Showing posts with label mary chapin carpenter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mary chapin carpenter. Show all posts

Friday, October 28, 2022

Reviewing The Top Ten Country Singles From This Date In 1994



My record reviews somehow seem to zero in on certain years. I actually prefer more variety, but I'm dependent on the charts that are available. Google isn't a "magic answer machine", as my computer-illiterate husband seems to believe.

These lookback posts may seem quirky, but I still love music; just not today's music. When one reaches a certain age, they enjoy revisiting the past; probably for the same reason my dad thought Dean Martin was the shitz and my mom loved Ray Price well past his time.

Plus, our memories are selective. If someone was to spit out 1994 to me, I'd say, well, yes, that was a great year for music. But was it? Revisiting the past informs today. For example, it's an accepted fact that today's country reeks, but does it reek more than yesteryear? That's what I'm here to find out.

Where was I in 1994? Well, I hadn't yet turned forty and I'd just begun to find my niche in the corporate world. I'd barely landed a job at a brand new health insurance company (because one of the thirty initial hirees dropped out) and had risen in the ranks to a supervisory position, when my obsequious boss called me into his office and presented me with a proposition ~ lead a new, experimental division that consisted of data entry, a mindless pursuit that struck me as a blow to my intelligence. He wanted me to abandon all the knowledge I'd gained and teach people how to fill in little computer boxes? Granted, he and I weren't best friends, but I didn't deserve to be punished this way.

"Can I think about it overnight?" I asked.

"Sure. Come back tomorrow and tell me you accept," he said.

Faced with no choice (I surmised), I came back the next day and accepted. And that supercilious asshole actually opened up a whole new world for me. I learned how to interview prospective employees, how to train them, how to troubleshoot a wobbly system, how to talk back to a vociferous VP a thousand miles away. I learned that I liked this "being in charge" schtick. And I was good at it. My (now) former boss would stop by from time to time just to shoot the breeze. I'd gone from peon to princess in the course of a few short months. In time my unit expanded into a second shift and I had to choose supervisors and assistant supervisors. I was never awarded with the title of "manager", but I was a de facto one. I earned a manager's salary and even landed a corner office.

My oldest son was about to graduate from high school and my youngest was only two years behind. They were self-sufficient enough to allow me to indulge in this new world. I spent hours at work and too many hours at home planning for the next day. And I never once felt stressed. 

Music was my primary release and the country world obliged. The bulk of my employees loved country, too, so we could always chat about the latest hits on my walkabouts. 

All this would eventually end explosively, but in 1994 I didn't know that.

So, this review has resonance for me and I'm looking forward to finding out if this is my version of dad's Dean Martin or if I've completely hallucinated the year's musical events.

 

I've repeated this ad nauseum, but if you're a new reader, these are my rules:

  • I review each single as a first-time listener.
  • I must listen to the entire track before offering my critique.  
  • I stick with the Top Ten only.
  • I do my best to find music videos. If all else fails, I use a video of the recorded song.

Let's go!

 

#10 ~ Man Of My Word ~ Collin Raye 


To be honest, I've only ever liked two releases by Collin Raye, but one of those was so good I think I elevated this singer in my mind. This track is so formulaic that only the singer saves it. I guess I see now why there is no official video. This is completely forgettable, even though ballads are Raye's strength.

The song has a nice sentiment, but the track has nothing to distinguish it. It's a poor man's Love, Me, which also wasn't too great.

The 2022 me would hear this as a completely new single because I would have zero recollection of it.

C

 

#9 ~ Shut Up And Kiss Me ~ Mary Chapin Carpenter


This singer started off with a bang in '89, with original, emotional releases. Her first album was delirious. Even 1991's Down At The Twist And Shout stirred a sense of abandon.
Then at some point fame seemed to jade her. This track may have been her swan song, at least at the top of the charts. I get it. It's a craggy mountain to topple from. Only the best can top themselves. Mary CC didn't do it here. It may be that it suffers by comparison to her meatier songs and even her "fun" songs, like The Bug. She still has the discordant piano kicking it off, and her songwriting chops are intact, but the song itself is a feather.

I can't put my finger on why this one doesn't work. My go-to theory is that a song needs a memorable chorus, and this track doesn't even have a chorus, just a repetition of the title. That may account for my shrug. Three decades in the future when I think about Chapin Carpenter songs, this one won't even cross my mind.

C+

 

#8 ~ The City Put The Country Back In Me ~ Neal McCoy

 


I'm trying hard to remember which song put Neal McCoy on country's radar, but in the early 90's he was always there. I'm going to venture that the song was The Shake, but only because he called out my hometown in the lyrics. 1994 me is going to guess that McCoy is but a flash in the pan. He fills a certain niche, a pre-Achy Breaky Heart vibe.

As for the track itself, points for the crunchy Telecaster at the beginning, which will draw couples to the dance floor. I would have done verse-chorus, rather than verse-verse chorus, for better flow; since the narrative itself isn't all that interesting. The back story could have easily been condensed into one verse. Really, what gives this song any energy at all is the chorus. Emphasize that. I get it; this is a barroom song, and there's nothing wrong with that. Everything in music doesn't have to be super-serious.

B-

 

#7 ~ I Try To Think About Elvis ~ Patty Loveless

If a singer is going to stray from weighty songs, this is the way to do it. (Lookin' at you, Mary Chapin Carpenter.) Patty Loveless is one of country's unsung royalty, who doesn't get the plaudits she deserves. And while I love (love!) Don't Toss Us Away, I'm also a big fan of her sassier singles, like A Little Bit In Love and Timber, I'm Falling In Love. This single is cheeky and rather goofy. It's nothing but pure enjoyment

A

 

#6 ~ Callin' Baton Rouge ~ Garth Brooks

 

Most people don't realize this track is a remake. That's okay. I barely remember the original, but I do remember it ~ recorded by New Grass Revival. On the other hand, I have no recollection of the Oak Ridge Boys having recorded it, even though it was included on an album I bought, Room Service. (I sampled both versions on Spotify and can report that Garth's version is a near-replica of the original and the Oak's version is pale and pallid. No wonder I don't remember it.)

This is one of those songs that just grabs you. If you're driving when it blasts out of your radio speakers, you can't help but stomp your foot down on the accelerator. It's best consumed on a moonlit night on a rural highway. 

I would like more Garth Brooks tracks if he recorded better songs. I've got nothing against him as a singer. Sure, he's not the best country singer of all time, but he's certainly not the worst. 

This one, though. Genius choice.

A

 

#5 ~ Third Rate Romance ~ Sammy Kershaw


While Nashville songwriters are starving, everybody's busy recording remakes. Of course, this song was made famous by the Amazing Rhythm Aces. 

Sammy Kershaw just keeps hanging in there, but has never once managed to record a song I like. As a singer, he's a solid C-. Maybe that's why I've never given him a second thought.

This song has that Jamaican rhythm I like, but the original wins, especially since Kershaw's version is a note-by-note replication.

I give the original a B, but Kershaw's version a...

C-

 

#4 ~  Watermelon Crawl ~ Tracy Byrd


As ambivalent as I am toward Sammy Kershaw, I absolutely detest Tracy Byrd. I can't explain it, but he strikes a repellent chord in me much like Conway Twitty does. Maybe it's his face...or his voice. Or a fusion of both. 

And what exactly is a watermelon crawl? I don't know and I don't give a damn.

The song itself? Putrid. Were the songwriters drunk when they penned it? A memorable song needs to be universal. The fact that 99.9% of country fans have no idea what this is even about is the kiss of death. 

F

 

#3 ~ She's Not The Cheatin' Kind ~ Brooks And Dunn


Ronnie Dunn wrote this. He also wrote Neon Moon, Boot Scootin' Boogie, My Next Broken Heart, and (my sentimental favorite) Red Dirt Road. 

Ronnie Dunn is a helluva songwriter. This one is essentially a throwaway. Hey, you write a lot of songs, you're gonna have a couple of clinkers.

I see where he's going with it. The long drawn-out "sheees", but the beginning doesn't lead to anything but mush.

This track is simply not one to list on Ronnie's CV. I doubt I'll even remember it in, say, 2022.

C-

 

#2 ~ When You Walk In The Room ~ Pam Tillis


Oh, look songwriters ~ another remake!

This song was, of course, written by Jackie DeShannon (what the world needs now...) That said, it's almost the perfect pop song. Can one blame Pam for recording it?

I can't critique the song itself. That's not why I'm here. But let me say, this is the quintessential sixties pop composition, and I'm partial to those.

Pam Tillis, while not possessing the strongest voice in country, knows how to accentuate her talents. Any girl of a certain age would find herself dancing The Jerk to this.

A-

 

#1 ~ Livin' On Love ~ Alan Jackson


Alan Jackson has never received the respect he deserves as a songwriter. He gets it. He knows how to write a country song. Short, pithy verse, sock-you-in-your-gut chorus. I think if I was to choose one single co-writer, it would be him. Of course, he'd get all the credit, but I could insert a couple of words somewhere.

If one is looking for the essence of country songwriting, you can stop here.

A+

 

So, what do I know about October, 1994? Well, a lot of artists, sans Alan Jackson, thought old hits were their ticket. Some succeeded; most faltered. I'm not averse to remembering the past ~ the past was sometimes great ~ but you just can't beat a timeless talent.

Good on you, Alan Jackson.




 

Wednesday, November 27, 2019

Mary Chapin-Carpenter



I've given up a lot of things I used to do. Have you done that? For instance, I used to be a prolific CD-buyer. I've always been sort of  an obsessive. I'd glom onto a project and carry it to the extreme. There was a time in the nineties when I scoured my local mall outlet to latch onto the newest country CD, whip out my checkbook and tote that disc home like it was manna. Just ask my dusty CD shelves.

Albeit, it was a time when good music exploded like roman candles. My local DJ (when there was such a thing as non-computerized programming) would play a track and I'd wrack my brain to try to identify the singer. Which didn't work if the artist was brand-new. There was no instant internet gratification, so it was either a) keep listening to the radio and hope the disc jockey named the singer; or b) thumb through the record store shelves for what I "thought" the song title was and hope to get lucky. Come to think of it, I bought a lot of bad CD's that way.

Contrary to the current delusion, female artists were never relegated to the creaky cellar of never-radio play. In the nineteen nineties, in fact, female performers soared. One of those performers was Mary Chapin Carpenter. She was new, so when I first heard her on the radio, I faced the conundrum of trying to suss out exactly who she was and which CD to buy.

I liked Mary Chapin because her songs actually said something, and in an interesting way. Some artists are lyricists; some write great melodies. Not many can do both. Rodney Crowell can do both. Carpenter, too:



Like most second releases, this one isn't as good as Never Had It So Good, but I still like it (not a good video, unfortunately):



Mary Chapin wasn't only morose. Cast your eyes on this one:



Anyone who cites Dwight Yoakam in a song has my vote:



I don't believe this was ever recorded, but I remember it well from the CMA awards:



Take this, 2019 Year Of The Women:



After this next song, I don't know exactly what happened. I guess, like most stars of the nineties, Mary Chapin Carpenter's time had come and gone. I bought four Chapin Carpenter CD's ~ the last one was a disappointment, and that's when I stopped.



But Mary is still performing. And she goes her own way. At age 61, one deserves that.

If one writes one great song in their lifetime, that's magic. Never Had It So Good is magic.







Friday, November 23, 2018

Finding Something I Was Good At ~ 1990/1991


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':



Mary Chapin:



Some new group:


The all-time Dwight:














Friday, October 19, 2018

Yay For Women Artists?

So CMT (which used to be a network), in a shameless publicity grab, decided to anoint all women as "artists of the year". First of all, if you've got about twenty of them, that kinda dilutes the artist of the year moniker. Secondly, who is CMT to decide anything? The only admirable thing CMT has done in the past thirty years is pick up the series Nashville after ABC canceled it.

I remember CMT when it was actually watchable. That's when the great Ralph Emery had a nightly talk show that featured real country artists, and when videos were broadcast that one could distinguish from crappy pop. Everything doesn't get better with age.

Carrie Underwood, Miranda Lambert, Maren Morris, Kelsea Ballerini, Hillary Scott of Lady Antebellum, and Karen Fairchild and Kimberly Schlapman of Little Big Town were the honorees. I know what you're thinking ~ who now? I know Carrie Underwood from watching American Idol all those years ago, and I know Miranda from the tabloids. I didn't watch the telecast, but it seems that the gals honored those time-honored country artists Aretha Franklin and Gladys Knight.

I understand that Carrie is a true country girl at heart, but she's a slave to radio and has to record the stuff that people (apparently) buy, but I don't really admire an artist who sells out. Doesn't she have enough cache now to record whatever the hell she wants? The gals paid lip service to Loretta Lynn and...apparently that's it....and sang a bunch of songs written by guys, which rather undermines the whole #women rule meme.

The problem I have with women who claim they're all powerful is that they seem desperate to prove it by whining a whole lot. That's not powerful; that's pitiful.

For those "artists of the year" who don't know country history (which seems to be all of them), here are some women who didn't whine:














The number one non-whiner was a broad who didn't give a damn that Roy Acuff and Faron Young were on the same bill. She knew she commanded the stage, and she didn't need a hashtag to tell the world she had arrived.

So, for all you Aretha and Gladys fans out there, here is some real country music:


But just keep thinking you're "all that". Those who don't know better will believe you. 

I am one who knows better.

 







 




Friday, September 28, 2018

Faking Country


You know me -- I don't listen to today's country. I am easily irritated by cacophonous sounds, like sirens and repetitive construction noises....and US senators preening for television cameras. So, I admit I'm not exactly "hip" to the latest sounds. But I was browsing The Federalist the other day (not actually for music news) and ran across this article regarding a new song by someone named Walker Hayes. The hook is, apparently, that the lyrics reference titles of nineties country songs.

The song was written by Shane McAnally and "LYRX", a suspicious name -- a global conglomerate like "EXXON"; a corporation that features thirty-something brunettes in sensible pantsuits in its commercials, sagely reassuring us that their cabal is environmentally-friendly, while in fact they are poisoning us.

The song is clever! And lazy! "I can't seem to write a good song, so I'll just string some titles together and voila!"

The recording itself is as far away from country music as The Captain and Tennille.


I'm okay with people saying country music is dead, because it is; but don't disingenuously co-opt the name. It's fine -- we get it -- you want country to be a lukewarm glass of 2% milk. But why not call it something else? It denigrates the name "country" when your gas-passing is lumped together with actual music. 

My honest review of this song? It's horrible. Don't try to make excuses. It reeks. 

If one was to listen to any of the songs referenced in the lyrics, they'd slink away in shame.

Okay, since you asked for it:








Meanwhile, I'll get my new music from TV commercials.

At least it's genuine.


Sunday, July 2, 2017

1989 In Country Music Was Damn Good


Sometimes I wonder if my life can be measured by the jobs I've held. I sincerely hope that's not true. But when I think back to 1989, I remember my work life being in flux. I'd left eight comfortable years of being the girl behind the desk on the medical floor of our local hospital, and I distinctly remember why I left. Monday evenings were a flurry of activity on the medical floor. Folks who'd been sick all weekend, but who'd told themselves, just hold on -- maybe I'll be better by Monday -- had finally given in and made an appointment to visit their personal physician, and found out, why yes, I really am sick! Sick enough to be admitted to the hospital, in fact. Thus, admissions came fast and furious on late Monday afternoons. The medical floor had three wings. One was for telemetry (heart) patients, and the other two -- Central and West -- were for general illness. I juggled admissions as best I could between the available wings. The nurses were sorely overworked and I endeavored to rotate new patients so none of the RN's and LPN's became overwhelmed. Sometimes that was an impossible task. I guess my final room assignment was the last straw for one of the RN's who I'd considered a friend. She took a moment out of her whir of vitals and wheelchairs and sputum cups to voice her displeasure. Essentially, her position was that I was deliberately tormenting her and she was disappointed and disillusioned with me. I don't think I said a word in response; I just stared at her, feeling like a bug she keenly wanted to stomp beneath her white oxfords. She and I had shared breaks -- sat in the nurses' lounge and smoked our cigarettes on moonless nights -- laughed together about goofy goings-on in the Pharmacy Department; shared anecdotes about our kids. And now she hated me. I left the hospital at the end of my shift and went home to my torture chamber bed and tossed and scrunched around most of the night. I felt unjustly accused. I had simply done my job the best I could, in impossible circumstances.

The next day I scanned the hospital bulletin board for open positions and promptly applied for one in the Admissions Department. I was hired in a flash. The medical center had a policy of filling jobs from within. Thus, I sat in a high-backed chair in an office with three open-air slots, evening after evening, right next to the switchboard operator's glass-encased cubicle, and awaited new "check-ins". Every department within the facility had its specific wardrobe requirements, so I switched from navy blue polyester uniforms to some kind of baby blue stiff starched linen. I guess that was how one could be readily identified -- slotted in, as it were. I hated registering new patients. I felt clumsy and asked the wrong questions or inevitably forgot to check a specific box on the admission form. I couldn't remember which forms I was supposed to stamp beneath the heavy iron contraption, and creating the little plastic identification cards with a "C" for Catholic and remembering to include the "Mrs." before Verna Schuffeltd's name seemed beyond my brain's capacity. The truth was, I simply hated my new job. I missed knowing what I was doing; missed the breezy efficiency with which I'd whipped out lab orders and missed the nurses I'd come to know so intimately. I hated the stilted quiet of the admissions office and longed for the familiar cacophony of real life.

I lasted a week or so in my new position, and then I lied and told my new supervisor some tale about how the schedule wasn't working for my family.

If I hadn't been shot through the heart, maybe I'd still be at that hospital today. I'd be the elderly gray-stranded woman everyone allows to cut in front of them in the cafeteria line, because, you know, she reminds me of my grandma!

I padded across the sliding-door threshold of the hospital one final time. I had no plan. I had no options.

In my small town, the newspaper's want ads for "clerical work" encompassed a line space approximately the width of my thumb. I innocently assumed I could always get a job with the State Government -- my fallback. I'd begun my "career" working for the State, and trust me, they'd hire practically anyone they could confirm was actually drawing breath. And I sort of did get hired by the State, but it was a downtown (not at the State Capitol) temporary part-time job as a receptionist for the Teachers Retirement Fund. My duties consisted of passing out mail and typing occasional letters on an IBM Selectric with a correctable ribbon. No more Wite-Out for me! No sirreee! I worked from eight a.m. to noon and couldn't wait to escape that soul-sucking receptionist's desk when the big hand clicked on the twelve. Between mail delivery and the two letters per day I was required to type, I had approximately three hours of non-productive time. I don't recall how I filled those hours -- I'll guess by jamming a Kleenex between the numbers on the switchboard and whisking away the dust. If one wants to achieve invisibility, she should get a job as a receptionist. Most of the staff to which I delivered mail rarely bothered to show up for work, so I had no clue what they actually looked like. They were simply names on a business-sized envelope. Thus, I was taken aback when I finally found what I thought would be a better position -- and full-time! -- and hovered in the doorway of my anonymous supervisor's office to give my notice, and this woman, Mary Smith (as far as I was concerned) expressed dismay and told me they'd been thinking of offering me a permanent full-time position. What? And why? I only had fifteen minutes worth of work to do in the first place. But who knows? If I'd hung around, maybe I'd be the soon-to-retire director of that God-awful place today. I honestly still don't know what they actually did there.

I saw an ad in the newspaper for a medical transcriptionist. No, technically I'd never transcribed medical records, but I did know medical terminology and I certainly knew how to type. Voila, I was hired. This job did not work out well. The owner assured me that a "transcribing machine" was on order and I would settle into my new position just as soon as it arrived. In 1989, a transcribing machine was a 21-inch television-sized word processor. I don't know what was packed inside that behemoth, but knowing technology as I do today, I'm guessing it was a pile of lead plates that served no discernible purpose other than to make the contraption a hernia-inducing heave up a flight of stairs for two unfortunate delivery persons.  Alas, the transcribing machine was a mirage. I sorted mail (yep!) for months into individual slots, drank gallons of coffee, drove to the McDonald's window for a hamburger every day at twelve, came back and tossled envelopes around for a few more hours before checking out and heading home. I know transcribing machines actually existed, because the company had two busily-finger-tapping transcriptionists I envied daily for the fact that they actually had something to do. The highlight of that position was the company's annual trip to Kansas City for, I guess, a transcribing convention. I boarded the plane to KC with the two actual typists and proceeded to get sloshed. Once there, after our sirloin steak dinner, one of the girls (I'll call her "Jill" because I have absolutely no recollection of her actual name) cornered the company's CEO and vented all her frustrations about our boss. Jill then pointed to me and promised I could vouch for everything she was saying. I think I drunkenly muttered something about "not getting my machine". The next day we flew home. Come Monday, each of the three of us typists got called in separately to the boss's office to discuss our Kansas City faux paus. When it was my turn, the office maven asked me if I was dissatisfied there. I piped up that I still hadn't gotten "my machine". "I told you it's on order!" she huffed. "Well, it has been six months," I responded timidly. She then asked me if I wanted to retain my employment with the company. "Well....no," I said. And thus I tromped down the stairway and out the front door. That was the last day I had a single burger and a small fry for lunch from McDonald's.

My job prospects were dire. My family was incomprehensibly understanding. If I'd been a bystander, I wouldn't have been so patient. I compare the employment opportunities at that time to a choice between three entrees that are all putrid -- let's say, liver, seared cow brains, and boiled chicken hearts. Hmmm, what to choose? Okay, I'll take the liver. Maybe I can at least choke that down. Before long, I found a posting for a "Farm Records Secretary". I had no idea what that was, but I understood the three words, singly. I figured stringing the words together would produce a job I could perform, albeit begrudgingly. The Farm Credit office was located on the far edge of a different city from the one in which I resided, but there really was no such thing as "traffic" -- the interstate highway was clear and the morning drive was rather lovely. I could zone out and listen to the radio as the sun rose behind me. I did have a bias against the word, "secretary", since in my experience, secretary meant shuttling a mug of coffee to a man who didn't take the trouble to glance up from his paperwork and make eye contact. Fortunately, my new boss wasn't a man, but a woman who didn't take the trouble to glance up from her paperwork and make eye contact. She was prim. And awkward. Conversation didn't come easily to her. She'd migrated years before from someplace like Oklahoma and hadn't yet lost her Okie accent. Transcribing her recorded correspondence was a challenge. At first I would ask her to clarify a word, but later, finding our interactions less than scintillating, I simply typed the word that seemed to fit best. The previous secretary, who had recently been promoted, trained me, and she was impatient. She kindly ignored me when not giving orders. I didn't like her...at all. In a couple of months, we would become the best of friends. I'm not sure how things like that happen. Maybe we had a common enemy....Mrs. Park. I spent half of 1988 and the entirety of 1989 doing my farm secretary duties. One winter morn, as I endeavored to cajole my rear-wheel drive Ford up the steep hill to the FCS office, I found myself sliding backwards. I flipped the butt of the car into a roadside snowbank and tried again...and again. We'd had a rare freezing rain storm and I was not a well-lit bulb. After about fifteen minutes of fruitlessly trying to push up the hill, I gave up and backed/slid down to the intersection, parked and found a nearby telephone. I called up the guy whose office abutted my receptionist desk -- an older guy who spent his days jawing with ranchers -- kind of a dad-like prince of a man. He soldiered out to where I sat shivering in my Taurus and loaded me in his pickup and shuttled us to the office. As much as may hate our circumstances, there are always angels. Farm Credit Services was full to the brim with nice, nice people. Had it not been for Mrs. Hateful, I might have stayed. But I was basically miserable.

Thus, the music of 1989 was my salve. The Dakota Lounge was full of sawdust and regional bands and a loud juke box. Fridays and sometimes Saturday nights we ventured there, and here are the songs I remember:






 
 



I wonder if this was the number one country single of 1989. I'm going to guess yes:


I haven't left out the king. I wanted to give him a special place of honor, because in 1989 he released one of his top two best albums, "Beyond The Blue Neon"





Ahh, 1989 in country music was damn good.


Saturday, December 3, 2016

CMA 50 - A Look Back - 1995

The thing about the early-to-mid-nineties in country music was that one simply couldn't go wrong. Turn on the radio and you would be smacked in the ears with one good song after another after another. Ahhh, that's when I loved music. If the music pouring from the speakers had any one common denominator, it was that it was...country! Other genres that hadn't yet taken hold didn't seep into the steel guitar twang; didn't interrupt a twin fiddles solo with a sudden record scratch. Classic rock wasn't apparently classic enough yet for country acts to begin re-recording its hits. Country music had an identity. Sure, it was always looked down upon by self-styled hipsters, but country fans were used to that and we tended to mingle with our own kind. And sure, I lived in flyover country and we were "simple folk", but even the young kids coming up begrudgingly admitted that some of that "old-time music" wasn't horrific.

I lived in a relatively small town, even though it was the capital city of my state, and there weren't many distractions. If we wanted to have a summer get-together, it was easy to reserve a shelter in one of the city parks. Teenagers hung out at the sandbar on the Missouri River; adults traipsed the mall. At home after work, we turned on CMT and watched the hot acts perform live on Ralph Emery's Nashville Now. And there was the radio -- always the radio.

The CMA nominee roster in 1995 was ripe with shining stars. It must have been hell for the members to narrow down their picks. I didn't agree with all of the choices, but ask me tomorrow and I could go another way. I loved most of the artists nominated. What do they call it -- an embarrassment of riches? It was.

The nominees and winners:

Female Vocalist of the Year
Reba McEntire
Pam Tillis
Mary Chapin Carpenter
Alison Krauss
Patty Loveless

This is so hard, because I love (love!) three of the five nominees. Couldn't they have had a tie?

Here is the recording that won Alison the statuette:


Here are a couple of alternatives for your consideration:



(Apparently the closest Dwight Yoakam would get to being on the CMA stage until 2016.)

Male Vocalist of the Year
John Berry
Alan Jackson
John Michael Montgomery
George Strait
Vince Gill

People with little knowledge of the past don't understand how huge Vince Gill was in the nineties. Trust me; he was huge. Who on this list has stood the test of time? Well, you can judge for yourself. There was a joke going around about John Michael Montgomery singing live without auto-tune and the result was undesirable. John Berry? Trust me; I'm not trying to be mean, but I have absolutely no cognizance of this man. I'm sure he must have had a hit song.

But back to Vince:  One of my (self-appointed) assignments for my mom and dad's fiftieth wedding anniversary surprise party was to create a tape (yes, tape) of fifty years of music that meant something to them. I made several trips to the record store in order to fulfill that task, but I loved doing it. After Dad, then Mom passed away, I came into possession of those two tapes. I'm afraid to play them, though, for fear I will break down in sobs. I ended the compilation with this:


Now that I've had my cry, let's move on to peppier and sillier things.

Music Video of the Year
Any Man of Mine - Shania Twain
Baby Likes To Rock It - The Tractors
I Don't Even Know Your Name - Alan Jackson
The Red Strokes - Garth Brooks
When Love Finds You - Vince Gill

What else could possibly win Video of the Year? The Tractors never had another hit. They didn't need one.



I don't generally feature the Musician of the Year because the musician nominees usually don't have videos to showcase their talents. But in 1995 they did.

Musician of the Year
Eddie Bayers
Paul Franklin
Mark O'Connor
Brent Mason
Matt Rollings

The winner (as an added bonus, Steve Wariner!):


The Single of the Year was "When You Say Nothing At All" by Alison Krauss.

Song of the Year (award to the songwriter)
Gone Country - Bob McDill
Independence Day - Gretchen Peters
How Can I Help You Say Goodbye - Burton Banks-Collins and Karen Taylor-Good
Thinkin' Problem - David Ball, Allen Shamblin, and Stuart Ziff
Don't Take The Girl - Larry Johnson and Craig Martin

Yup:


Brooks and Dunn won Vocal Duo of the Year and the Vocal Group of the Year was The Mavericks. 1995 wasn't Brooks and Dunn's best year (don't worry; I'll be featuring them; count on it). The Mavericks, boy, let's give 'em credit where it's due, and they were due in 1995:


The Horizon Award, given to best newcomer, went to Alison Krauss, but my heart will always be with David Ball. I loved this song because it was so blatantly country, so "in your face country". My kids hated when the song came on the radio and I would flip the volume up, so I tended to torture them with it, just for fun:




After everything that's come before, it's almost anti-climatic to talk about the Entertainer of the Year, but that's the big one, after all.

I saw Alan Jackson in concert -- he wasn't the most scintillating entertainer -- but for hit records alone, he deserved to grab this award. 




Of all the years I've featured in this CMA retrospective, 1995 has to be one of the greatest. I'm awed by the talent here. Awed and sentimental.



























Friday, March 16, 2012

Bad Years In Country Music ~ Let's Not Forget The Nineties


I've been feeling a bit guilty about honing in on the decades of the seventies and eighties, when, in actuality, all decades have their allotment of bad music.  No doubt the sixties did, too, but that time frame would be more of a history lesson for me, as opposed to a clear remembrance.  (Don't worry; I'm sure I'll get to that decade as well).

Why pick on 1994?

Well, a quick scan of the charts points to the sad fact that a lot of the big names of the late eighties/early nineties had sort of peaked by then.  And thus, they were recording substandard songs.  Vince Gill, Tracy Lawrence, Brooks & Dunn, Pam Tillis, Ricky Van Shelton, Garth Brooks, Travis Tritt....their big hits had already happened.  That's not to say that some of these guys didn't go on to record better songs later; but 1994 was apparently a watershed year (I always wanted to use the phrase "watershed year") in their careers. 

Also, in 1994, we saw the first appearances of Tim McGraw and Faith Hill, et al, and we all know what that led to.  I don't think I have to paint a picture.

And remember John Michael Montgomery?  He'd had a big hit with "Life's A Dance", and everybody liked it, even though we had that lingering quibble that he didn't actually sing the song on key.  But we chose to overlook it.  By 1994, he, too, was on the downslide, and now he's known as the brother of that guy who sings in a duo about what his hometown looks like.

I'm not saying there weren't good, or even great songs, released in 1994.  Because there were.  But there was a lot of impossible-to-scrub-from-your-mind drivel, as well.  As evidenced by this (which appears to have been the top hit of the year):

TIM MCGRAW:



There are so many things wrong with this song, it's a chore to even begin.  First of all, that thin, reedy voice.  But really, the voice is the least of this recording's issues.  It's the whole smarmy, "am I supposed to cry now?" vibe that it gives off.  One knows where the song is heading, after the middle of the first verse.  I don't know who wrote it (and I could look it up, but I'm not really that interested), and these guys (I'm just guessing it's "guys", plural, because, you know, that's the big fad ~ co-writing ~ as if it is impossible for one to actually write a whole song by oneself) don't really care that I hate this song, nor that anyone with any modicum of taste hates this song, because they made huge dollars from it, and he who laughs last....has the last laugh....or something.

And then there was Garth Brooks with "The Red Strokes".  I barely remember this song, and don't bother looking, because you will never find a Garth Brooks video online (except for a couple of grainy live performance videos), so I'm choosing to just ignore Garth Brooks for the rest of this post.  If and when he decides to stop hording his videos, maybe I'll give him his due.

But, of course, not everyone had horrible taste in 1994.  Just most people.  However, this song was a big, big hit, and it actually deserved it.

I've written about this song before, and you can call it "kitschy"; or call it whatever you want.  I love this song.  And it's a true original.

DAVID BALL



And then we had LITTLE TEXAS.

Little Texas had a couple of really good songs, and this one was the best.  Unfortunately (of course), apparently Little Texas, or what is left of them without Brady Seals, chooses not to share its videos online (they attended the Garth Brooks school of artist promotion).  So, in order to include this song, I had to go with this video, which was created, I'm sure, out of love.  But I'd rather have an actual video of the guys performing the song.



I don't know if VINCE GILL ever recorded a bad song.  This is a song he wrote about Amy Grant, when he really wasn't supposed to, but he did anyway.



Remember MARY CHAPIN CARPENTER?  I always liked her.  I guess she aged too much, and they didn't want her anymore.  Isn't that the way it goes?



You're probably asking yourself at this point, well, where are the actual BAD songs?  I mean, aside from Tim McGraw?  Well, you know me.  I prefer positive energy to negative, so I'm skipping a bunch of bad ones, and featuring the ones I like.

I know that tends to not prove my theory, but would I rather be right, or rather have fun?  I'll take fun.

So, here's one, by ALAN JACKSON:



We also had TRISHA YEARWOOD in 1994.  Trisha, unsurprisingly, adheres to her husband's (Garth's) theory regarding NOT sharing videos online, so, alas, we're stuck with this pale green (and who thinks that's an attractive color?) video of  "Xxx's and Ooo's" (and doesn't that actually read, "X's and ooohs"?  I think the spelling is off here.)



And then there was FAITH HILL.  I've got nothing against Faith.  Okay, I do.  But it's not necessarily because of this song.  Although I read that she'd never in her life heard the Janis Joplin version.  I'm thinking little Faith led a very sheltered life.  No, what I really have against Faith Hill is that she alone caused me to finally give up on country music.  But it was a later song that did it.  Something about breathing.  And one wouldn't think that breathing would be bad.  But it was.

EDIT:  Sorry, I removed this video.  It was kind enough to auto-play, and I like to make up my own mind whether to listen to/watch a video or not.  But you can find it online, if you search really hard (it's not on YouTube).

I don't think I remember where I was the first time I heard any song, except for this one.  I distinctly remember sitting in my parked car, waiting to pick up my kids from school, when this song came on the radio.  Why do I remember it?  I'll guess it was (a) because it was my very favorite singer, GEORGE STRAIT; and (b) because it was so good.  I almost swooned over this song.  Especially when he hit the high notes. 



Speaking of good, what about DWIGHT YOAKAM?



Let's not forget PATTY LOVELESS (she ranks right up there with Patsy and Tammy, really):



I didn't realize this next song was from 1994.  I have a quibble with a popular radio/TV host using this as his theme song, because I wonder if he ever actually listened to the whole song, aside from the tag line.  Because this song is pretty stark and dramatic, and it's not actually a patriotic song (duh).

Here is MARTINA MCBRIDE:



I truly hate songs about tractors.  Because everyone who sings them has no clue about tractors.  They could just as well be singing about jumbo paper clips.  This one, however, seems more authentic; a slice of small-town life.  My dad would like this song, even though he hated John Deere tractors.

Here is JOE DIFFIE:



To help prove my point about bad music in 1994, Tim McGraw makes yet another appearance.  This video is striking, if for no other reason than for the odd way Tim wears his hat.   But I guess that's his "signature", isn't it?  Wearing one's hat like a dork ~ must be Tim McGraw!

And let's not even get into the offensiveness of this song.  Because, where does one start?



I remember getting up early in the morning, shuffling to the bathroom to get ready for work; flipping on the FM radio, and hearing this song, and just thinking about it.  Every morning.

I am an unabashed COLLIN RAYE fan.  I don't know Tom Douglas's work, but I know this song.  And Tom must have had a special, personal insight, in order to write this.  This proves that the best songs aren't necessarily written by the people whose names you know.  The song stands on its own.



Most people (I'm guessing) don't remember LARI WHITE.  I do.  I bought two of her CD's.  I think she was just great.  And here is one that proves it:



Like Lari White, you may not remember THE MAVERICKS  I always found the name, The Mavericks, ironic, because my best friend, Alice, was in a band called The Mavericks, until somebody raised a fuss, and said, hey, we've got that name!  Pick something different!  

But that's neither here nor there.  This Mavericks was headed by Raul Malo.  And here is a 1994 song, and a good one:



Speaking of tractors (you have to keep up ~ that was a few paragraphs back), what about THE TRACTORS?

Never had another hit song; but that's how the old train rolls,doesn't it?

I leave you with Baby Likes To Rock It:



So, my theory is essentially moot.  I thought 1994 was bad, but it really was sort of good.

Okay, I skipped a bunch.  I just couldn't bring myself to relive the bad parts of 1994.  But you can look it up, if you are a masochist.  Trust me, though, there was some bad stuff in 1994.

The thing was, though, the good outweighed the bad.  That's the thing about radio.

One can remember a year as being bad, but if they take a closer look, it's really that the bad stuff was so omnipresent, it obscured the good things.

Maybe it's just that 1994 was a harbinger of the bad times to come.  And believe me, there were bad times to come.

But I must say, I've enjoyed this look back (most of it).  So, it's a win-win.  I'd forgotten most of it, but that's what comes with old age.  One tends to forget things, or bundle them into one big thing; one that has no identifiable parameters, but rather, tends to be something we like to call the "good old days".

Lord, I guess I've finally crossed that threshold, haven't I?

Saturday, May 23, 2009

The CMA Awards - More For You in '92

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 YEAR ACHY 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":


Watch more On the Mark videos on AOL Video



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":


Vince Gill I Still Believe in You (live) - The most amazing bloopers are here

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.

Here's Boot Scootin' Boogie:




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:




It's so nice to see some fresh faces on the awards stage, for a refreshing change. And here's another.

FEMALE VOCALIST OF THE YEAR - Mary Chapin Carpenter




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.

All in all, a pretty good year.

~~