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I grew up in Nevada, living with my grandpa, who loved the mountains and the desert more than anything. He loved skiing, and he made sure my mom and I went with him when it snowed every winter. He would go on long walks every morning up into the dusty, rattlesnake-covered hills behind his house before the sun rose. He drove a big, red pickup truck that was designed to haul him, his RV, his family and some dogs through the mountains to go on summertime adventures. I have distinct childhood memories of sitting in the back seat of that giant Ford F-350, feeling 10 feet away from the driver because the cab was so wide and I was so little, and listening to my grandpa hum along to the country music on the radio.
And I complained every time.
When I was a kid, in the depths of the desert, going to the big rodeo every summer when it came around, I wore cowboy boots that cut up my feet and a hat that made my head sweat. The rest of the year those items stayed as far out of my sight as possible because I. Hated. Country. There was nothing in the culture for me; I loved the rain and watching them wrangle the calves made me cry. But more importantly, I hated the music.
My grandpa listened to country almost exclusively, and when my mom started driving me around in his truck as her everyday car, she listened to country all the time too. She would get crushes on the country singers just from their voices. I hated every word they sang. I thought their twang was fake and the music didn’t make me want to dance. To this day, I can’t even actually remember what exactly they listened to that I hated so much; I only remember the feeling of boredom and exasperation at the joy of my mom and her dad.
It wasn’t until I was in high school, living far from the desert in Ohio with my dad, when I gave country music a skeptical taste once again. I was watching the TikTok Live of a boy I had a mild parasocial relationship with, listening to him go through his Spotify playlists as he chatted with whoever was commenting, absorbing every song like it was a gift from God. And then Harry McClintock’s “Big Rock Candy Mountain” came on, and my worldview was slightly shifted. Never before had I heard something that was so obviously country music, twang and all, that I enjoyed.
I looked it up, I listened closely, I found more songs with his same tinny, sweet sorrow and anti-capitalist leanings, and thus began my Spotify playlist “Acceptable Country.” The playlist grew as I realized I had music already in my collection that kind of counted as country, and Spotify made beautiful recommendations that helped me become the casual country fan I am today.
As I’ve gotten older I experience it less and less, but there is a notable disdain for the genre of country music amongst younger people. There is a certain vapid fakeness that comes with popular, radio-hit country music that I feel represents the genre poorly. The likes of Harry McClintock, John Prine, Doc Watson and Roger Miller came to the rescue decades ago, keeping the substantive, reflective core to the genre that country enjoyers claim to love all country music for. In the waves of songs about partying, post-9/11 uncritical patriotism and country-esque buzzwords, there is an oasis of old-timers with tales to tell and life to romanticize accompanied by slide guitars which touch the heart and breathe life into the genre. So next time you’re looking for music that makes you take a few meditative deep breaths and entertains you at the same time, give John Prine a try, and withhold your biases against the genre of country music.