context. What this means in practicalrnterms, for both country musicians andrntheir audiences, is that you can do justrnabout anvihing with the music’s sensibilitv’rnexcept force it. It was okay for TonyrnBennett to sing “Cold Cold Heart,” asrnlong as he didn’t tr}’ to sound like HankrnWilliams. And it’s all right for WilliernNelson to sing “Stardust” (though personallyrnI’d prefer that he didn’t), as longrnas he does it unself-consciousK’.rnBut we live in highly—indeed, invasivelyrn—self-conscious times, and norngenre of pop culture any longer possessesrnits own parameters, much less its ownrndefmihons. America is now one big uniculture,rnas virtually ever’one from U.S.rnpresidents to hillbilly singers blindlyrnbreaks the first rule of cool b^ straining tornbe hip. Country music is uniquely unsuitedrnto pretensions of hipness, and as arnresult of its current efforts in that regard,rnit is going to hell.rnOf course, countr}- music is always goingrnto hell, or at least coming close. Inrn1974, during a live broadcast of thernCountr,’ Music Association Awards, dearrnold Roy Acuff, he of Maynardsville, Tennessee,rnthe first living member elected tornthe Country Music Hall of Fame, wasrncalled upon to present the award for FemalernVocalist of the Year. That awardrnhad been won in the two preceding yearsrnby Loretta Lynn, and would be won inrnthe two years that followed bv Dolly Parton,rnbut in 1974 the award went to . . .rnwell, let’s listen to Mr. AcufFs announcement:rn”And the winner is: Oliver Newton-rnJohn.”rnThe combination of bew ildermentrnand annoyance that crossed Mr. Acuffsrnface suggested thoughts along the linesrnof: For all we know, this Newton-Johnrnfeller could be some pop singer from Australia.rnThe fact that Newton-John actuallyrnwas a pop singer from Australia, albeitrna female, merely justified Roy AcufiPs befuddlement.rnIf he looked like a man whornhad opened his front door to see arnstranger standing in his house, it was becausernhe had.rnAs a musician, Roy Acuff walked onrnstage and did his thing as straightforwardlyrnas anyone who ever lived. If the harmless,rnmosquito-voiced Olivia Newton-rnJohn could throw him for a loop, whatrnwould he have thought of, sa-, the fullyrnevolved Garth Brooks? Brooks does notrngive performances; he stages musical approximationsrnof the Second Coming,rnwith himself in the middle of things: Jesusrnin a cowboy hat. Like so many country-rnbased singers, male and female.rnBrooks has adopted the I’m-going-for-astrokernapproach to vocalizing. Veinsrnbulge, eyes roll, screaming occurs. It’srnquite gruesome, really —as if all ofrnNashville had been seized by the spirit ofrnWhitne)- Houston. To give Carth Brooksrnhis due, however, I will note that he wasrnresponsible for the second biggest laugh Irnever had during a countn,’ awards show.rnA few years back, while accepting one ofrnmany trophies he would receive thatrnevening. Brooks announced, “I’d like tornthank God, because He’s done a hell of arnlot for me,”rnBut those laughs were all in my pre-rnCrank days. This year’s CMA ceremonyrnwas, like the music it featured, overdone,rnartificially muscular, and faintlv tragicasrnif someone had decided to force-feedrnsteroids to Babe Ruth. I didn’t laughrnwhen the back-up dancers in the veryrnlong skirts, which covered the very tallrnstilts, were suddenly hoisted by invisiblernwires high into the air, where they hungrnlike mutant moths. I didn’t laugh whenrnmembers of some group called ‘N Sync,rnone with flamingo-colored hair, coupledrnup, to hideous musical effect, with ylabama.rnAnd I didn’t laugh when Vince Gillrninformed iewers in advance that therncoming duet of Merle Haggard and poprnsinger Jewel would be “one of the neatestrnmoments of the night.” (It’s so happeningrnto have the Hag singing with Jewel,rnisn’t it?) No, I didn’t laugh. What I didrnwas switch off the set.rnWhat do vou do when you reach notrnonly the point where something you lovernfails to gratify you, but where the goofyrndistortion of something you love fails tornamuse you? You do what cranks and fogiesrnalways do: You turn backward.rnWhereupon you do again what cranksrnand fogies always do: You sigh, “Wliy, thernview is fantastid”rnThese days, one of the great sights onrnthe pasf s landscape is Bob Wills. Listeningrnto Bob Wills and his Texas Playboysrntoday is not only sheer pleasure, it’s purerninspiration, an example of what can happenrnto countr’ music when it is left alonernto amalgamate naturally.rnFortunately, Bob Wills is not somernoverlooked countr)’ musician who failedrnto get his due. Wills has been the subjectrnof full-length biographies, as well as wonderfulrntribute albums by Merle Haggardrnand Asleep at the Wheel, among others.rnMusicians are drawn to Wills’ music becausernit is a supple, seamless blend of therninfluences Wills himself loved: countr}’,rnjazz, blues, cowboy ballads, Tex-Mex,rnand big band. He played waltzes, hernplayed polkas, he played two-steps —Saturdayrnnight dance music that was at oncernoriginal and authentic. As for the songsrnBob Wills wrote (“Take Me Back to Tulsa,”rn”Stay a Little Longer”), they were oftenrnfunny, sometimes witty, and possessedrnof a light throwaway feel that couldrndisguise the jazzbo poetry of his lyricsrnand the lovely finesse of his sound.rnToday we can listen, free of nostalgia,rnto the music of Bob Wills because it exemplifiesrnexcellence. It doesn’t soundrndated, because it was created by an innovatorrnrather than an imitator. It is tonguein-rncheek (though not unserious), whilernretaining the grace of a swan and the polishrnof a new penny. Wills made recordingsrnthat now, over 50 years later, remainrnfully accessible as entertainment, yet genuinelyrnsophisticated in their musicianship.rnAs practiced by Bob Wills and hisrnTexas Playbo’S, western swing was bothrnhigh-energy and laid back: It was irrefutably,rninfinitely cool. To most people,rnan^’way.rnIn the course of a 35-year effort to generaternin my husband an appreciation of,rnif not a love for, country music, I have imposedrnupon him the recordings of evervonernfrom Randy Travis to Ernest Tubbrn(whom my husband, early in our marriage,rnobliviously referred to as ErniernTubbs, causing me, appalled, to questionrnhow his otherwise devoted parents couldrnso have neglected his musical education).rnTo make a long stor’ short, I havernfailed. My husband’s overall view is thatrncountry music exists not for enrichmentrnbut for laughs. (Ernest Tubb, ErniernTubbs —what’s the difference -with arnname like that?)rnStill, I soldier on, and before a drive tornChicago last fall, I loaded the car’s CDrnplayer with a two-volume set of BobrnWills’ greatest hits. Yes! At last I wouldrnmake progress. After all, what’s not to likernabout Bob Wills? There’s a little somethingrnfor everyone in his music.rnSo there we were, barely out of therndriveway, about 50 seconds into “San AntoniornRose,” when old Bob lets loose withrnone of his trademark high-pitched Ahhhaas,rna genial sound if ever I heard one.rnAnd my husband, startled, says, “WTiat isrnthat? What’s he doing? What’s wrongrnwith him?” Oh, I gits weary and sick o’rntr)’in’. What was that? It was a Bob WillsrnAhh-haa. What was he doing? He wasrndoing what suited him. WTiat was wrongrnwith him? Exactly nothing.rn44/CHRONICLESrnrnrn