Like most of my music-loving friends, over the past couple of weeks I watched Ken Burns’ PBS documentary, “Country Music.” And like most of those friends, I watched it in rapt adoration, as the history of country music in America unfolded before our eyes, with interviews and photos and videos of trailblazing musicians sharing their roots and roads to Music Row and beyond.
Some of the stories and characters I was familiar with; some were a revelation. As a plus, the documentary gave me insight into a couple of artists that I had never held in very high regard, until their background stories made me rethink a few things. One example is George Jones. Although I love much of his music and his songwriting was beautiful, with the alcohol infused heritage I grew up with I couldn’t see past his own addiction to care about him one bit as a person. Then I heard Peter Coyote on this documentary talk about how George’s father, himself an alcoholic, would roust him out of bed as a child and force him to sing non-stop while tears rolled down little George’s face. And how his father left him at the bus station in Beaumont as an eleven-year-old to busk for change which his father then kept for himself. I began looking at George Jones in a different light, the light of a fellow damaged child of alcoholism who, even as he reaped huge financial rewards and fame for his musical ability, knew that his talent held hands with a tormented past from which he was never able to pull free.
Although I grew up in Texas, I didn’t really grow up on country music, at least not in an obvious way. It was always there in the background somewhere, on radio or TV, but my growing up years in the Sixties were spent idolizing rock and roll, not bluegrass or country or “hillbilly music” as my mother called it. I was a city girl, and country didn’t seem to fit into my world. I also grew up on show tunes and classical music, as these were favorites of my mother, and I could belt out or croon most of the tunes from any Rodgers and Hammerstein musical by the time I hit my teens. However, when I look back at my childhood, I realize that I had a lot more exposure to country music than I ever thought about. I think that my mother, who professed disdain at the above mentioned “hillbilly music,” secretly liked it more than she would have ever let on. I believe her dismissal of the genre probably came from her desire to consider herself above the poorer and, in her mind at least, less educated folks who were at the root of much of the music. Goodness knows, we had little money, but she needed that belief for whatever reason. Ironically, I remember that although she never actually sat down and watched these programs, Porter Wagoner and The Wilburn Brothers were tuned into every week on our TV, alongside her favorite, Lawrence Welk. I think she thought those Wilburn boys were cute. So did I.
My love of country music began when I moved to Austin in the early 70’s to go to college. That was during the “progressive country” era, when artists such as Willie and Waylon and Kris were emerging as musicians beloved by hippies and rednecks and everyone in between. I spent hours upon hours spinning Kris Kristofferson records until I knew every gorgeous lyric, and I found a love for Willie’s songwriting and unique voice in my roommate’s “Best of Willie Nelson” album that included now classics such as “Hello Walls,” “Crazy,” “Funny How Time Slips Away” and “Mr. Record Man.” I was hooked, and for years I immersed myself in AM country music stations. It was hard to live in Austin at that time and not love country music. When I think about how often we were able to go see so many amazing and now legendary artists back then for free or for a couple of bucks, I just shake my head and smile.
Over the years, my taste in music has developed to encompass a broader range of artists than those of my college years. I discovered, on my own and through friends and other artists, through venues and festivals such as Austin City Limits and even through an ex-husband who was a musician, so many more roads and paths and byways and highways leading to the huge ocean of songs and songwriters who make up Americana and country music. I attend music festivals at sea and on land and I now host Americana artists in my own house concert series. It’s been a wonderful journey and I know the history of country music will keep expanding and spreading for future generations. I can’t wait to hear what’s next.
House of Black and Blue 