Thoughts on the questionable origins of our supposed roots-music addiction.
Last week a PG fan emailed me: “Hey mang. Your last two editorials have been boring and seemed fake. Get back to pissing people off with political shit.” It was signed, “Sincerely, Some Dude.”
I don’t know if Dude reads my column in the magazine or online, so I’m not sure if he was referring to this, this, or this. It doesn’t really matter, though—snoozy or not, that stuff was from my lame-o heart. But I get where Dude’s coming from. Truth is, I’ve toyed with writing about today’s topic for the last few months because it feels like half the emails I get are about some “rootsy” musical act or another. Every time I’ve started writing on the subject, I end up feeling mean, though. Like Rodney Dangerfield, despite my occasional fits of snark, I’m a lover, not a fighter.
But surely I can’t be alone wondering these things as I click around YouTube and various social-media holes, kicking myself for not investing in beard oil or “vintage” felt hats that look they’ve been meticulously run over by the Ice Road Truckers. You know what I’m talking about—dudes in cuffed denim jackets and at least a medium-sized beard, singing in some generic Southern gentleman brogue from atop a bale of hay. Or maybe a quaint, no-nonsense belle whose name we’re supposed to believe is Something-Something Rose, crooning a “heartfelt strummer” that sounds like it was conceived in a corporate lab owned by the makers of some magnificently mindful new sleep-aid.
If everyone’s suddenly so enamored with Neil Young, why don’t they have any of his musical adventurousness or lyrical rage?
Don’t get me wrong: I’m fine with denim jackets. For the first time in my life, I’ve even been sporting a beard for a couple months now. And, full disclosure, at the last NAMM prior to Covid, I noticed how cool luthier James Trussart looked in one of those vintage felt hats and, in what I can only conclude was a post-NAMM daze, I bought one off eBay. The second I put it on, I realized that, while Trussart totally pulled it off, I looked like a fucking idiot. I put it away forever.
Whenever something starts to feel bandwagon-y, it gives me the hardcore willies. Are we really supposed to believe that, sometime in the last five years, half the guys in the States just collectively decided to look like Depression-era farmhands? Nah. What happened was, the general music-listening populace finally got fed up with cheesy-ass, fake country tunes bullshitting about pickup trucks, lost dogs, and tubing down the river in the hot summer sun. Even some big country artists were like, “How much longer can I do this shit?”
More accurately, the music-industry suits divined from profitability charts that the last stupid trend was winding down and that it was time to pump a crapload of money into something else. But Almighty Data said that “earthy” vibe was still alluring, so they encouraged everyone to try to come across like a good ol’ boy or girl—only with more depth and retro-charming style. Something more “real.” But is it real? It’s very hard for me to listen to or look at most of it and not think of Bo Burnham’s song “White Woman’s Instagram.”
Here’s the recipe so many “Americana” acts seem to be following, as handed down by their favorite soulless “influencer”: Seize upon something “aesthetically pleasing”—but in the most banal, vanilla sense—then clean it up even more, strip it of anything that some OCD asshole might deem a blemish, place it in a sterile, clinically ordered environment, and make it all about all the surface-level stuff so that its potential for mass consumption isn’t ruined by icky natural anomalies.
If everyone’s suddenly so enamored with Neil Young, why don’t they have any of his musical adventurousness or lyrical rage? Why aren’t there any screeching, careening passages where shit’s barely in tune? How come the weird-ass natural vocal quirks everyone’s born with are replaced with a boardroom-tested tracheal patina? Neil embraces the chaos. Neil celebrates the fact that, half the time, he sounds like an unhinged Wiccan ready to beat the shit out of you with a a thrice-washed Ziploc full of gnarly granola. Neil’s real.
Can we get some more of that, please?To celebrate PG's upcoming annual Amp Issue, our editorial director lays waste to Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias' 1984 hit.
To all the amps I've loved before
Who travelled in and out my door
I'm glad they came along
I dedicate this ridiculous "content"
To all the boom boxes I've blasted before
To all the amps whose tubes I once abused
And may I say I've blasted the best
For helping me to blow
My pant legs down below
As I strive to block grille stains I'm loathe to show
The winds of change are always blowing
And every time I try to stay
The winds of stupid gear lust continue to gust
And carry my funds away
To all the Tolex-covered tarts who've shared my life
Who now are someone else's prize
I'm glad they came along
I dedicate this admittedly full-on dad-joke column
To all the boom boxes I've loved before
To all the amps who blared for me
Who filled my jams with ecstasy … or at least an excuse to play shittily
They live within my heart
I'll always be a part
Of all the amps I've loved before
The winds of change are always blowing
And every time I try to stay
The winds of foolish gear lust continue blowing
And carry my money away
To all the boom boxes we've loved before
Who banged the fuck out of drywall near our doors
We're glad they came along
We dedicate this song
To all the amps we've stupidly sold before
To all the amps we've loved before
Who nearly toppled us down steps and splattered us on the floor
We're glad they came along
We dedicate this silly screed
To all the amps we've loved before
How exploring the beautifully strange and volatile subtleties of interpersonal communication can turn your musical world upside down.
Have you ever stopped to consider the incredible variety of ways we speak throughout the course of even the most average of days? When your main squeeze rolls over in the wee hours of morning, catches a glimpse of the alarm clock, and nudges you to say you’ve overslept, you might croak some garbled utterance from the depths of a twisted, not-really-conscious haze. Thirty minutes later, you’re fully awake (if still groggy and in need of coffee) and gently whispering some sickeningly sweet, possibly silly, or graphic farewell in the ear of the nudger (who doesn’t have to get up early). While riding your bike to work, you might unabashedly croon along with the tunes coming through your earbuds, and then—within an instant—scream at some apparently blind driver who almost ran you off the road.
Your Monday-morning “water-cooler” conversation with a group of straitlaced work acquaintances might find you raving in measured but enthusiastic tones about a highlight from the weekend. “Oh my gosh, you guys, I finally started watching Westworld over the weekend, and it’s so great!” Meanwhile, in a private chat with a close work friend, the same idea might be conveyed more raucously: “I finally sat my ass down and threw on Westworld last night, and you were right—that shit is fuckin’ intense!”
Early that evening, at your grandparents’ 75th wedding anniversary, you greet longtime friends of Grams and Gramps more formally. “Hi there, it’s wonderful to meet you—thanks so much for coming!” Afterward, you and your better-rested significant other finally make it to that concert you’ve been looking forward to, and your main squeeze introduces you to an old friend you happen to have run into. The exchange might be something as simple as a shouted, “’Sup”—or perhaps even just a nod acknowledging the futility of small talk amidst the din of chiming Rickenbackers and clattering drums. Later, in the even wee-er hours of morning, more intimate exclamations exchanged under cover of darkness might be both primally unintelligible (yet still full of meaning) and shockingly out-of-character—in either extreme—to anyone outside that relationship.
Thinking about why we communicate in such starkly contrasting ways, often on a dime, can be an insightful exercise for musical development. Looking at the micro basics of everyday life can re-center our thinking, expand our awareness, and teach us useful lessons that can be carried over to our playing and songwriting.
Looking at communication dynamics, you realize that, depending on who we’re talking to, we’ll alter everything from word choice to pronunciation, how carefully we enunciate individual sounds, how loudly we say it all, and the amount and range of pitch variation—not just within a sentence, but within a single word or phrase.
And then there’s setting: All of those same speech characteristics get modified yet again based on things like location and medium (e.g., in person versus phone or Skype), who’s within earshot, and how consequential the topic is. Other factors that can completely alter the complex calculus include whether the participants have similar or contrasting belief systems or political philosophies, what social, cultural, and/or professional hierarchies might be at play, and the conversationalists’ moods at the time of the conversation.
So how do we translate these observations about the most common, nuanced, and meaningful means of human interaction to our art?
That’s entirely up to you. I’m simply positing that it’s worth stepping off the default trains of thought that we find ourselves on during our daily routines and making the effort to analyze and appreciate the beautiful, all-too-overlooked little wild ecosystems of our interpersonal relationships. The closer we look, the more captivated we’ll be by the invisible forces at play—captivated enough to start taking mental snapshots of the textures and tonalities, the poignance of breathing pauses, and the in-the-moment-ness of it all. And when you pick up your instrument to write or improvise or explore, try flipping open your new aural/emotional photo albums and seeing what you can do with the musical tools at your disposal to create a world of wonder as uninhibited, naked, and vivid as the connections in your everyday life.