* * * *
My dad and I were in the car one day –
I don't remember how old I was, but I do know I was a legal adult for
what it's worth – and he flipped on the country music station. I
hated country music, so I protested.
“You know, Kevin,” he said,
“everyone goes country at some point.”
At that point I merely took it to mean
that I was doomed to a later life of listening to the Toby Keiths and
Taylor Swifts of the world. But as I've grown older it occurred to me
what he meant: People get old, and as they get old they get more
conservative not just in their politics but in their way of life.
Things get simpler, and simplicity and directness of country music is
the perfect soundtrack for one's twilight years.
Needless to say I'm not old (yet), so I
don't listen to country music. Well, I don't listen to modern
country music. That music is just pop music with twang; a celebration
of guns and God, pickup trucks and patriots.
Little did I know, though, that there
would be country music that appealed to me, and that I would find it
in the unlikeliest of places.
* * * *
It was 2003, and Johnny Cash had
recently released an album full of mostly cover songs, and the lead
single was “Hurt,” a song written in 1994 by one of my favorite
artists – Nine Inch Nails. Because of this fact, I had to hear it.
At first I was flummoxed by the song, not knowing how to feel about a
dying old man singing a song originally made by an artist I
considered vital. But then I listened to the rest of the album,
intrigued by its haunting, morbid beauty.
Then, Johnny Cash died. All at once it
both ended and began.
I downloaded an “Essentials” Johnny
Cash album. Dopey college-kid me was endlessly amused by the line
from “Sunday Morning Coming Down”: “The beer I had for
breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert.” I watched all
the retrospectives of his life on television, which made me feel like
I knew the man before I knew the music. It was at that point that I
started my way down the wormhole – or is it fishin' hole? – of
classic country music.
My journey into country music took some
time. I've listened to countless songs and have read an armload of
books on the subject. Looking over the artists that have sustained my
interest in the genre, it has become pretty clear that they all have
one thing in common.
They are the ones who have withstood
the test of time – the ageless and the immortals – the ones who
are so respected and so well-known that many know them by just their
first names: Hank, Johnny, Willie, and Waylon. (And some by their
last names, such as Haggard and Kristofferson.) To a man, they all
shared a distinct distaste for the Nashville music machine that
chewed up and spat out country music stars like spent wads of
tobacco.
All of those men had their own artistic
visions that didn't always fit in with what the industry wanted. Hank
Williams wanted to keep it simple, but also wanted to write his own
songs. Johnny Cash wrote about a multitude of things, but the
subjects he cared most deeply about – his faith, the downtrodden,
the workingman, American Indians – were also the least likely to
sell records. He recorded those songs anyway, and his legacy is
better for it. Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings believed that both
rednecks and hippies could come together and enjoy the same music –
and they were right. Kris Kristofferson couldn't sing or play worth a
lick, but had such a way with words that some think he was country
music's answer to Bob Dylan.
Beyond the directness and simplicity of
their music – something inherent in all country music – these
guys lived their songs and meant the words that they sang. They wrote
the type of music that you can feel in your guts yet still resonates
with your brain. From “Lost Highway” to “Man in Black” to
“Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground” to “Sunday Morning
Coming Down,” these men have written classics that have informed my
outlook on life. All the heartbreak and loss and despair isn't
pretty, but it is life.
Of course, the music is of most
importance, but the men behind the music is also of interest. And
this is where my dad comes back into the story.
* * * *
I can't claim to know all that much
about my dad. But I have seen pictures and have heard stories (some
of them over and over and over again, like that one time he saw the
Stones and the Eagles, and the Eagles were way better). He had long
hair in the 70's and listened to the Beatles and Pink Floyd. He did
drugs. (I have no proof of this, mind you, but it was the 1970's.
Everyone did drugs then. How else do you explain the fashion
and the music?) None of that is terribly interesting, I know, except
for maybe that my twenties were pretty similar to his.
But there is one thing from that time
period that has always stuck with me. It comes from a half-heard
conversation some years ago – there was probably alcohol involved –
about the Vietnam War. Essentially the war ended and the draft was
discontinued right as my dad was graduating high school. He regretted
not being able to serve his country. That in and of itself was fine,
but I've come to think of it as more than just patriotism. I think,
deep down inside, he supported the war. And though that kills my
somewhat liberal (but mostly centrist) heart, it's also kind of
subversive in a weird way. Here you have a kid with long hair, full
of Dark Side of the Moon and Dylan and god knows what else,
ready to go halfway across the world to fight for an establishment
that probably couldn't care less about him.
That subversion makes me proud. It is
also part of what drew me to certain country stars. Johnny Cash
insisted on having black musicians on his television show even though
race relations were, to put it mildly, not good. Willie Nelson
flaunted his hippie bona fides – the long braided hair and love of
pot – but also wrote songs that made you actually feel your
feelings when it wasn't popular in country music to do so.
* * * *
My dad is a flawed human being; a
jumble of clashing ideals. He supports unions but votes Republican.
He believes in God but doesn't go to church. He's been smoking since
he was a teenager but told me not to smoke. I cannot attack these
things not only because he's my father or because I am also flawed,
but because the flaws and imperfections fascinate me. I could get
cute and call it the family tradition, but I think it's the human
tradition. Aside from empathy, I think imperfection is our defining
trait.
* * * *
When putting this piece together in my
head, I came to my conclusion first and tried to connect the dots
second. The relationship I have with my dad and country music isn't
terribly complex, but it also isn't the easiest to put into words.
After some hours of thinking about it,
I discovered that everything centered on one point. All of my
favorite country stars had singular artistic visions, producers and
record labels be damned. They lived life and performed music on their
own terms.
My dad never had a father growing up,
so when I was born he had to forge his own road of fatherhood. If
there's anything I can take away from growing up on that road, it is
that I should be an individual, that I have to forge my own road if I
want to make anything of this life.
He couldn't hold my hand all the way
down the road, of course, but he could give me some tools to help. He
taught me to be intellectually curious, to always ask questions and
to be wary of authority. (Not to be confused with saying all
authority is bad, which is another argument for another day) He
encouraged me to be great at everything, whether it was school or
sports or writing or girls. He gave me advice whether I sought it or
not. He was genuinely sad when he couldn't help me. Perhaps, most
importantly, he showed that it was okay to have feelings and to
express them no matter what they are.
Maybe this just sounds like a checklist
on how to be a good parent. And maybe he checked all those things off
and maybe I just failed to execute some of them. But I don't think
that's really the point. I think all along he wasn't just teaching me
how to be a man or even how to one day be a father; he was teaching
me how to be a well-rounded, decent human being.
* * * *
As fathers sometimes are, my dad was
right this time. I – to use some redneck parlance – done gone
country. Ironically, we've never really bonded over country music the
way we did over the Beatles goofy comedy movies. Or did we?
It's true, my dad didn't exactly show
me country music. I discovered it mostly on my own. I also fell in
love with more current country and folk artists, such as Sturgill Simpson and The Avett Brothers. In some strange way, I found both
myself and my father in the music. Neither of us may be genius
songwriters (or pill-popping, womanizing drunkards, for that matter)
but I think there's a rebel spirit in both of us, and I think of that
and our relationship when I listen to the music.
It may have been unintentional, maybe
not, but think either way my dad would be proud at what I learned in
thinking about all of this: Sometimes the best lessons you can learn
aren't the ones passed down from generation to generation, but the
ones you learn on your own.
No comments:
Post a Comment