May 2005

The new math...

Filed under: Imported

(CNN) -- And the new "American Idol" is ... Carrie Underwood.
The 21-year-old country crooner from Checotah, Oklahoma, won the title of the hit Fox talent show. She beat Bo Bice, the long-haired rocker from Helena, Alabama, who was believed to be the favorite going into Tuesday and Wednesday's season finale.
Underwood won a recording contract and a key to a private jet. She'll also release her single "Inside Your Heaven" June 14.
Nearly 500 million votes were cast during the entire season, a new record for the Fox show, The Associated Press reported.

By Neil Haislop
NASHVILLE, TN Wednesday May.25.2005 /netmusiccountdown.com/ -- Gretchen Wilson's two ACM trophies last week for Top New Artist and Top Female Vocalist seemed to validate her more completely and stirred deep emotions.
"It's really funny what happens emotionally when something like this happens, it really does kind of take you back to being a little kid and everything does kind of race through your mind, and you just feel really proud and accepted and really strong, and yet you feel at the same time like the weakest that you've ever been in your life and you feel a certain kind of empowerment from that."
"And, I love getting these awards. (But) even more so than the award, it just feels so good to know that people accept you and that people believe in you, and it's been an amazing year for me," Gretchen said holding back tears.

To warm her up, to make her laugh, I tell Marla about the woman in Dear Abby who married a handsome successful mortician and on their wedding night, he made her soak in a tub of ice water until her skin was freezing to the touch, and then he made her lie in bed completely still while he had intercourse with her cold inert body.
The funny thing is this woman had done this as a newlywed, and gone on to do it for the next ten years of marriage and now she was writing to Dear Abby to ask if Abby thought it meant something.

--From Fight Club, by Chuck Palahniuk

I'm not saying two plus two equals four, but the American public should take everything that happens in the Mainstream music industry with a grain of salt. To say that it likes to repeat itself, ad nauseam, pumping out clones of what sells until the final versions are borderline comical, is an understatement. I mean, just think of how much we all miss Garth Brooks right now (as Al Kunz chokes on his coffee). Remember Garth? The original 70's arena rock country crossover in a wide brimmed black hat and expensive shirt, shaking his ass at the girls from a stage at one end of a football stadium, singing about the State Fair, his high school sweetheart, mama, and margaritas? He almost seems legitimate and dare I say it, classic, amid the resulting backwash of talentless buffoonery that has sprung from his musical loins. American Idol couldn't slip one more of him past us at this point, because we're inundated with these assclowns on CMT and K102 already. Ahhhh....but another Gretchen Wilson, well, that has cash register written all over it my friends. Look for Carrie's second single soon after her first debuts at number 1 the first week and falls to number 3 the second. It'll be called something like, "All my Idols are Redneck Girls," something catchy, with subliminal words in the title to remind you that--granted, it was over the course of the show's season--5 times as many votes were cast during this competition than for the Presidency of the United States and the leadership of the free world, and that you should be down at the Wal-Mart buying her CD, DVD, lip gloss, and underwear...little girl from a small town making it big once again.

Posted by Jack Sparks at May 26, 2005 2:51 PM

A brick throwing good time...

Filed under: Imported

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- Howard Morris, the wry-faced comic who costarred with Sid Caesar and Carl Reiner on the TV classic "Your Show of Shows" before going on to success as a film director, and to fame as poetry-spouting Ernest T. Bass on "The Andy Griffith Show," has died. He was 85.

Needless to say, this is dark news. I think you'd be hard-pressed to find a hardcore Andy Griffith fan who didn't think that the Ernest T. Bass episodes were far and away the best shows. Howard Morris buried the needle every time he was on, and there's at least two or three laugh out loud moments in each show he did, when the laughtrack simply wasn't necessary.

Andy Griffith was a Shakespearean style stage actor before he hit it big in TV, but the truth is, his show was so successful because of the way he played symphony conductor to the cacophony of over-the-top instruments he had at his disposal, especially in those first few years. The interplay between Don Knotts as Barney and Morris as Ernest T. was one of those rare television dynamics, where, you could probably predict the dialogue, storyline, and outcome before it played out, but it still got you where it hurts and made you laugh uncontrollably.

Additionally, to those of us who were raised during the zenith of UHF, right as cable TV was preparing to explode, Morris will be remembered for the roughly one thousand voices he did in the old Hanna Barbera cartoons. Atom Ant, Flintstones, Jetsons, etc., if you have these things on DVD, you have another little piece of Ernest T...

Rest in peace, and thank you for making me laugh....

Posted by Jack Sparks at May 26, 2005 9:31 AM

This drugs...is a dirty business...

Filed under: Imported

Thank you for your interest in CMA membership. You will receive notification of your application status in the next few weeks. Please allow six to eight weeks for complete processing of your application. This processing time allows us to contact your references and submit your application to CMA's Board of Directors for review. Initial membership materials will be mailed to you upon approval.

If you have any questions, contact CMA by e-mail at membership@CMAworld.com, or by phone at 1-800-788-3045.

Again, thank you for your application. We appreciate your supporting Country Music and the Country Music Association.

--Final webpage of Jack Sparks' application to join the Country Music Association

When -- when did I ever refuse an accommodation? All of you know me here -- when did I ever refuse?

--Marlon Brando as Vito Corleone in The Godfather

Legitimacy is something I've never openly sought, especially in a musical context. If I've done anything here, I have merely pointed out in rather coarse and caustic words, that there is an entirely other universe of twang music out there, and, it's getting frozen out for some rather stupid, if not nefarious reasons. The quality of the music is at the very least, the same, and in many cases, better, than what gets mainstream attention, but that is neither the point, nor the main thrust of the hemming and hawing that you often see here. The true point is the freshness and diversity contained in the regional styles and voices...urban, suburban, and rural...that shout to be heard under the great umbrella of American Country Music. These people will not, and simply cannot, bend themselves into black hats, silk shirts, and/or evening gowns, to wail at the walls about 4th of July picnics with margaritas and disabled kids being saved from car accidents by puppy dog angels. They don't cowtow to stultifying classic country parameters, but, they do acknowledge them, and thus, they fill in the continuum very ably and respectfully.

So here's where we're at...

I had a thought while watching Robbie Fulks at The 400 Bar the other night. The way to get these folks some attention is to get them some attention. Try to build a cloud of legitimacy around what I do and infiltrate the system. I've been on the radio for more than 3 years now, about 2 and change of that continuously at WMGT. Additionally, I've been writing here at Citypages.com for about 2 years, mostly about how much Alt Country rocks and Kenny Chesney sucks, but there have been some moments of actual musical insight that have been appreciated by a few people I really respect for one reason or another. The point is, I'm substantially involved with Country Music...like it or not...and, I have 50 dollars. That and 3 references is supposed to be enough to get me through the door of the Country Music Association to be a voting member.

So, I thought long and hard, and decided there are three established Country Music people I could use.

One, Thais Fletcher the radio guy at Bloodshot Records in Chicago. In the past two years, there has been a lot of ship jumping and bed hopping among large independent labels by the biggest Alt Country acts, but Bloodshoot is really still the flagship. They do it meaner, dirtier, and more independently, and you simply cannot look anybody in the eye over there and tell them they're not Country. Like I said in a blog a few days ago, these are the children of Bobby Bare and Mel Tillis, "by day I make the cars, and by night I make the bars." Just the very fact that Neko Case is a Bloodshot artist should seal this reference for the CMA; she's simply the biggest Country Female Vocalist no one has ever heard of (outside of you reading this, that is). More on this later.

Two, Taco Martin, who books Louie's Lee's Liquor Lounge. Alt Country acts come through here, especially in the summer, at a pretty good clip. They play the Fine Line, First Ave, The Entry, The 400, The Turf, The State, The Fitzgerald, The Zoo, etc...but they really line up for Lee's, especially since Taco took over the booking. Taco is an actual music professional who is a rarity in some respects, because he's genuinely a nice guy. Booking shows is his main source of income, and people up and down the ladders of venue and event management in this region respect him. Plus, he's a college wrestling fan, having grown up in Iowa. You can't get more Country than college wrestling in the State of Iowa.

Three...and this is the biggie...A Very Prominent Radio Executive in Minneapolis. You really can't have a better reference than a person you've tried to submarine every minute of every hour that you've been on the air or in print. This is someone who truly appreciates what you do, and will either vouch for your authenticity, or call you a host of unflattering names and hang up the phone. A common refrain of mine is that you have to bet big to win big, and no matter how much it bothers me, there's no bigger name in Mainstream Country Music for this area of the country than this guy. I've met the man face-to-face once, and sneered at him across a Pizza Parlor another time; outside of that, our contact, if there was any, has been indirect in nature. Regardless, he's delivered maximum saturation of his P1 demographic, and Nashville loves him. Every Batman needs his Joker.

Let's just assume for argument's sake that I don't get the ixnay from my list of references. The final hurdle is the CMA Board of Directors. Being Executive Director of the CMA, my old pal Ed Benson will get to chime in at that point, I guess. Ed and I apparently go way back, because only friends kid and josh around with each other like we do. To whit, here's a reprint of ol' Ed's email to me, so many months ago:

Sent : Wednesday, December 22, 2004 4:51 PM
To : othersideofcountry@hotmail.com
Subject : Comments on The "F" Word

Jack - Having just seen your pitiful Nov 11 diatribe about the CMA Awards, replete with countless repetition of the "F" word, my comment obviously is "Go Fuck Yourself." Yes you can consider that a "tip" too.

By the way jackass, none of the performers lip-synched. Better do some tune up on your TIVO.
Ed Benson
Executive Director

Like me, you're probably saying to yourself, "Jack's acceptance into the CMA is a lock!"

For that very reason, I've decided to begin the process of influence and input that is central to this year's CMA Awards Show, which will be broadcast live from New York City. These will be the performers I list on my First Ballot, and I would like to encourage at least 9 of my other colleagues to list them with me, so that these folks can make it to the second round of balloting, where they are voted upon, and have a chance to be considered for the final five, and an appearance on the show. Performers are only considered for work and releases between July 1st, 2004 and June 30th, 2005, so rest assured I've done all the nasty legwork with that stuff.

And the nominees are...

ENTERTAINER OF THE YEAR
Robbie Fulks--Recorded an outstanding album, came back to his country roots, is one of the most energetic live acts you'll ever see, and is jaw-droppingly good on guitar.

FEMALE VOCALIST OF THE YEAR
Neko Case--There is a very glaring and substantial heir to the thrones of Loretta, Tammy, Patsy, and Kitty in this country, and she never gets any mainstream love because she likes to take her bra off on stage and sing about murder. She put out a damn fine live record this year.

MALE VOCALIST OF THE YEAR
Charlie Robison--It's time he gets the recognition he deserves.

HORIZON AWARD
Micky & the Motorcars--the best new group I've come across this year.

VOCAL GROUP OF THE YEAR
The Drive By Truckers--Doing it louder, faster, and prouder than everyone else.

VOCAL DUO OF THE YEAR
Brooks & Dunn, they're going to win it anyway...Wham! always wins.

SINGLE OF THE YEAR
(Award goes to artist and producer) El Cerrito Place, Charlie Robison--I don't know if he released this as a single. He oughta, June 30th is just around the corner.

MUSICIAN OF THE YEAR
Jason Isbell--the kid can play.

ALBUM OF THE YEAR
(Award goes to artist and producer) East Nashville Skyline, Todd Snider--in this, our year of living dangerously, this is the record to push. It's an album made in Nashville, about the spirit of Nashville, that is ignored by Mainstream Nashville. On the gross assumption that he might win this category, he could probably walk out on stage and start embarrassingly pointing at all the "big stars" and say, "remember that time you and me got stoned..."

MUSIC VIDEO OF THE YEAR
(Award goes to artist and director) Who cares? Videos are what screwed everything up in the first place.

MUSICAL EVENT OF THE YEAR
Touch My Heart: A Tribute to Johnny Paycheck--A lot of first rate performances on this disk. Song 11, Apartment #9, by Johnny Bush, always kills me.

SONG OF THE YEAR
(Award goes to songwriter and primary publisher) El Cerrito Place--see above.

That's how I'd vote, right now, today, with my first ballot. Anything that comes along up to June 30th is still eligible though, so I'm sure my vote will change a couple of times in a couple of places. But, the giste of the thing will remain the same.

The final prong of my prickly plan is to email a link to today's blog to all the Country Music types I know who have any weight. Some of these people are members of the CMA already. I want them to read my choices. I want them to reconsider them as Country performances worthy of the CMA's mission, if the CMA's mission is truly:

CMA is dedicated to bringing the poetry and emotion of Country Music to the world

We will continue a tradition of leadership and professionalism, promoting the music and recognizing excellence in all its forms.

While fostering a spirit of community and sharing, we will respect and encourage creativity and the unique contributions of all.

CMA will be a place to have fun and celebrate success. We will take risks, embrace change, and always exceed the expectations of those we serve.

See? It's the spirit of the thing that counts. If I've dropped a few F-bombs in my scorched earth policy of preserving the legacies of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Buck Owens, and Merle Haggard, while trying to foster legacies for folks like Uncle Tupelo, Jason & the Scorchers, The Gourds, Neko Case, all that stuff going on down in Texas, and our own burgeoning Minnesota scene, well brothers and sisters, I was merely taking risks and embracing change, trying to bring the poetry and emotion of Country Music to the world, promoting the music and recognizing excellence in all its forms, respecting and encouraging creativity.

Let the games begin...

P.S.--that big radio executive is one hell of a guy, and although I fight temptation daily to send him a dead skunk in a cardboard box, I'd also probably buy him a beer if I were ever shoved into him during a barfight.

Posted by Jack Sparks at May 24, 2005 4:05 PM

Let no man put asunder...

Filed under: Imported

Lots of folks have sent emails asking why I haven't commented on the shotgun wedding of Kenny Chesney and Renee Zellweger. My only answer is what Thumper's father taught him, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." I never wish ill on any joyous American union of two soulmates, which still fail at a steady 50% clip. Raise your glasses with me now y'all. Meanwhile, here's a picture of an old Presto Electric hot dog cooker.

Posted by Jack Sparks at May 19, 2005 1:21 PM

Andrew the Apostle would have poached

Filed under: Imported

Anglers may use only one hook. An artificial lure is considered one hook. A treble hook, when not part of an artificial lure, is considered three hooks and is not legal. The exception is three artificial flies may be used when angling for trout, crappie, sunfish, and rock bass.

--Minnesota Department of Natural Resources Fishing Regulations, 2005

Day 1, Friday Evening
There's not much point in being here. The weather has been terrible for hours if not days, and all forecasts are for worse and worse in every direction. It's going to snow in Fargo for Martha's sake. It's hard to describe to the uninitiated the feeling of adrenaline and exhilaration in your heart, coupled with that sinking feeling of imminent failure in your gut, as you approach a weekend of fishing. You're either going to catch fish or you're not; but it's an absolute guarantee that there will be shame and degradation given and taken as you sit around a small house in the country, contemplating life, the lindy rig, and whether the women you know are on the verge of nervous breakdowns.

When faced with many long hours of girding his loins for a late night excursion across a barely thawed lake at midnight in high winds and precipitation, a man will fill up on the essentials of piscatorial predatory preparation. This high-cholestorol, high-grease, high-carbohydrate, high-fat diet always floods back on top of you by Monday morning, if not earlier, and doctors from International Falls to Albert Lea weep at sights like this.

Naturally, information is 75% of the battle when fishing, and quilting circles at out-state, 5,000 square foot, Lutheran churches aren't as rife with rumors, hot tips, and local innuendo as the town pub. You have to put on your bat ears to catch the whispers of the retired knights of fishing openers past (ball caps emblazoned with Navy ship logos, local union designations, and truck brands, mandatory), but, if you're lucky, you'll catch the town drunk at full roar, mid happy-hour, with everything he's heard from the poachers he regularly talks to on his daily route from lonely housewife to lonely housewife, throughout the berg.

Yes Virginia, there are places in this world where thirsty travellers can secure two pints of solid liquor and receive a single, a five, and a ten back on their twenty.

Of course, after happy hour, it's time to have a smoke and charbroil Bambi. Venison burgers are not so much sustenance as they are an offering to the Gods of the Hunt, signalling one season's end and another's beginning.

A lonely moon, an idle fisherman, a cold dark night.

Things turn ugly once the Hunt God has frowned upon your enterprise. Poor decisions are made and there's nothing but waste and regret in their wake. When the evils of man have added up in great heaps and piles, God takes his vengeance with a great meteorological dead-spot, where it's just too damned cold to fish. It seems counterintuitive, given the billion dollar ice-fishing industry in this state; but, there are days, nights, mornings and all other manifestations of the hourglass when walleye have all the get-up and go of a retired loan officer on anti-depressants attending a party at the Playboy mansion after leaving his Viagara at home: he just ain't gonna bite.

Day 2, Saturday
But each dawn brings a new day, and breakfast. The Hog God is always a good backup when the Hunt God has abandoned you to your vices.

Don't forget the Cheese God

Why not Golf? The omens of the swine entrails were grim, so wise men were given to other pursuits. Wise men being anyone who DIDN'T decide to play golf that day.

The news is bleak from those who sallied forth, and all there is is cashew shells and broken promises. These intrepid souls wouldn't even get out of the truck. Six hours on the lake and all they got was chilled to the bone. They're smiling, but they're also fighting every urge not to leap out of the truck and choke me to death for convincing them to drive up and fish.

Reinforcements arrive with fresh supplies and kitchenwares to regird for the next day. Sometimes, all you really need is another crockpot and a fresh attitude. Some wet-behind-the-ears recruit, ambling up the sidewalk, hiking up his trousers, ready for action to regroup the troops and lead them into battle.

An evening retreat from the Hunt God's anger means pondering heavily on the next day's strategy and making many deep plans while breathing the incense of the urban man's out-state guilty pleasure...the pungent, yet ubiquitous Swisher Sweet. A few pull tabs never hurt; they teach a good lesson in averages, statistics, and just plain dumb luck, all key to the fishing process. Are we not men? On the morrow, as Apollo splits these heavy gray clouds, can we not conquer this lower member of the food chain and drag him kicking and gulping air from his icy murky abode, subservient to our preternatural need for predatory dominance? Dammit woman, bring us drink and a clean ashtray!

Day 3, Sunday
The Sun God cries at what he has wrought, a beautiful day, but with sour innards. The first few hours will be tricky, a delicate balance between victory over the forces of nature, and utter collapse and humiliation. The verb to vomit is bandied about in all of its conjugations and associated with all phases of a man's morning toilet and constitutionals. These are not times to crack wise and add levity to the situation. There will be lots of pointing and grunting as the boat is backed into the water, the destination reached, and lines are baited for the slow drag. Cavemen were masters of lexicon compared to the lost souls involved in this enterprise.

I think it was Babe Winkleman--or maybe it was George Bernard Shaw--who said, "It is dangerous to be sincere unless you are also stupid." What they probably meant was that sometimes our ambitions, desires and appetites get the better of us, and we fail to heed reason and perspective. Man was not meant to catch walleye given certain mercurial, windvane, and barometric statistics. Best not to struggle...give in...let the boat float...squint at the Gods through your sunglasses, and curse them half-heartedly under your breath. This was their day, it was never yours. Resistance was futile.

Posted by Jack Sparks at May 17, 2005 6:25 PM

There's funny.....then there's spooky....

Filed under: Imported

Dear Bill,

Some men are born into coincidence, some men achieve coincidence, and some have coincidence thrust upon them.

No sooner had I published the (Alt?) Country Manifesto, then Nashville rewarded me with a 50 Year Tribute to George Jones.

Where should a man like me begin relating the tale to a man like you Friedman? Should I mention the stage setup? Each performer came center stage to a live mic. No lip synching my friend, but, count the equipment. One...two...three...four. Yes William, there were two vox monitors bookended by two large Flat-screen monitors on which the words to each song sung scrolled by, tele-prompter style, for these "fans" of The Possum as they sang their tributes. He changed their lives, and they couldn't take the time to memorize his 3 chord rhyming couplet masterpieces of American song? Were these last minute invitations? Are they so busy trying to remember the words to "Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto" to take the time to learn a real country song? Or are they just shit heels?

Tonight it hit me like a ton of bricks. Big & Rich is just Trick Pony without the chick. And, Trick Pony is just Brooks and Dunn with a chick. Nashville is FILLED with "acts" where there's one guy who's playing it straight in his cowboy hat and shit kickers, and another guy wearing sunglasses and anything and everything from a fedora to a top hat to his great-grandma's last Easter bonnet. We are truly blessed by these edgy callers from foreign lands my brother. The trouble is, there's not much difference between these people and those Christmas cookies cooling on our grandma's kitchen tables (present company excluded of course). The dough goes in Guillaume, the same old shapes come out.

God rewarded me tonight Fagelson. The two greatest targets of my twang ire, Kenny and Martina, performed. I was worried for Martina because Jones never recorded any songs about disabled kids getting saved by puppy dogs from a burning Sunday school. Naturally she woodenly belted her way through one of his songs about drinkin' and cheatin'. The beautiful moment of the performance occurred when the camera showed the face of the extremely talented session player on lead guitar; he was earnestly watching Martina, keeping a very basic key and rhythm to her warbling and he looked absolutely bored and terrified at the same time, as if he were holding a precious piece of China on a floor covered in motor oil.

If there's one thing I learned when I did a running diary of the CMA Awards back in November, there were some absolutely disgusted and disgruntled, yet very talented studio musicians on that stage for this Tribute. They can't reveal their names, they can't go on the record, but when they walked out and saw that these "stars" were going to need tele-prompters, and that they were going to have to keep rigid 4/4 time to something that should shuffle and swing a little, they sighed and said to themselves...again...well, at least it's a steady paycheck.

Buddy Canon's robot was precious too. Earnestly telling George how he changed his life or some such nonsense, and then getting to croon two songs, all the while being one of the chief offenders glancing at the tele-prompters for the words that have stirred him so, throughout his life. I mean really, where does the hypocrisy end?

Yes Dad, now more than ever, we need some reality and authenticity re-injected into this. They've begun to believe their own press clippings, and worse, their own bullshit. This is not the heritage bequeathed to me by the wild-eyed, Whiskey running Raley brothers of Wichita Falls, Texas; once again, I categorically reject it.

Fraternally yours,
Marshall Wilson Platano-Blanco
Foreman, Navajo Petroleum (ret.)

Posted by Jack Sparks at May 9, 2005 10:32 PM

A[n] (Alt?) Country Manifesto for the 21st Century

Filed under: Imported

Because of Minnesota Golden Gopher Baseball, I haven't been on the radio in a coon's age. So, I've had some time to sit...and stew...

A spectre is haunting America--the spectre of Nashville. The history of all hitherto existing TRUE twang music is the history of hillbilly struggles.

Those struggles have been rendered null and meaningless in a machinery designed to deliver a demographic to a corporate advertising bloc that cares neither for the music that has been created in response to its wealth, nor for the music that it has destroyed in its wake. Country Music used to be an American art form, forged in the fires of a rapidly growing nation, where urban problems met rural realities, and vice versa. And, at the end of the day, you could hold forth eloquently on it, dance to it, and above all, get drunk and pass out to it.

As the Powers of Greed prepare Nashville for the annual false storefront insouciant parade that is FanFare, it is time for the voices of the lost soul of Country Music to speak up and publish a manifesto of dissatisfaction, disinterest, and disharmony. We will speak with our pens, our keyboards, and our pocketbooks. As Summer approaches, we will reject stadium style arena disasters that start at $65 a ticket and end at more than $100; your greed has disenfranchised the heart of the country listening audience, and these exorbitant prices for "concerts" that are more like a circus than a music show are an embarrassment to the rich tradition of the music.

But, more importantly, we will stand on a few bedrock principles, from which we will not budge, no matter how beguiling and deceitful the lies of the establishment become.

We reject the idea that Country Music is only recorded and produced in Nashville, Tennessee

There are two troublesome phenomena at work here. One, when someone says "Country" music, most people roll their eyes and bring up Shania, Garth, Kenny, Tim or Faith. Country Music is almost irreparably associated with these monsters of greed who sold out the tradition and history of the art form so that they could feed their appetites for "success." They have made money, for sure, but the price we have all paid is that now, despite being a country filled with 200 Million-plus people, from very diverse areas, with very diverse ideas of what it means to be "Country," we are only fed a steady diet of black hats and evening gowns. Additionally, as Nashville has half-heartedly tried to tap into some of the fringes of what could be a more robust and 3 dimensional product, they have limited their searches to only those people who have come to their town looking to record. Thus, when "edgy" is bandied about, it is in reference to people who have already been corrupted by the Nashville system, i.e., Big & Rich.

We reject the idea that Country Music is only that music played on Mainstream Country Radio stations, like the Clear Channel property, KEEY/K102 in Minneapolis.

Country Radio decided several years ago that in order to survive, it need to identify, and then deliver a whittled down demographic to its advertisers so that it could charge higher rates for that specific demographic, rather than a watered down rate for a broader listening audience (no great revelation there, most genre's of radio have done this). Country is probably a more onerous example though, because in moving toward this demographic, it has not only choked the meaning and the art out of the music, it has also ditched people who are regularly referred to as cultural icons from its playlists. This last phenomenon is both the most amusing and most absurd. These men and women say to us with a straight face that the Country Music audience does NOT want to listen to Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, EmmyLou Harris, Loretta Lynn and others; we demand to know who they are calling and whether they care about this glaring incongruity.

We reject the idea that we are purists.

Country Music is made up of many styles and influences. We accept the arguments of David Cantwell and Bill Friskics-Warren in their ground breaking book, "Heartaches by the Number: The Top 500 Singles of Country Music," that Country has survived as much as it has died by infusions of soul, pop, rock, heavy metal, and jazz. What we reject is that we're all trying to get Hank Williams and Johnny Cash clones more air time and recording space. If any are purists, it's the forces of Nashville and Mainstream Country Radio, who vastly limit their production choices and play list choices to gain air time and deliver the demographic. They have reduced the genre to Garth Brooks clones and Shania clones, and they are the ones who are quick to point the fingers at us as being the forces of purity, a hypocrisy not lost on many. Country is Bluegrass, Honky Tonk, Folk, the Blues, Polka, Conjunto, etc. We are Country, we listen to it all. We are the children of the men in Bobby Bare's recording of the Tillis song, "Detroit City:"

By day I make the cars
By night I make the bars

To paraphrase Ray McKinnon from his brilliant Oscar Winning Short Film, "The Accountant," stop "flooding us with cliches and stereotypes of" ourselves so that we act Country instead of being Country.

We reject the idea that we are trying to program our own personal jukebox by altering the play lists of Mainstream Country Radio stations, like the Clear Channel property, KEEY/K102 in Minneapolis.

Our aim is solely to have the flagship stations of the many diverse regions of this country represent the styles and flavors of the people around it, who display the deep emotions and tales of what it means to be Country in that part of the nation. My friend Scott Chaffin and I are both Country, but he's Texas Country and I'm Minnesota Country and yet there is no difference in the play lists of the Mainstream Country Radio stations in our respective areas. Another prima facie absurdity.

In a year in which she wrote, recorded, and toured behind a more thoughtful and all around better album, we reject the fact that Loretta Lynn was not named Entertainer of the Year by the CMA, and we ask that Kenny Chesney return his award so that it can be rightfully given to Loretta.

We are tired of well orchestrated media campaigns behind talentless Barbie Dolls that result in album and ticket sales leading to awards for artistic achievement.

We ask that Ed Benson resign, retire, or fire himself as President of the Country Music Association.

Any person that has acted as a steward over this continuing decline should carry the burden and shame of his actions and step down in favor of someone with the vision to look past the shallow numbers to the very heart and soul of American Art and get things back on the right track.

The True Hillbillies disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing Twang conditions. Let the Greedy Corporate classes of Nashville recording and Mainstream Radio tremble at a Twang Revolution. We have nothing to lose but our chains. We have a world to win.

The Contacts

1. New York--None

2. LA--KZLA-FM
Tonya Campos
Replacement: Eleni Mandell

3. Chicago--WUSN-FM
Programming
Replacement: Anything on Bloodshot Records

4. San Francisco--KRTY-FM
Website Form
Replacement: Red Meat

5. Dallas/Ft. Worth--KPLX-FM
Cody Alan
Replacement: There are plenty of good Texas acts, why would you waste time on this no-talent?

6. Philadelphia--WXTU-FM
Cadillac Jack
Replacement: Frog Holler

7. Houston/Galveston--KTHT-FM (oldies, invest), KILT-FM
Michael Cruise
Replacement: See No. 5 above

8. Washington, D.C.--WMZQ-FM
Shelley Rose
Replacement: The Hangdogs

9. Boston--WKLB-FM
Website Form
Replacement: The Coming Grass

10. Detroit--WYCD-FM
Ron Chatman
Replacement: The Wrenfields

11. Atlanta--WKHX-FM
Website Form
Replacement: The Drive By Truckers

12. Miami/Ft. Lauderdale--WKIS-FM
Bob Barnett
Replacement: The Drive By Truckers

13. Puerto Rico--None

14. Seattle/Tacoma--KMPS-FM
Programming
Replacement: Richmond Fontaine

15. Phoenix--KNIX-FM
Programming
Replacement: Roger Clyne & the Peace Makers

16. Minneapolis--KEEY-FM
Travis Moon
Replacement: Consult The Other Side of Country for all of the great local artists you're ignoring.

17. San Diego--KSON-FM
Greg Frey
Replacement: The Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash

18. Nassau-Suffolk, NY--WWYZ-FM
Annie Sandor
Replacement: The Demolition String Band

19. St. Louis--WIL-FM
Greg Mozingo--Website Form
Replacement: If you aren't already, start working the Uncle Tupelo re-releases in.

20. Baltimore--WPOC-FM
Michael J.
Replacement: Frog Holler

Posted by Jack Sparks at May 9, 2005 3:07 PM

Daddy was a fireman, Mamma was a campfire girl...

Filed under: Imported

Look, I was going to talk intelligently about something for once, then a true local poet spoke up and pointed me in the right direction:

Jack - Zach Johns from THE GODDAMN GLEAM here. Just got done reading yr blog entry, the one where you write of famous musicians' sex trophies followin' in their parents foot steps. My thought - My Ol' Man is a skilled carpenter, and I have "learned" from him some of the tricks he "learned" from 30 plus years in the trade. I have a job in the trades also, following his footsteps have made the road easier for me to walk. He paid heavy dues, I "learned" from him and have avoided most. Does this make me less or more skilled? Both maybe. But when he swings a hammer it must mean more to him. To me it is a job, to him a way of life. So onto the music kids. You mentioned Shooter Jennings, so let's use him. Waylon paid his dues writing and performing songs. He worked hungry, and that came out in his music. Most hillbillies who truly value this music, want to listen to a believable song, sung by one who has lived it. Blue collar livin', blue collar drinkin', blue collar dyin'. Don't get me wrong, white collar types can value it too, since they may have grew up in the country, or Grandpa was a Carpenter, or etc. etc, or they may just fantasize. FINE. But when Waylon put his life, his neck, his family on the line for his songs about redneck livin', they are believable, and needless to say good. Shooter maybe able to write a good song, sing great, and pick daddies guitar with the best of em. But Shooter has not had to put his life, his neck, and family on the line for his songs. Jack you can probably sum this up better then me, probably with 3 words. FUCK IT MAN

There you have it. The many times I've waddled into places like the Entry, the Triple Rock, and the Hex to see The Goddamned Gleam, the last thing I thought, as I was booing, was that Zach is a very cogent, coherent young man. But he makes a great point, and provides a fantastic springboard into a phenomenon that for good or ill is showing up in our 229 year old experiment called America, not just in music, but also in vastly more disgusting trades...namely politics, and the seemingly endless supply of Bush's, Kennedy's, and Humphreys'sss's' we seem to keep producing, like cockroaches at some sort of metropolitan manure pile, that never seems to have enough shovels working the edges.

There's an old story where a young soldier in the trenches asks an old soldier, "Why are you doing this?" The old soldier looks at him and responds, "I'm doing this so that my son can be an engineer, so that his son can be an artist."

Obviously, there's about one metric ton of noble bullshit in that old story, but it illustrates a point. There's a generational ladder of process and experience. From one perspective, the artist is a sort of bloom on the fights and hard labor of the past generations. From another, the artist is a collector of those experiences, a chronicler and disseminator, a family reservoir. The notion gives pause to the idea that one who follows in their parents' footsteps is necessarily trodding new ground. Obviously, I'm not going to say that it's impossible to do what yer mommy or yer daddy done, and do it better. But, for the sake of argument, I think some of the names I brought up in the original post on this subject have caused me to rethink my position on this a little, especially after listening to the tunes.

I might get in trouble for saying this, but there's a certain amount of narcissism built into an artist's work. Regardless of whether it's self-deprecating, egotistical, or in the completely objective third person, there's a certain amount of "look at me, who I am, where I came from, and who came before me." No earth shattering notion, artists are sums and mirrors of their lifetime environments. What kind of double ding dong witchcraft reflector is the child of an artist, who becomes an artist him or herself? It's a kind of crazy reflection of a reflection that can be volatile and somewhat fertile at best, and a mere shiny sheet metal rectangle hung in a rest stop men's room on a towel dispenser, with "bich" scratched into it.

Before I launch into this, let me just say that the criticisms I'm about to level here and there are patently unfair. If your grandfather is Hank Williams or Woodie Guthrie, well, you're just fucked. You could probably cure cancer, and people would still be wacking off to one of your grandpa's autographed lost 45's they bought on eBay from some old dowager who thought it said Hal Wilson, instead of thanking you for making it possible to smoke bacon flavored cigarettes in equatorial sunlight.

I guess I had thought about this topic a lot specifically with respect to Hank III. I've seen him a lot at First Avenue over the years, and his performances of Hank Sr.'s songs, and for that matter some of his own, have a spooky quality, because he sounds and looks so much like him...from a certain angle. But the whole AssJack thing has me scratching my head about the country thing. I think there's a lot of authenticity in what he does because he was kind of a shit heel as he was growing up, not really attached to his father as a parent, an thus his family legacy; he's talked about booze, drugs and mistakes in numerous interviews, and there's no reason to believe that most of that stuff is manufactured. But, it's kind of like the old Krusty the Klown line, "They drove a DUMP TRUCK full of money up to my house..." He doesn't really pull any punches about what interests him more, musically, so I've grown a little jaded on the whole spooky thing. That being said, I enjoy what he's doing, in general.

With the release of daddy's new album, "Here Come the Choppers," I went out and got Martha Wainwright's EP "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole." This little bit of oeuvre starts out as that volatile, fertile mirror, but it kind of falls off the cliff for me at the end. The title track has all the lyrical and rhythmic explosion that her old man embodies, but, what you get from the song was that he REALLY did hurt her and her mom, and at some point down the musical road, listening becomes almost uncomfortable. The corrollary to that is that it has made it a little uncomfortable to listen to him, too, especially this new record. On it, he waxes eloquently about his grandfather and grandmother, with the imaginative longing of the baby boomer poets constantly trying to come to grips with their traditional ancestors in a rapidly non-traditional world; but the hole in his bucket is that he's childishly trying to still learn from not from the dead people themselves, but from his fractured memories of them, INSTEAD of looking to what promises to be a talented crop of kids. As Martha reveals,

...she requires no prompting to reveal the source of her inspiration and especially the effect her father's song I'd Rather Be Lonely had on her. "I always felt terribly sorry for the poor woman I thought it was about because of the line: 'Every time I see you cry you're just a clone of every woman I've known.' Then one time I was on tour with Loudon and he said to the crowd: 'I wrote this song about my daughter.' I had no idea. We lived together for one year in New York when I was 14 and it was a disaster, and I'd Rather Be Lonely was about that year. He really crossed the line there."

If you enjoy musical mindfucks, go buy her EP, or her latest album which incorporates the EP, and Loudon III's new one, and listen to them together alternately. In the context of this bit, though, it shows that an egocentric artist's almost inevitable abandonment of his family--whether figurative or literal--is good for about two songs' worth of material, tops. After that, it's just Springer.

I don't really want to talk about Sarah Lee Guthrie & Johnny Irion. "Exploration" was co-produced by Gary Louris and it sounds a lot like a Jayhawks spinoff record. Maybe to her credit, she and her main man aren't driving around America singing about getting a pipe up side their heads from a Pinkerton man. The record's good, and I'll play some songs off of it on the show, but here's where I wonder, if she's not a Guthrie, do they get a record deal? Mind you, I'm NOT saying, no one would like them; I'm asking, DO THEY GET A RECORD DEAL? It's a different question. I can't tell if she hates her old man from this record.

But now we come to the part of the thought where I really got into this: somebody called during February or March and requested Shooter Jennings on the radio show. Not having seen him live, and only working from this one disk, I have to sadly report that I'm not in Shooter's corner. Look, he's not a repeat of his Dad, he's a repeat of Hank Williams, Jr. You know, every 3rd song is about being his father's son. Something about putting country back into country this, and leaving Nashville that. Brought to you by that little independent label, Universal South. More of that "dump truck full of money" phenomenon. Don't get me wrong, a few of the songs are good enough; but I just get the feeling some fat fuck in a big office at Universal (Nashville) South took one look at Shooter Jennings and asked himself, "what if we had a Hank III that we could control?" Look, I'm a cynic, I'll admit it. But, I've crawled around in a lot of clubs in a lot of towns listening to a lot of twang music, and I didn't even know Shooter existed, let alone recorded music. Then BOOM! Here he is, with songs of road pussy that did him wrong, and nights in small town jails with the tour van impounded.

At the end of the day, I'm just starting to disbelieve. There's a whole essay in this targetless rambling about how this successive generational fame is indirectly becoming an aristocracy of sorts in this country--with the air they're sucking out of the natural processes of progress and acheivement--cramming it in our serf asses. But I'm too tired to wax ineloquently on it any longer. As the great Minnesota poet Zach Kordosky said,

Got one fifth to go
and then I start settlin' down

Posted by Jack Sparks at May 4, 2005 2:38 AM

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