I managed to hide it from him for almost five years.
Oh sure, he knew I loved the Dixie Chicks and sometimes wore cowboy boots. And he knew it would be fun to come up here for the long weekend. But he didn’t really know.
When we walked into the first pub last night they were playing the first chords of ‘friends in low places’ and the entire bar started singing along. Charles moved through the packed crowd and ordered us a couple of beers from the bar as two jolly blokes flirted with me. I remembered why I love country pubs so much -not many places in Sydney where the back of your hand is kissed within 3 minutes of walking in the door.
The cover band was good -three guys with guitars. The lead singer a cutie with a bald head and a big ol hat. We inched forward and found a place against the exit door which meant we had to move every once in awhile to let people out but also meant a nice fresh breeze. People were dancing up front.
“Who wants to hear Alan Jackson?” the baldy asked and I hooted along with the others.
“You don’t know who he is” said Charles.
Not only had I seen Alan Jackson in concert but I proceeded to sing along to all the words of the song. I think he was genuinely frightened.
When did it start? Maybe Prairie Home Companion on Saturday mornings with Dad? Or the force-fed KUPL on the stereo in the mornings getting ready for school with Mom? In grade school there were several cross over hits like Dolly’s 9 to 5 or Willy’s On the Road Again. But by the end of Junior High I was rolling my eyes in distain at Kenny Rodgers and lobbying for the pop station. Then, by the time Mom switched to pop, I was head-long into my Bowie obsession.
“Who wants to hear Alan Jackson?” the baldy asked and I hooted along with the others.
“You don’t know who he is” said Charles.
What is it about music that make it such a symbol for self definition? When I moved to The Dalles in 10th grade, Tammy and Jaime would save me by sending me cassette tapes of recordings from the Eugene college station. The Violent Femms, Crazy 8s and songs with titles like Cookie Puss. I thought I was SO different from the kids in my new school who thought Wham was alternative and balked at the androgenous style of the Eurhythmics or even Cindy Lauper. I had a crush on Craig Arid largely because he listened to the English Beat.
But by my senior year something had happened. My first car, an old Volvo, only picked up two stations: KACI which played lame pop or KODL -country music. When I drove around town alone, it just seemed to fit. I liked it.
My boyfriend at the time had a mohawk and refused to ride with me unless I changed the channel. He even jumped out once. He, too, was frightened I knew all the words.
Sydney doesn’t have a major country station. The only thing I’ve found is near the zen centre. So every Tuesday I hear a bit in the two minutes when I drive up and the three minutes when I drive off (I drive slower after meditation). That’s only 4 hours a year for the last 4 years.
But this weekend in Tamworth promises to make up for it: the Bush Poets & Balladeers Showcase, the Bootscoot Ball, the Garth Brooks Tribute and free concerts everywhere.
Why do I love it? It’s hard to describe. The songs are cheesy, unsophisticated, and over sentimental. It’s sexist (The Dixie Chicks were publicly scolded for their song Earl about two women who kill a wife-beater. But not a word was said the previous year when Garth released a song about a husband killing his cheating wife: ‘mama’s in the graveyard, papa’s in the pen’). It’s vehemently patriotic. And it’s simply against many of my beliefs.
But the music is easy to follow the first time and by the third you know it cold. And there’s nothing that grounds me quicker when I’m depressed or too deep for my britches. It’s about clear simple things like the fact that true love reins over financial difficulties, freedom is to be celebrated, family ties last through the years and we all belong to the club of the everyman (that is, if you don’t drive a Mercedes).
And when you walk into a pub on a Tuesday night halfway around the world, people kiss the back of your hand and everyone knows the words to the same songs.
