Radio, MTV prove it’s better in country

  Adam Skalman Skalman is a second-year
American literature and culture student who, like you, enjoys
backrubs and gum. E-mail him at [email protected]. Click
Here for more articles by Adam Skalman

They say video killed the radio star, but I think Florida is
actually to blame. Or at least that morbidly obese boy band creator
down in Orlando who ate all the good music.

I’ve pretty much given up on finding intelligent music
that gets radio play. It doesn’t exist at this point.
Listening to Star 98.7 or KIIS 102.7, I tend to take a somewhat
Hobbesian view of humanity: life is nasty, brutish and short, a
world where playing an instrument and singing are mutually
exclusive and apparently unmarketable.

After eschewing so many Backstreet Boys and crushes of Eden,
wading through steaming piles of post-punk Blink banality, and
hearing that inane Crazytown song more times than I’ve heard
my own name, I was at a crisis point. I was ready to turn off my
radio completely.

Thank God I didn’t. Thank God for country music.

Here is a genre where 45-minute abs and Joan Allen cheekbones
aren’t prerequisites for success. There are no
“bitches” in country music, they don’t
“roll up” in “whips” or “Lexus
jeeps,” and they certainly don’t drink Old English
(excluding LeAnn Rimes, of course).

These are not folks who are only cute on mute, like all those
snackables on TRL (an acronym which I believe stands for Tara
Reid’s Lunch).

There are just as many millionaire divas and crafty publicists
in Nashville as there are ex-children of Destiny in Beyonce’s
basement, but country music is still about real people dealing with
real issues. Like premeditated murder, for instance.

Jadakiss can talk about obliterating the competition with a
Glock 9, but the Dixie Chicks like to kick it old school. Real
people poison their abusive husbands. Unless they’re Darryl
Gates, they don’t waste Crips and keep the Westside pure.

I think “Goodbye Earl” is a much more pragmatic
guide to cold-blooded killing than is, say, Eminem’s beating
his wife to death in “Kim.” I don’t know about
you, but I have no idea where to procure illegal Israeli firearms.
I do, however, know where to buy black-eyed peas and rat
poison.

And country girls don’t talk about how much ice they wear
or how much money they get for sex. I’m sure Shania Twain
rocks Gucci kicks and carries her Grammys around in a giant Louis
Vuitton handbag, but at least her music is about stuff I can relate
to. It’s so much more pertinent than all these girl power
mongers who sing about how they can buy their own diamond
rings.

Jennifer Lopez’s love don’t cost a thing. Pink
doesn’t want a man with the bling-bling. Destiny’s
Child bought the shoes they’re wearing.

I’m sorry, but if you make in excess of $40 million a
year, buying your own clothing doesn’t really make an
excellent case for martyrdom. “Independent Women Part
2?” I haven’t heard “Part 1,” but I imagine
it’s about buying 14 pairs of Prada aviators with
Daddy’s platinum AmEx.

Shania’s love don’t cost a thing, and that’s
because she hangs out in honky tonks with guys named Bubba. If her
love cost more than the price of an Amstel Light, she’d be in
serious trouble.

I can barely afford to buy a date dinner at Hamburger Hamlet,
let alone show up with the keys to a Mercedes SL500. So I like to
hear music about people in my tax bracket.

Country music is honestly about love, too.

I have this mental picture of Jay-Z in a hot tub surrounded by
thongs and Cristal champagne. Somehow I don’t think this
would work for Travis Tritt. When you weigh in at 250 and wear
Wranglers, the search for love probably doesn’t begin in the
back seat of a Hummer limo.

Can Lil’ Kim really be happy? Where’s the
tenderness, the sincerity? Does she ever have sex that
doesn’t involve condiments? Toby Keith only involves molasses
in his sexual practices if he happens to be eating pancakes during
the act. He’s concerned about other things.

Country music is about yearning and heartbreak, about being
touched on a more emotional level.

If Blink 182 looked like Brooks and Dunn, I might be able to buy
the whole “I’m just a dork who can’t get
laid” schtick. But Nashville seems to be the only town where
guys don’t have to submit a head shot along with their demo
tape.

Now to be fair, I don’t exactly fit the country music mold
myself. I like foreign films, I drive a white Jetta and I think
Diesel jeans are the best thing since well, Todd Oldham jeans. But
aside from Gap commercials, there isn’t too much music that
is serious about denim.

So I turn to country.

When you live in Los Angeles, it’s easy to forget that
there are people whose dogs aren’t miniaturized and
accessorized, people who wear cowboy hats without irony, people who
could kick ass on that mechanical bull at Saddle Ranch on Sunset if
only they knew the Strip wasn’t a tittie bar in Mobile.

These are real people singing from real experience. So give me
country radio or give me Nick Carter’s phone number. Maybe
he’ll promise not to sing during dinner.