Weekly Standard article on Commercial Country Music: Lost In The Stars

Lost in the Stars Country awaits its (musical) messiah. Oct 03, 2016 | By Dave Shiflett Many an aging hack writer (ahem) regrets not having worked harder in math class, or in what was once called “shop," which would have equipped us for careers built on sturdier things than words. As the assignments dry up, we could, at the very least, make a few bucks selling wobbly bookcases and custom-made backscratchers (a buck extra for the left-handed model). Yet a few of us have held out hope for another option: writing country music lyrics. We assumed that, even after decades of cranking out journalistic dreck by day, chased by brain-dissolving potions at night, we'd have enough wattage left over to dash off a few hits, or at least a couple of regional favorites. The good news is that a quick review of contemporary country strongly suggests our wattage will be ample. The bad news—well, we'll get to that later. There's plenty of good country music being made—along with bluegrass and other rural-inspired genres—but what we're talking about here is commercial country, the stuff you hear on Clear Channel and other broadcast behemoths. It should be said that commercial country is usually sung by talented vocalists backed by incredibly good musicians. But almost every song is instantly forgettable—and that's the generous appraisal. To the late Merle Haggard, modern country was flat-out "crap." It sounded, to his learned ear, as if it were produced by "the same band [with] the same sound." Put another way: There's plenty of opportunity for up-and-comers. And old, perhaps delusional, hacks. There is definitely an abundance of what might be called negative inspiration; that is, songs that seem to have required little mental mojo, or even full consciousness, to write. Take, for instance, the mega-hit "Achy Breaky Heart," which is quite memorable in the way that one's first viewing of a roadside corpse tends to stick with you. But don't tell my heart My achy breaky heart I just don't think he'd understand And if you tell my heart My achy breaky heart He might blow up and kill this man Billy Ray Cyrus, who made a hit of the song, is also famous for siring the pop star Miley Cyrus (born Destiny Hope Cyrus), recently seen serenading her audiences while wearing a prosthetic penis. But be assured: Billy Ray likely doesn't care if you despise his song and his daughter. "Achy Breaky" made him rich and famous. The only dark spot—for him, at least—is that his signature song is being regularly eclipsed by newer atrocities such as "Drunk on a Plane." Stewardess is somethin' sexy Leanin' pourin' Coke and whiskey Told her about my condition Got a little mile-high flight attention While easily dismissed as aural dentistry, DoaP does contain an element of genius: Sex in an airborne loo is reasonably considered a step above taking a romantic tumble in an outhouse. Ergo, "Drunk on a Plane" pushes the envelope. Merle, to be sure, was not impressed by this type of song: "They're talking about screwing on a pickup tailgate and things of that nature. I don't find no substance. I don't find anything you can whistle, and nobody even attempts to write a melody." On the bright side, the songwriters did know how to rhyme. On my way home I'll bump this seat right up to first class So I can drink that cheap champagne out of a real glass And when we land I'll call her up and tell her "kiss my ass" It might take a couple of double-wides to house all the artistic hairballs coughed up by Nashville songwriters, who are easily matched by writers from other popular genres. But every once in a while comes a song whose egregiousness is truly magisterial. Cowboy hats off, then, to "Red Solo Cup," made famous by Toby Keith. Now a red solo cup is the best receptacle For barbecues, tailgates, fairs and festivals And you sir do not have a pair of testicles If you prefer drinking from glass A red solo cup is cheap and disposable And in fourteen years they are decomposable And unlike my home they are not foreclosable Freddie Mac can kiss my ass woo At this point, news stories featuring X-rays of skulls pierced by crowbars or railroad spikes suddenly come to mind. The spell holds as the song progresses. Red solo cup you're more than just plastic You're more than amazing you're more than fantastic And believe me that I'm not the least bit sarcastic When I look at you and say Red solo cup, you're not just a cup (No, no, God, no) You're my, you're my friend (Friend, friend, friend, life long) Thank you for being my friend In his defense, Toby Keith has been quoted as saying that this might be the dumbest song in existence, not adding whether it took one pickup truck, or two, to haul his earnings to the bank. None of which is to diminish admiration and appreciation for this or any of the aforementioned songs. After all, they give hacks hope that they, too, can have songwriting success. Some of the more delusional ones might even be inspired to pursue the hope engendered by Beverly Keel in her (Nashville) Tennessean column: "As the Bro Country movement begins to wane, people are anxiously awaiting an artist to appear with a fresh new sound to take country in a new direction." Translation: The position of Country Music Messiah is open. In this ecclesiastical spirit, I've put together (with suitable humility) a few tunes melding familiar themes—Mama, obesity, the Rapture—with contemporary developments. Mama got fat, daddy got even, He ran off and married a guy named Steven Country music might not save my soul Moving on a bit, the plot thickens. Daddy got chopped, now he's a lady Ran off to Texas with a girl named Sadie Mama's head is spinning like a top A good singer—perhaps, especially, one who is transitioning—might ride this tune (called "Roll Rapture") to the top of the charts. With similar reverence I submit "Seven-Dollar Beer," a piece of generational combat in the spirit of Haggard's "Okie From Muskogee." Well we used to go out drinking Had ourselves a lot of fun Drinking Blues and cold Budweisers Fifty cents for every one And no one gave a rat's patootie If your chicken was free range Hell, if you worried about a chicken People'd think that you were strange Both demos are available—free, of course—at my website. Which brings us to some very sobering news. Of course, the subject is money and the reality check is provided by songwriting sensation Aloe Blacc. His giant hit "Wake Me Up!" (which he co-wrote and performed) "was the most streamed song in Spotify history and the 13th most played song on Pandora since its release in 2013," he informs us, "with more than 168 million streams in the US." And yet, that yielded only $12,359 in Pandora domestic royalties— which were then split among three songwriters and our publishers. In return for co-writing a major hit song, I've earned less than $4,000 domestically from the largest digital music service. The clear message: Dream big, including young people eyeing a future in the music biz. But think twice about cutting algebra class.

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