I feel bad for the uninitiated who believe that present day country music’s the real deal. Pardon my impertinence, but country music died when the last “three cords and the truth” traditionalists Dwight Yoakam, Suzy Bogguss and Patty Loveless were booted aside by entrepreneurs like Garth Brooks, Shania Twain, Trace Adkins, Toby Keith and peahead Kenny Chesney of “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” fame. That opportunist makes bookoo bucks crooning “country” beachcombing duets with flip flop schmoozer, Jimmy Buffet. “Head down to Margaritaville, have me a cheeseburger with a big pickle dill, Jesus I sound kinda mentally ill, I guess I better go turn on Dr. Phil.” Do ya think, Kenny? At least Buffet chuckles about suckering his trekkie-like parrotheads all the way to the bank.     

Growing up in Baldwinsville in the 1950s, I couldn’t wait to hop in bed and fire up my crystal radio. I could only receive WOLF in Syracuse. At 8 p.m. I listened for the plaintive howl of the wolf, followed by Eddy Arnold yodeling WOLF’s country music signature song, “Cattle Call.”  For the next ninety minutes I hummed along with Jimmie Rodgers, Roy Acuff, The Carter Family, Bill Monroe, Bob Wills, Lefty Frizzell, Ernest Tubb, Webb Pierce and Hank Williams, Sr. Thanks a lot Hank, for making us babysit Bocephus for the past 62 years.

The next stage in my country music education transpired during my teen years. I came to appreciate Patsy Cline, Jim Reeves, George “No Show” Jones, Ray Price and the rockabilly boys, Ray Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Elvis Presley. Elvis wasn’t known as “The King” for nothing. That guy was not only the best rocker of his time; he could’ve been the best country and gospel singer. But, he got more girls gyrating those hips.

Wasn’t much later that some of my all-time favorite country singers started to ride the airwaves on a full time basis. Let’s call them the hard boys. They came from hardscrabble beginnings, so they earned the right to be country singers. Merle Haggard, Waylon Jennings, Buck Owens, Glen Campbell, Johnny Cash, Johnny Paycheck and Willie Nelson, to name a few. I was never a huge Willie fan, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect his remarkable musical legacy. The “Red Headed Stranger” likes the giggleweed a lot and the taxman not so much. Willie’s an icon, but I reached a point when I would’ve committed hari-kari if I had to endure “On the Road Again” one more time. I guess I just OD’d on Willie.

The hard girls of real country include Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, Jessi Colter, Emmylou Harris, Tammy Wynette and Kitty Wells. Contemporary artists Alison Krauss and Martina McBride get a pass in this harangue because they ooze down home soul.  Gretchen Wilson? Don’t you karaoke fanatics even go there. “Some people look down on me, but I don’t give a rip, I’ll stand barefoot in my own front yard with a baby on my hip, cause I’m a redneck woman, I ain’t no high class broad, I’m just a product of my raising, I say Hey y’all and Yee-haw.”  

Make your momma proud, Gretchen. Now, try some Suzy Bogguss by comparison.  “The moon is full but my arms are empty, All night long how I’ve pleaded and cried, You always said the day you’d leave me, would be a cold day in July. Suns coming up, coming up down on main street, children shout as they come out to play, Head in my hands here I am standing in my bare feet watching you drive away.”  That is as sweet as tupelo honey, Suzy.  

Most present-day country entertainers pander to their adoring fans.  Their devotees seem immune to redundant lyrics that include cliched references to pickup trucks, Budweiser, sticking it to whoever the “man” is, nationalism/patriotism, inebriation and John Deere tractors, usually all in the first verse.  These generic sentiments sound like they were concocted by a third grader high on Cocoa Puffs.  Why, do today’s fans believe that a song isn’t country unless it’s inane and laced with appalling grammar.  Chesney graduated from East Tennessee State University with a degree in advertising and his father was an elementary school teacher for crying out loud.  Stupid sells, podner. By the way Peahead, sexy John Deere 5000 and 6000 series tractors are made in India and Germany and the Belgian-Brazilian conglomerate, InBev, makes Bud. Got any hackneyed lyrics that rhyme with globalization?    

I recall when Mac Davis revealed that Columbia Records demanded he write a country song with a “hook” to snag record buyers. So Mac wrote, “Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me.”  His hook song went to the top of the Billboard 100 and Easy Listening charts in 1972. Only made it to 26th on the country charts. Regardless, now all “country” songs incorporate a hook. So add innovative Mac to the list of real country artists. Also, add Roger Miller to the list. Dang Roger was a witty writer/singer/actor, who at one time owned most of the radio stations in Nashville. He was a country genius, winning eleven Grammys, plus several Tony Awards for his long-running Broadway musical, “Big River.”  When Roger died in 1992, Nashville went to hell in a handbasket.

Country groups don’t count in this diatribe. There’ve been some terrific groups, like Sons of the Pioneers, Flying Burrito Brothers, Alabama, Statler Brothers and the Carter Family, but it’s almost like cheating. Solo artists should be the standard for their music genres. How many schlocky ballads have we endured from the likes of Kenny Rogers and his fill in the blank female partners? It’s as agonizing as enduring yet another country Christmas album. Please Peahead, promise me you and Parrothead won’t collaborate on a Christmas album.  

I’m holding the uninitiated responsible for perpetuating bogus country music. Stop listening and like disco, it’ll go extinct. Or, at least call it something else, like Nashville Pop or Rural Hip. Try tuning into classic country and experience the real deal. It’s the difference between sipping Paso Robles 2007 and gargling Manischewitz Extra Heavy Malaga, I would’ve used a beer analogy, but I’m pretty sure the uninitiated will still prefer diluted Bocephus Bud Light.