It’s official as of last night, country music, as we know it, is dead on the spot. So happens that the spot of demise was the home of the half-baked football team, The Dallas Cowboys, and how appropriate is that? Jerry Jones curses things at the oddest moments. I believe the genre known as country music self-imploded in his practice facility as thousands of big-haired, boot-wearing cowgirls in the audience jumped and jiggled so much their cleavage had to take a day off work today.
Old Garth was up there doing his usual fake tear-jerk schtick about loving America, apple pie, and his wife’s high-calorie southern cooking while dear old Dolly, the most talented person in the building and more country than all of them put together, cracked jokes about herself and put on a great show. She may have saved the entire broadcast just by being Dolly.
Is Keith Urban trying to remain a twenty-year-old Telecaster playing dude with a bad haircut for the rest of his life? Why was he wearing those weird Vans sneakers instead of a pair of Justin boots? And who is this Jelly-Roll dude with all the prison tats on his face? The four gals with enough tattoos to fill up Deep Ellum, calling themselves “Bonfire At Tina’s,” what the hell does that mean? They were definitely a bonfire, and no stagehands could find an extinguisher to put them out. Who and what is this Lainy Wilson gal that screams into the microphone, jiggles her big butt around in second-skin pants, and earns four awards? How did Amazon broadcast this show instead of the usual three networks? I expected a salute to Jimi Hendrix at any moment; it seems most of the guitar players have stolen his classic rock licks; I saw more Marshall Amps than Fenders. Just because you add a fiddle doesn’t make your country. They need some picking lessons from Vince Gill and Ricky Scaggs.
Perhaps the likes of Chris Stapelton and a handful of other purists can save the country music industry from their own wokisms. But it’s going to be a tough battle.
I was expecting, at any moment, the ghost of Loretta Lynn, Waylon Jennings, and George Jones to drop down from the jumbotron and start kicking asses; now, that would have been an entertaining evening.