Independence Day Belongs To Small Towns

I moved away from my hometown more than twenty years ago. I live in a leafy suburb that has nothing but houses and a store scattered here and there. As I write this on July 4, I am sitting inside my house, listening to the air conditioner kick in. Independence Day is just another day. It could be a generic Monday, or a Wednesday. 

In celebration of the holiday my suburb features live orchestral music on July 10. July 10. Why not July 23? Or August 17? They do things differently here in Minnesota. They also outlaw fireworks, so only the outlaws set them off, generally at two o'clock in the morning outside my window. I'm still perplexed by the irrational fear of fountains and Roman candles -- but then, Minnesotans seem to be afraid of a lot of things. Maybe it's because my big brother sold fireworks from a home-constructed stand for years that pyrotechnics are simply everyday life for me. My little brother and his friends blew all their savings buying bottle rockets and spinners they'd nail to the wall; then beg Mom and Dad for "just five dollars" so they could buy more. Sure, one might have to dodge a wayward rocket shot from a pop bottle occasionally, but so what? No fires ever ensued. Life isn't necessarily risk-free.

The Fourth of July was always my favorite holiday back home. My town did it up right. It didn't matter if the holiday fell in the middle of the week and I'd need to get up for work the next day. Everyday life stopped for the Fourth. The highlight was the parade, a procession that went for miles and miles -- my high school marching band, lines of farm implements, floats upon floats populated with waving riders. Clowns on stilts throwing handfuls of candy to the little kids. Polka bands. Military vets. THE FLAG, which every parade-goer reverently stood for. And every single cheesy display one's imagination could conjure. In fact, the cheesier the better. My family would laugh and mingle, my sister and I parked on the curb, within reaching distance of our kids so they wouldn't wander too close to the action. Snapping action photos with actual cameras. Getting sweat-drenched and sunburned, and not caring. Then, once we were certain the parade was over, peering down the long street to ensure no one else was actually coming, gathering up our kids and our blankets and our lawn chairs and trudging in the hot sun back to our cars wedged in a supermarket parking lot (By the way, business owners were completely, patriotically on board with people claiming their parking spots. They, too, were off attending the parade.)

We'd head back to Mom and Dad's and plop down on tufted chairs in their COOL living room, a couple of the guys stretching out on the carpet. Mom would be in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on her potato salad and arranging her relish tray. Once everyone arrived back at the meeting spot, we'd eat and eat and eat. And drink tons of iced tea. 

As the sun set, we'd gather on the front steps and await my brothers' home-crafted fireworks show. They'd take turns running out to the middle of the street, touching a punk to the latest pyrotechnic. And we'd alternately marvel and continue our gossip session, careful to ensure our kids didn't wander into the dark street.

Then we'd finally head home and flop into bed, red-burned and exhausted.

THAT was the Fourth of July. 

As I glance out my window today, my street is deserted. Everyone is either at the mall or still sleeping. Hard to know. I don't know any of my neighbors. We're not real cohesive here. "Minnesota Nice" is a nice catchphrase that native Minnesotans utter to obviate their true, insular nature. 

But I have my memories of REAL Independence Days. 

Memories will suffice.

 

 

Spotify Beats SiriusXM All To Hell

 

Well, I made the switch. 

It wasn't easy. Sirius is dedicated to making sure one NEVER cancels their subscription. For those who are wondering, use the chat option and just keep telling the chat bot that you can't afford to continue. It's a hard argument for their reps to counter. "I'm sorry. I'd really like to continue, but I'm pooo-ooo-rrrr." I actually am poor, so that wasn't a fabrication. I can afford one music subscription, and Sirius just wasn't doing it for me. 

I'm not sure, but I'm suspicious that they have some kind of financial arrangement with Juice Newton's management, because "The Sweetest Thing" and "Angel Of The Morning" kept popping up on every country channel I clicked on (and, come on, Angel Of The Morning isn't even a Juice Newton original.) That, and Crystal Gayle. I like some Crystal Gayle songs, but not over and over and over. SiriusXM never swaps out their songs. They take their subscribers for granted. The best channel on Sirius is Willie's Roadhouse, and even then, they like to feature an obscure Kitty Wells single that I couldn't abide. It takes a lot for me to listen to Kitty Wells in the first place. I'm not eighty. Dwight's channel doesn't feature enough Dwight, and besides, I own all his albums, so there's no added value there. 

What do I like about Spotify?

Simply this: 

I can create my own playlists, so I can listen to the songs I actually want to hear. And there's not one Juice Newton track among them. Seriously, what's with Sirius's infatuation with Juice Newton?

I actually emailed SiriusXM once and volunteered to give them some music recommendations. Of course, they ignored me, but it made me feel better. 

What bugs me about Spotify?

Sometimes the only versions available are remakes. I DON'T LIKE REMAKES. I like recordings to be the way I remember them. I realize this isn't Spotify's fault -- they have to go with what's provided to them. Still don't like it.

I also don't like that Mel Tillis's singles aren't available. Maybe Pam could rectify that; I don't know. 

But overall, I could spend interminable days creating playlists. And love it. I like categorizing things and I like that nobody can stop me from doing it.

It took me way too long to switch on the light bulb. Often we simply stick with what's familiar, even though it sometimes shreds our nerves. If it wasn't for my podcast notion, I wouldn't have even given Spotify a second look. 

Now I'm so busy creating playlists, my podcast idea has taken a back seat.

 

 

B.J. Thomas

If you're a millennial reporter tasked with reporting on the death of someone you've never heard of, I guess you can rely on good old Wikipedia to inform you that the only hit single B.J. Thomas ever recorded was "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head".

Wrong. Criminally wrong.

I learned about B.J. Thomas's passing this morning and musical memories began pouring out. 

I was thirteen in 1968 and carrying my transistor radio with me everywhere that summer. I think that's when I first heard this guy with a sexy, relaxed, yet soulful voice wafting through the AM speaker.

I loved that song.

Later that same year, this new guy released another hit, which has been grossly overshadowed by Blue Swede's off-the-wall version (which, yes, I liked), but for pure laid back listening enjoyment, try this:

 

It wasn't until the following year that millennial reporter's one halfway familiar song was released. My friend and I dutifully went to the theater to see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And yes, B.J. was correct -- the song didn't really fit the scene (or the period), but that's neither here nor there. It's a catchy, typical Bachrach pop song.

 

 

B.J. had a couple of top twenty hits between '69 and '75: "I Just Can't Help Believing" and "Rock and Roll Lullaby", but then something odd happened. He showed up on the scene as a country singer.

 

Far from "Raindrops" being the Thomas track I'll remember most, it's this one instead:

 

 I like this one from 1982:

 

 (Sorry - terrible video quality, but at least there's no stepladder.)

 

Some would say B.J. Thomas either had a voice that was too country for pop or too pop for country, but I say he was simply a one-of-a-kind phenomenon. Unique; not a musical appropriator. 

 

I'm so glad we'll always have his music.

 

Rest in peace, B.J. Thomas.

Ever Ask Yourself, Whatever Happened To...?

I generally assume the bands I once knew have scattered like the winds, which brings me to Sawyer Brown. I wasn't a big or even middling fan, but I heard "Some Girls Do" on SiriusXM the other day (Sirius plays the same twenty to twenty-five songs over and over again -- it's like classic rock radio) and asked myself, "Whatever happened to...?"

The Google Thing™ is an indispensable tool. I quickly learned that not only is Sawyer Brown still together, but they're still touring. In fact they'll be in my general area of Minnesota this summer. Don't scoff at county fairs or casinos. The best country concert I ever saw in my life was from the second row of a casino stage. To country artists of a certain age (and their fans) casinos have been a gift from heaven. I would definitely buy tickets to see Sawyer Brown perform in a casino. 

SB is kind of an anachronism, much like Alabama. They were everywhere, had their hits, but never quite burst through the glass neon ceiling. In 1983 there was a Saturday night (?) syndicated talent show hosted by Ed McMahon called Star Search, and had eight categories of competition, including the now infamous "spokesmodel" bracket, which...really...models who can actually speak? Anyway, a new group called Sawyer Brown won the very first vocal group award (Mark Miller had hair then).

Sawyer Brown wasn't accepted in Nashville at first, as Mark Miller detailed in an interview, because they were considered too "rock and roll". Seriously? That's not rock and roll. Regardless, it was partially the group's own fault. They didn't do substantial songs. It was all fun, which is okay, but it's kind of like Achy Breaky Heart. Fun songs are okay for a month or two, until they descend into dreck. I get it; they went with their strengths. And now, almost forty years later, I bet fans lap that stuff up (ahh, nostalgia).

 

They also remade "The Race Is On" (don't remake classics), and I don't know if this is an official video, but the quality is awful.

 

I never once purchased a Sawyer Brown album until "The Dirt Road". Mark Miller and Gregg Hubbard wrote this one. Maturity? This is when the group ventured into substantial territory. And the song is flat-out good.

Even the "fun" song on the album actually said something:

Subsequently the band incorporated hefty songs into their repertoire:

Those of us who were around watched Sawyer Brown transition from a goofy bunch of kids into a serious band. The years kind of do that, don't they? Sirius kind of tricked me into only remembering the silly stuff, but this retrospective knocked some sense into me.

Yea, I would definitely see Sawyer Brown in concert...now.

Fake Country Band Album Reviews - Volume 2

It seems my first edition of fake country album reviews has been my most popular blog post in the fourteen years I've been tapping out words, so what the heck? Let's do some more.

Kids, you, too, can do this at home. All you need is a fake country band name generator and a fake album cover generator, all searchable items on The Google Thing (TGT™). You will, however, need to compose your own reviews. 

Herewith are my latest:

Despite Blasphemy Auction - Fuck!

Granted, this band is not for everyone, but DBA is unapologetic. They just don't fucking care. Rising out of the punk music scene of Mandan, North Dakota, Despite Blasphemy Auction flicked off a gang of polka band wannabe's to claw their way to the top of the Anglo-German music syndicate, and they're frankly pissed it took so fucking long. They've got a lot to say, and none of it is pretty. Blasphemy Auction finesses obscenity landmines with filthy genius. 

 

Buck again on your radio?

She mocked with a cough 

I said, girl, you don't like it

You can go fuck off

 

Songwriter and bassist Carl Burger Eckroth-Heitkamp spares no one's sensibilities with tracks like "Asshole Loser" and "M*****F***** Cut Me Off!" 

A gem buried deep in DBA's bio reveals that Carl moonlights as a Methodist minister when the band's schedule allows. Perhaps it's that dichotomy that informs the group's authenticity. WTF - it's the music, after all, that effing matters. 

Grade: F+

Certified Supervisor - Kinda Busy Right Now

Lazily climbing the indie charts with their first single, "Can You Come Back Later?" the band Certified Supervisor arbitrarily doles out a pile of tracks as relatable as a partially-completed time card. Lead vocalist Dusty Desktop avoids direct confrontation with subliminal ballads like "I Shouldn't Have To Tell You" and "You're Leaving Already?" Her most unsettling composition, though, is "Will I See You On Saturday?" Absolutely bone-chilling.

A rumor circulated on Twitter a while back that CS only secured a recording contract because Dusty's uncle happens to work for the label, but Connections Records' head Frank Favour harshly rebuked the offending busybodies and subsequently threatened to have them demonetized.

Bottom line, fans had better like this album. And what's not to like? Uptempo rockers, "Extra-Long Lunch" and the attitudinal, "What Now?" guarantee Certified Supervisor's upward trajectory in the indie music realm.

Grade: A++

Drooling Snowflake - Excuse Me?

Who says new country bands don't emerge from San Francisco? Not me! Drooling Snowflake not only inhabits a niche that is quintessential California but it just might have invented its own sub-genre: Peeved Country. Drawing on its Silicon Valley roots, DS is quick to latch onto the latest cause du jour, which may, alas, render the band obsolete in mere weeks and requires its primary scribe, Jamey Raage (he/him) to furiously scribble out tunes that hopefully won't be passe before the band can even record them. 

The California Sound inhabits a special place in country fans' hearts, from Buck to Merle to Dwight to The Eagles; and with this debut Drooling Snowflake strives to secure its place among those legendary greats. Tracks as diverse as "tRumpkin Rubes" and "Walmart, I Can Smell Ya'" evoke the dripping disdain of "Okie From Muskogee", albeit without the fisticuffs and in-your-face bravado. Instead it smacks of furious slap-fights and haughty flounces.

Don't get me wrong; Drooling Snowflake is a niche for sure, but not one to be ignored. The band's best track is, to this critic's ears, "January Six Insurrection Blues". Reminiscent of  Merle's "Workin' Man Blues', it takes a completely different tack, one that may best be described as "everybody made my life miserable, so I will just roll up inside this blanket". 

Pity is not a good reason to purchase a CD, granted, but give this one a spin. It only costs nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, and two pennies of each purchase are dedicated to eliminating the environmental scourge of hairbrush tangles, a primary contributor to the horrific demise of Pacific sperm whales.

Grade: B (for Biodegradable)

 

 

Bad Band Names

 

I'm not Saving Country Music's target audience. I check out the site daily, but mostly to find news about artists I'm familiar with. I've honestly tried to get into some of the current acts and the site owner always posts YouTube videos with each article, but in the couple of years I've been browsing the site I've maybe found one unfamiliar artist that merited more than a single listen. Most score a cursory twenty seconds, even when I slide that little red dot a few paces hoping to find the "good part".

Apparently it's not an age thing. Many of the commenters are as old or older than me, but they're still enamored of new music and seem quite knowledgeable about current acts. I know nothing about Florida Georgia Line, but I know that most true country fans hate them, so they must be awful. The more obscure the artist, the more the site's devotees love him or her. Honestly, I think these aficionados are simply making the best of a mediocre music scene. They're grading on a curve.

Scanning the home page of SCM today I found the following bands: 

Flatland Cavalry

The Steel Woods

American Aquarium

These groups might be great. I don't know. But the names could use some spit and polish. 

I thus decided to use a random country band name generator to try to create some buzz for a few new groups I've discovered:

 

Game Loaf With The Acrid Bowel

One of the most rumbled-about country bands erupting out of Enid, Oklahoma, Game Loaf With The Acrid Bowel literally blew up indie country radio with their very first single, "IBS", a rocking and queasily rolling debut. Some critics have called the track bloated, but that hasn't cramped GLWTAB's momentum. The band continues to belch out hits that punch fans hard in the gut. Fans especially appreciate lead singer and primary scribe Far T. Trotsky's perceptive takes on life's challenges, with songs like Colitis Calling Me Home, Please Don't Divert My Ticulitis, and of course, I Don't Got Milk. It remains to be seen if Game Loaf's fans will continue to view them as a gas, but all signs for now point to a chronic and persistent ache for future releases.

 

 Jealousy Of Ouch

Jealousy Of Ouch vocalist Jenny Bandade scrapes one's heartstrings with slashing lyrics that leave the listener bloodied and buckled. From her quiver Jenny chooses razor-sharp words that plunge an emotional arrow straight into a cheating man's bloodied heart. Jenny offers no mercy as she jabs deeper and deeper, until the listener is left psychically crippled. Then she salves the wound with reassuring tracks like "Mama Will Make It Better" and "Stop Fucking Crying - It's Not That Bad".  Certainly Jealousy Of Ouch isn't a band for the faint-hearted. But if one likes their music raw and exposed, they should check out the title track, along with standouts such as, "I Didn't Hit You That Hard" and "I'm Gonna Tell Mom You're Just Faking It".

Hose Along Intoxicant

 

Mississippi has birthed artists as disparate as Elvis Presley and Jimmy Buffett, Charley Pride and Marty Stuart, even blues legend Robert Johnson, but never has it produced a group as debauched as Hose Along Intoxicant. HAI is poised to surpass even the whiskey-fueled roller coaster that is Faith Hill in bawdiness, and its fans are quick to slosh to their nearest record store, drunk on the knowledge that they're sure to find a juiced-up good time.

Along Intoxicant is definitely a party band, albeit one that has a puking pile of regrets the next day. One wonders how long HAI can keep staggering on without some kind of intervention. But for a country fan in the market for some lush party tunes, Hose Along Intoxicant is the answer to a skid row prayer. Tracks like "Just Mix It All Together" and "Listerine Ain't All That Bad" speak a tight truth many hard-core country fans are thirsty for. Lead singer G'Rain Everclear hits the high notes with his blood vessel-popping regurgitation of the band's best late-night compositions. Give HAI a spin on a midnight Saturday and it won't disappoint. You'll find yourself stomping one step outside the beat around your bedroom, but no one will care. Sadly, you'll hate yourself the next day. But that's the price we'll willingly pay for tight indie music.

 

 
 

The Weird, Brilliant Mind Of Roger Miller

 

Some guys are smart, some guys are clever, some guys are completely alien. Roger Miller, I think, was an alien. 

I first became aware of Roger Miller in (I think) 1964. You couldn't miss him. From '64 to '66 there was no one hotter in country music. 1964 was a time when radio stations weren't segregated by genre. We heard a little bit of everything -- The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Dean Martin, J. Frank Wilson (bet you forgot!), Manfred Mann, Al Hirt, Roy Orbison, Dionne Warwick, Bobby Vinton (!?) and Roger Miller.

In 1964 and 1965 alone, Roger Miller had Dang Me, Chug-A-Lug, Do-Wacka-Do, England Swings, Engine Engine #9, and of course, King Of The Road. You couldn't miss him. I was nine years old in 1964 and (just like now) I liked songs for their melody, not necessarily their lyrics, but Miller's words were so foreign, that even though I didn't actually understand their meaning, his songs were impossible to ignore. Part of the genius of Roger Miller's songwriting was the accessibility of his songs. Even a nine-year-old girl could sing along. He was an expert at unexpected rhymes. I knew even then that most songs were pap and only their melodies and production saved them, and I'm not excusing The Beatles here, either. I wasn't exactly jaded, but I could pick out originality. Miller's songs were unlike any other. I do believe, however, that as silly as some of those tunes were, they all had a grain of Roger Miller truth (maybe not You Can't Roller Skate In A Buffalo Herd). 

But let's start at the beginning.

He was a bellhop at the Andrew Jackson Hotel in Nashville before signing on with Minnie Pearl's band as a fiddler, although he didn't know how to play the fiddle. Eventually he joined Ray Price's Cherokee Cowboys and wrote this hit for Price, which he sings harmony on below:

 

In fact, Roger Miller wrote tons of songs for tons of artists, from Ernest Tubb to Faron Young to Jim Reeves.

"Roger was the most talented, and least disciplined, person that you could imagine", citing the attempts of Miller's Tree Publishing boss, Buddy Killen to force him to finish a piece. He was known to give away lines, inciting many Nashville songwriters to follow him around since, according to Killen, "everything he said was a potential song." (source)

It's impossible to list all the songs Miller wrote, or the swarms of artists who recorded them. He eventually went on tour as Faron Young's drummer, though he was as much of a drummer as he was a fiddler, before at last landing a recording contract with Smash Records.

And then he exploded.

One couldn't turn on network television without seeing Roger Miller. He appeared on everything from The Tonight Show to Shindig.  

(I like how Dick Clark calls him a "humorist" - I don't think Dick actually got it.)

 

This was self-loathing at its finest:

Well, here I sit high, gettin' ideas
Ain't nothin' but a fool would live like this
Out all night and runnin' wild
Woman's sittin' home with a month old child

Dang me, dang me
They oughta take a rope and hang me
High from the highest tree
Woman would you weep for me?

Just sittin' 'round drinkin' with the rest of the guys
Six rounds bought and I bought five
I spent the groceries and a half the rent
I lack fourteen dollars havin' twenty seven cents

Dang me, dang me
They ought-a take a rope and hang me
High from the highest tree
Woman would you weep for me?

They say roses are red and violets are purple
And sugar's sweet and so is maple syrple
Well I'm seventh out of seven sons
My pappy was a pistol, I'm a son of a gun

I said dang me, dang me
They ought-a take a rope and hang me
High from the highest tree
Woman would you weep for me?

(Don't feel bad, Dick. I didn't get it until recently, either.)

My favorite Roger Miller tune remains the same fifty-seven years after its release. At age nine, as opposed to age thirty-nine, I didn't internalize the heartache in this song. Maybe the brilliant rhyming obscured my emotional cognizance. Or maybe I was nine.

 

Naturally, this song was everywhere, and established Roger Miller's bona fides:

But long after Roger passed away, artists kept recording his songs:

(Okay, that's gotta be the actual, real, original Roger Miller in this video.)

Roger Miller was probably the most prolific, most original songwriter Nashville has ever, or will ever see. 

That only happens once in a century. 

It deserves to be remembered.