Read Online True to the Roots by Monte Dutton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Monte Dutton
Tags: General Fiction
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romantic, love. It works perfectly well in either context.
"I write about loss. That's about me," Cockrell says. "I grew up in Oklahoma, and my dad had a car lot full of old El Caminos. I went back two summers ago and wrote that song. I wanted to sing it to him. It's about loss, but it's not about a girlfriend. It's about going back and spending time with someone you wish you could see more often."
Cockrell's distaste for what passes as country these days is considerable. He doesn't particularly care to mold his music to what the establishment demands.
"I'm just trying to balance out the stuff that's on the radio," he says. "The thing is, why can't Willie Nelson get on the radio anymore? Tell me you can't sell him.
"'Is my tractor sexy?' Why in the world would a grown man have anything to do with music like what's on the radio right now? It's such a dumb song. It's soulless music. It all sounds like a business proposal to me. What Nashville doesn't realize is this. Johnny Cash was a badass. He was a rebel. He was a renegade. So was Waylon Jennings. So is Merle Haggard. So was Charlie Rich. The people who have made country music what it is today had unbelievable renegade personalities. The music today is too comfortable, at least the part of it that gets widespread airplay."
Then he echoes what Robbie Fulks called "the integrity scare" of the late 1980s.
"I think what happened is that Nashville made a really bad choice. They had some people who were making amazing, viable country music: Dwight Yoakam, Steve Earle, some really great people who were just making their mark, and then you had, like, McBride and the Ride, people like that. Brooks and Dunn. They decided to go with the wrong group.
"You know what? We spend billions of dollars every year for things we can get for free when we turn on the box, you know. People aren't necessarily as dumb as Nashville considers them. The average Joe who buys the country records now isn't any less literate than the ones who bought the country records twenty-five years ago or thirty-five years ago. Is the music of Hank Williams simple? Yes. But it's honest. Beautifully honest. The shows back then were so much better and meant so much more, but the people weren't any different. They were just getting stuff they could feel empathy for."
Just because Cockrell doesn't care much for the establishment doesn't mean he isn't ambitious, though. Perhaps his evangelical fervor comes from the religion.
"Between you and me, you know who's going to bring this back around? This asshole named Thad Cockrell. You should check him out."
If It's Broken, Don't Fix It
Austin, Texas I December 2004
Shortly after I show up, James White shows me why the Broken Spoke is the best honkytonk in Texas or anywhere else. It's not just the leaky roof; it's what he did to fix it.
For years the roof leaked in the room White has filled chock full of memorabilia from all the greats who have played the Spoke since he opened it in 1964. He solved the problem by building a little tin gutter—one that carries the dripping water right out onto the earth out front. White erected himself a little second roof, one not so different from what a rancher might use to fix his barn. And it works.
Country music isn't supposed to be slick. It's not supposed to be conjured up from the results of marketing surveys. It's not supposed to be played by musicians who slap six strings on a banjo to make people think they can play one, and it's not supposed to be played by cowboys who hang guitars around their necks and use them as little more than props. It's supposed to be about life's imperfections and the outrageous, illconceived ways that flawed human beings remedy the obstacles that the wind blows into their paths.
As White says, "Don't do it the easy way; do it the cowboy way."
White is a son of Austin. He grew up on West Mary Street, only a mile away from the simple honkytonk that enabled him to realize his
"I write about loss. That's about me," Cockrell says. "I grew up in Oklahoma, and my dad had a car lot full of old El Caminos. I went back two summers ago and wrote that song. I wanted to sing it to him. It's about loss, but it's not about a girlfriend. It's about going back and spending time with someone you wish you could see more often."
Cockrell's distaste for what passes as country these days is considerable. He doesn't particularly care to mold his music to what the establishment demands.
"I'm just trying to balance out the stuff that's on the radio," he says. "The thing is, why can't Willie Nelson get on the radio anymore? Tell me you can't sell him.
"'Is my tractor sexy?' Why in the world would a grown man have anything to do with music like what's on the radio right now? It's such a dumb song. It's soulless music. It all sounds like a business proposal to me. What Nashville doesn't realize is this. Johnny Cash was a badass. He was a rebel. He was a renegade. So was Waylon Jennings. So is Merle Haggard. So was Charlie Rich. The people who have made country music what it is today had unbelievable renegade personalities. The music today is too comfortable, at least the part of it that gets widespread airplay."
Then he echoes what Robbie Fulks called "the integrity scare" of the late 1980s.
"I think what happened is that Nashville made a really bad choice. They had some people who were making amazing, viable country music: Dwight Yoakam, Steve Earle, some really great people who were just making their mark, and then you had, like, McBride and the Ride, people like that. Brooks and Dunn. They decided to go with the wrong group.
"You know what? We spend billions of dollars every year for things we can get for free when we turn on the box, you know. People aren't necessarily as dumb as Nashville considers them. The average Joe who buys the country records now isn't any less literate than the ones who bought the country records twenty-five years ago or thirty-five years ago. Is the music of Hank Williams simple? Yes. But it's honest. Beautifully honest. The shows back then were so much better and meant so much more, but the people weren't any different. They were just getting stuff they could feel empathy for."
Just because Cockrell doesn't care much for the establishment doesn't mean he isn't ambitious, though. Perhaps his evangelical fervor comes from the religion.
"Between you and me, you know who's going to bring this back around? This asshole named Thad Cockrell. You should check him out."
If It's Broken, Don't Fix It
Austin, Texas I December 2004
Shortly after I show up, James White shows me why the Broken Spoke is the best honkytonk in Texas or anywhere else. It's not just the leaky roof; it's what he did to fix it.
For years the roof leaked in the room White has filled chock full of memorabilia from all the greats who have played the Spoke since he opened it in 1964. He solved the problem by building a little tin gutter—one that carries the dripping water right out onto the earth out front. White erected himself a little second roof, one not so different from what a rancher might use to fix his barn. And it works.
Country music isn't supposed to be slick. It's not supposed to be conjured up from the results of marketing surveys. It's not supposed to be played by musicians who slap six strings on a banjo to make people think they can play one, and it's not supposed to be played by cowboys who hang guitars around their necks and use them as little more than props. It's supposed to be about life's imperfections and the outrageous, illconceived ways that flawed human beings remedy the obstacles that the wind blows into their paths.
As White says, "Don't do it the easy way; do it the cowboy way."
White is a son of Austin. He grew up on West Mary Street, only a mile away from the simple honkytonk that enabled him to realize his
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