country music, accidentally, when I flipped the car dial over to the country station during a particularly boring Y93 track. I don't remember who I heard, but whoever it was piqued my interest. It was then that I ventured out to purchase two country cassettes ~ random choices ~ The Sweethearts Of The Rodeo and The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ~ and I played those two tapes over and over on Saturday mornings while I dusted furniture and scoured the bathtub.

Thus, I generally didn't recognize any of the artists in the Top Ten, except one or two carryovers from the seventies. They were completely new to me.

Here I am, about to relive a not-so-fun time in my life and review the top ten charting country singles from this day in 1988. 

Here are the rules: 

  • I review each single as a first-time listener (sometimes I truly am).
  • I must listen to the entire track before offering my critique.  
  • I stick with the Top Ten only, because this is exercise takes far more time than one can imagine).
  • I do my best to find music videos. If all else fails, I use a video of the recorded song

Let's get it on!

 

#10 ~ Desperately ~ Don Williams


Random question: Did Don Williams have a disability? Every video I've seen of him has him perched on a stool, strumming his guitar.

Be that as it may, this is truly a new song to me. I'll wager that I've never once before heard it. The good: Don Williams. The bad: a commonplace melody. And the lyrics strike me as an exercise in finding rhymes. 

Don Williams is an artist who inhabits his own niche, that being a semi-comatose singer who occasionally sprouts a spurt of energy and chooses a song that hits the sweet spot. This song isn't that.

C-

 

#9 ~ That's That ~ Michael Johnson


Excuse me ~ who? What? I have zero cognizance of Michael Johnson. Nor of this song. 

Ahh, Google tells me that he's famous for Bluer Than Blue. That song I actually remember. 

 (This doesn't even look like the same guy.)

Well, "That's That" is just a terrible track. It has a schizophrenic beat that leaves the listener cranky. And a dissonant instrumental accompaniment. This is akin to the very worst song an amateur songwriter ever scribbled and can't even bring himself to listen to in the confines of his room.

F

 

#8 ~ Chiseled In Stone ~ Vern Gosdin


I like Vern Gosdin, but I was deflated hearing the opening verse of this track. It's sing-songy, and not in a catchy way. Thankfully (mercifully) the chorus saves it. Gosdin has a bit of George Jones in him, but he is a more soulful and skillful singer. 

Based solely on the singer and the chorus, this rates a...

B

 

#7 ~ I Wish That I Could Fall In Love Today ~ Barbara Mandrell 


Barbara Mandrell's career is rather quizzical. When she first appeared on the radar in the early seventies, she struck gold with cosmopolitan country that still heavily featured steel guitar, like Standing Room Only and The Midnight Oil. I was an immediate fan; this gal had it all. Musician, great entertainer, good singer,
cute as a button. I bought every new album release. 

Then she landed her network television show and became "show biz". Subsequently, she released some truly awful singles, like "Sleepin' Single In A Double Bed" and "Crackers". I was disappointed. I think she did a concert in my town, but I didn't go. I'd heard it was quite a production, with multiple costume changes; everything I hated about music (country music, at least). So, like other singers who'd sold out, I forgot about her.

Then in the late eighties, she began recording actual country songs again, like this one. I don't know what prompted the change. Maybe simply a desire to return to her roots.

This song was written by the great Harlan Howard and was originally recorded (in 1960) by Ray Price. Thus, it's unfair to critique it as a new song. That said, Mandrell does the song proud and shows the Barbara Mandrell of old. A solid...

A


#6 ~ If You Ain't Lovin' (You Ain't Livin') ~ George Strait


I don't know this George Strait, but he has a true country voice and he seems very traditional: two things I like. I think this might be the same guy my mom and dad were watching on their VCR when I stopped over the other night. I didn't pay a bunch of attention to him, but I did notice that his band was top-notch. Some new guy, I mused ~ I'll catch up with his music at some point, if he hangs around long enough. (I also like that he wears a hat, as all good country artists should.)

I remember this song from watching one of those filmed (actually filmed; not taped) country music shows from the fifties that my local TV station slotted in sometimes on Saturday afternoons. It was recorded by one of my all-time favorite singers, Faron Young, which again gives this new guy cred for his good taste.


So, it's impossible for me to review this as a new song, since I have heard it before. I will say, that Strait's arrangement is excellent, not to mention his delivery. Now that I think about it, maybe this new guy will stay around for a while.

A-


#5 ~ I Know How He Feels ~ Reba McEntire


Much like my initial reaction the first time I heard Barbara Mandrell, I became a fan of Reba McEntire upon hearing her first charting single, You Lift Me Up (To Heaven). This was an original singer, especially with the melodic twist she employed in every song. I even talked my mom into attending a rodeo with me, simply because the featured singer, between the bulldogging and calf roping, was Reba. She performed from a reinforced cage high above the rodeo arena, with just one or two guys backing her up. I think Mom wondered for a long time afterward why I dragged her to that event.

But again like Barbara Mandrell, fame went to her head. I liked Whoever's In New England and Little Rock, but then she made some bad song choices, particularly ballads that said absolutely nothing. Like this one. I can guarantee that I won't remember this thirty-odd years in the future, because it's a little bit of nothing.

D-

 

#4 ~ I've Been Lookin' ~ Nitty Gritty Dirt Band



 

Hey! This is from one of those two country cassettes I bought! I only knew The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band from that awful hit, Mister Bojangles, and that one good one that featured Linda Ronstadt, An American Dream. But these guys are great! If they keep recording songs like this, I will be a forever fan. 

What this band has going for it, aside from an appealing lead voice and top-shelf musicians, is excellent taste in choosing songs. There's a place (a big place) for uptempo, fun songs that can't be mistaken for anything but country. If all country music is like this, I just might abandon MTV.

A


#3 ~ I'll Leave This World Loving You ~ Ricky Van Shelton

 

I know this song is a remake, but I can't place it. (Oh wait, my future look-up machine tells me that one of the co-writers, Wayne Kemp, released it in 1980.) 

Much like so many debut artists, I became intrigued with Van Shelton upon his first album release, which included Wild-Eyed Dream and Crime Of Passion. I loved his stone-country arrangements and the originality of those songs. Then he immediately turned to cover songs, and I didn't get it. Couldn't he get his hands on good originals? I like old songs as much as the next country fan, but old recordings have a built-in advantage ~ they're originals. I admit I'm disappointed in a singer with this much potential. 

C


#2 ~ New Shade Of Blue ~ Southern Pacific


This isn't bad, but will no doubt sound dated in say, a decade or so. I don't know anything about this band, except that it was formed by a couple of former Doobie Brothers (who were always kind of country, if you think about it).

As for the song itself, it's got well-written lyrics and a pleasing melody, but it's a little nothing tune; one of those "hear it once and forget it" singles. It has nothing to cement it in one's memory.

As talented as the band is, though, I'm hoping they release something better; maybe in 1989. Something like this:


As for New Shade Of Blue:

C


#1 ~ Runaway Train ~ Rosanne Cash


Rosanne Cash is a good singer and an accomplished songwriter, and her partnership with husband Rodney Crowell is gold. I fear, however, that her career, and their musical pairing, will be of a time that fades like the mist.

This track is no Seven Year Ache or I Don't Know Why You Don't Want Me. It's missing that one thing that I keep harping on, a memorable chorus. It's nice; benign, but comparing it to her earlier hits, as a fan inevitably does, it just doesn't cut it.

B-


Summing up 1988, for me personally, it was a time of disruption and change; and musically, likewise. I gradually returned to country music, pretty much due to The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and a fortuitous Musicland cassette purchase. There were some new artists who showed promise and one older one who at last grasped onto her roots.

If country music can start again, who knows where my own future might take me?

 



 






 


 

 

Wednesday, October 26, 2022

Concert Ticket Prices

 

I paid $4.00 to see Merle Haggard, plus opening acts, in 1968 ~ that's $34.40 by 2023 prices. In 1996 my ticket to see George Strait cost $25.00 ($47.75 in 2023 dollars). Four dollars was doable for a thirteen-year-old, and twenty-five dollars was a bargain for forty-ish me.

In 2001 I saw Dwight Yoakam for $43.00 and Gordon Lightfoot in 2007 for $10.00.

Today I read that George Strait tickets for his upcoming mini-tour average around $492.00 for floor seats and about $337.00 for upper deck (binoculars not included).

I love George Strait, but come on! A couple paying $800.00 - $1,000.00 for a concert? In this economy? Not to mention parking (and forget concessions, I guess).

Can you imagine a first date negotiation? 

"Where should we go?"

"Well, I'm a huge fan of King George!"

"Uh, how about a second-run showing of Top Gun at Half-Price Movie Palace? By the way, George doesn't even play that guitar he's holding." 

One has to wonder about the motivations of super stars. Mick Jagger is 79 and he's still touring. Paul McCartney is 80. Google tells me that George Strait's net worth is 300 million dollars. Three hundred million. How much gold does one person need? Let these guys' kids make their own way in life! Unless these artists are planning to be entombed inside a sarcophagus molded out of greenbacks.

George is not coming to my town, so all the corporate CEO's will have to private-jet over to Las Vegas or Tampa to see him. A painful sacrifice, I know. 

I guess one should feel fortunate that Strait is touring at all. If I lived close to a concert venue, I could maybe press my ear up against the stadium wall and at least get an echo of the bass. 

These stars don't owe me a thing ~ except a thank you for helping them become stars in the first place. I bought every CD, I traveled to far-flung locales, rented hotel rooms, bought gas for my car, to support them in their quests to become multi-zillionaires. Yes, the George Strait concert was a highlight of my musical life, but I also had a family to feed. My kids couldn't survive on concert memories. 

I quit attending concerts ten or so years ago. My closest city is dangerous and the drive is nerve-wracking, with high and drunk motorists weaving haphazardly across freeway lanes. And the hype never matches the reality. Add to that the outlay of my entire monthly check? Thanks. It was nice knowin' you.

If these guys truly love making music, maybe they need to re-find the love. Book themselves into smallish towns like they used to. Charge Garth Brooks prices. 

Like I said, I love George Strait.

But I can't get on board with this.

There's a difference 'tween livin' and livin' well.








 

Wednesday, September 7, 2022

Country Concerts

 

The evolution of country concerts is remarkable. I've seen almost every major country act live up to the point at which country ceased being country. I have very few regrets -- acts I didn't get to see. Some of the omissions were my fault; others simply weren't in the cards.

I grew up in a small town, where the most exciting diversion for a thirteen-year-old was bowling a few games at Midway Lanes or taking in whatever Elvis movie was playing at the local theater. (Yes, there was one movie. Multiplexes were yet to be invented.) I'd refashioned myself as a country music fan because my new best friend was a country music fan. In the late sixties we were rather outcasts because of that, but I probably would've been an outcast anyway.

There was one venue in town that presented country concerts, the World War Memorial Building, an ancient cement edifice with a wide staircase of concrete steps leading up to heavy wooden doors. The auditorium may have had one set of bleachers -- I don't remember -- because Alice and I always managed to get front row seats on the floor. We were kids. What else did we have to do but show up two hours early and stake out our positions in that non-reserved seat era? Alice and I attended nearly every concert presented there. It didn't matter if the artist belonged to the timeworn past, like Ernest Tubb or Kitty Wells, or was a legend like Buck Owens and the Buckaroos, or was someone just beginning to make his mark, like Charley Pride. We didn't care. Tickets were cheap and what was the alternative?

If one was to take in a Merle Haggard concert, the ripest time to do so was 1968. Mama Tried was in constant rotation on the radio, and Merle already had a long rope of hits, from I'm A Lonesome Fugitive to Sing Me Back Home. Alice and I were in love with him. We arrived at the venue extra early and snagged our hard metal chairs on the aisle of the first row. We waded through the opening acts, Freddie Hart and some other lost-to-time artist; then Merle strode to center stage. With The Strangers and Bonnie Owens behind him, this impossibly handsome man proceeded to sing just to us. Or so it seemed. I sat crunching peanuts, mesmerized, then realized he was smiling directly at me. I smiled back widely with peanut skins pasted to my molars. After the concert Alice and I went around to all the artists, band members included, and got their scribbles on sheets of paper we'd hastily grabbed before leaving home. 

The WW Memorial Building was where we also saw George Jones bring a blonde singer back to the stage to sing some very electric duets with him. The guy strumming rhythm guitar behind them grimaced and I had no idea I was witnessing a real-life soap opera. I later learned that this new girl, Tammy Wynette, had fallen for George, and that her long-suffering husband strumming behind them had suddenly been relegated to background scenery.

By 1970 my town had built a brand new real concert venue, the Bismarck Civic Center. It was cavernous, with miles of upper tier bleachers and actual padded seats. The first concert I took in there wasn't country. It was the Grass Roots (Was Creed Bratton from The Office part of the group then? Couldn't tell you.) But later, country acts were bused in. I probably saw Alabama three thousand and fifty-two times, give or take, at the Civic Center. Eventually though, this building encapsulated the entirety of my country concert experiences. Name one country artist from the seventies/eighties era and I most likely saw them -- Ronnie Milsap, Gary Stewart, Vince Gill, Alan Jackson, Trisha Yearwood, Reba McEntire when she was still performing at rodeos.

Still, I had to travel a hundred miles to the North Dakota State Fair to see Faron Young, The Oak Ridge Boys, and Highway101.

I even motored to rural county fairs to see the likes of Stonewall Jackson and LaWanda Lindsey.

There arrived a point in the late seventies at which I gave up on country music. It wasn't easy, but it had to be done. It was time to make a clean break. Country had become a parody of itself. Charley Pride was recording versions of pop hits, and acts like Sylvia and Dave and Sugar permeated the airwaves. I tuned my television to MTV and didn't look back.

Then sometime in the mid-eighties my parents talked me into attending a concert with them at the Civic Center by some guy named Randy Travis. I folded my arms across my chest and pouted my way through the first two or three songs. I never admitted it to them, but this Travis guy was actually pretty good. 

My parents also inadvertently introduced me to a fresh-faced singer, another of their latest fads. I happened to stop over at their house one night when they'd already plugged in a VHS tape and were mesmerized by an artist I'd never heard of. His name was George. I sat down on their couch and muttered disdainful remarks, until I finally shut up and actually listened. 

A few years later my ultimate quest peaked at Fargo, North Dakota, where I finally snagged the holy grail -- a concert by The King, George Strait. 

I'd motored all the way to Billings, Montana to seize this once-in-a-lifetime chance, only to learn after checking into my cheap motel room that a sudden snowstorm in Wyoming had stranded George and his crew and that the Billings concert was canceled. There was absolutely nothing to do in Billings, Montana -- literally nothing -- except play video poker on bar-top consoles, stagger back to the motel room, fall into restless sleep, then zoom across the barren landscape the next morning as fast as I could back home, crestfallen. 

It wasn't until a couple of months later that I learned The King would be in Fargo. I'd come this far. This time I would not be refused. It was worth the wait. 

I passed on a chance to see Shania Twain, even though the Civic Center was only a five-block trek from my home. Singles from her first album were popular on the radio, but I still hadn't decided if I liked her or hated her. Too late, I determined I liked her.

I walked out on a Hank Williams, Jr. show, the only time I ever walked out of a concert, except for a three-artist bill with Vince Gill, George Jones, and Conway Twitty. No offense to Conway fans, but I just could never stomach him.

Here and there, hither and thither, I caught other acts. I saw Marty Robbins in Duluth, Minnesota. I also saw Kenny Rogers there with my parents. 

When I was eight years old, I saw Loretta Lynn and her band perform at Panther Hall in Fort Worth, Texas. Panther Hall was a revelation. It was a de facto dining hall with elongated white-clothed tables, and one was required to cart in their own booze. The hall provided mixers but sold no alcohol. I dutifully ordered the steak and a salad with "no dressing", which flummoxed the waiter. (I was eight.) I somehow secured Loretta's autograph, which looked to me like "Buffalo Lynn".

When I was five years old my mom took me to my first country concert at the Grand Forks Armory by the afore-mentioned Marty Robbins. I remember he sang A White Sports Coat, and I remember that my mother nudged me after the show to go up and get Marty's autograph, but I demurred, too shy and self-conscious. 

In 1999 I saw Marty Stuart perform The Pilgrim at the Orpheum Theater, then saw him again at the Medina Ballroom with his band, The Fabulous Superlatives. 

I caught a binoculars-required Brooks and Dunn performance at the Target Center.

I saw Dwight Yoakam two or three times throughout the 2000's (He was worth repeat viewings).

The second best concert I ever saw was at a small venue, a casino. Diamond Rio had long been in constant rotation on my CD changer, but nothing I'd heard on CD compared to their live performance. Unlike Alan Jackson, who radiated an "I don't give a damn" attitude throughout his Civic Center appearance, Diamond Rio was on fire! There's no feeling like sitting in the second row of a tiny theater as Marty Roe and Jimmy Olander and Gene Johnson sang and played just for me.

But the very, very best concert was the one I attended with my mom. It wasn't that I was in love with Garth Brooks. I was a definite agnostic. And I don't even remember how it happened that we found ourselves in the third row of the Civic Center. The concert wasn't memorable for its theatrics, although there were plenty of those. It was the absolute joy on my mother's face. I think the two of us stood for the entire two-hour show. That was the last intimate moment my mom and I spent together and I savored it.

And so it was that my mom took me to my very first concert when I was five and that our musical life came full circle. 

No, I never saw Waylon. I don't think I saw Johnny Cash. If I did, I've forgotten it. I never got to see Mom's favorite singer, Ray Price. I'm pretty sure I caught Porter and Dolly, but my memory bank is somewhat fuzzy. Likewise, Mel Tillis. I wish I could have seen Lynn Anderson and Connie Smith and alas, Jerry Lee Lewis. 

I did see the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band at some kind of trade fair and they were wondrous. 

At thirteen I came this close to witnessing Bobby Bare in person, but a freak snowstorm forced Alice's brother to drive us home early, so I was forced to watch Bobby on a squiggly local TV feed.

Admittedly I've forgotten many of the artists I saw in person, and it's likely they've been forgotten to time as well. I sat through many, many opening acts in forty-odd years of concert-going -- one-hit wonders and no-hit wonders.

I wouldn't undertake the headache and dollars to endure a country concert today. Face it, I've seen the legends. Would a second George Strait show equal the thrill of the first? Not a chance. The quest was part of the reward.

I have the sweet sensation, however, of hearing a certain track on Spotify and remembering the time...



 

Friday, September 2, 2022

Thoughts On Country's "Greatest" Albums


This week Rolling Stone issued its edict coronating the one hundred best country albums of all time. They've done these lists before, but as much as I detest Rolling Stone (which used to be a music magazine) I can't dump on them too much this time around. They either managed to shake some older writers from the mothballs or they actually sat down and listened to a bunch of old albums, because they included some like this (#63), one of the best live country albums of all time:
 

 
As for more modern albums, they also honored "Ghost On The Canvas" by Glen Campbell (#88), which I fell in love with upon hearing the opening track.
 
 
And this album (#18!) is superb:
 
($62.93?? Good thing I already own it!) 
 
 
It was clear without even reading the article's preface that the article's contributors strove to only include one album per artist (with some exceptions), which is a little disingenuous, because I would easily place multiple George Strait and Dwight Yoakam albums on my list. I also question the albums by these artists they did choose, but taste is subjective.
 
One notable omission, which for a "hip" publication is head-scratching, is this:
 
 
In my late teens and early twenties I was a huge consumer of country albums (later CD's), and due to either the sparsity of choices and later, more disposable income, I bought a ton of clinkers. In an earlier post I even included a photo of my collection (misleading because the rows of CD's are two deep), and that wasn't even the entirety of it. It didn't include my stack of LP's or the boxed sets that are stashed under my bed. Not to mention hundreds of 45's. Yes, I still have all of them. 
 
But what I found, eventually, is that I return to certain titles when I want to hear some good music. 

Here are some of those:




(Good luck. Let me know if you can find it anywhere online.)
 

 

 


(C'mon Amazon. $33.49?) 

 
I know, I know ~ Red Headed Stranger and Will The Circle Be Unbroken get all the press in lists like Rolling Stone's, but frankly I listened to each of them one time and never again. 
 
And I know I could go on and on cataloguing my favorites, but I don't have an eidetic memory. 
 
Musical tastes are subjective, and sometimes you simply had to be there. But I can say without hesitation that you won't go wrong listening to any of my choices.
 
Really.