Country Music Rocks and You Suck

Bill Santiago
December 2, 2011

(Editorís note: It pained me to read this, seriously, let me explain. Thereís no better props than random t-shirt props—go to a punk rock show, everyone there spent at least 20 minutes picking out a shirt to maximize random t-shirt props—and CD store clerk props. Having listened to pretty crappy music my whole life, and to a genre whose proprietors rarely dole out props, I have only at one time received CD store clerk props. My best chance was in college, where there was a small independent music store nearby that I used to frequent. The guy there was nice enough, but Iím pretty sure he secretly hated me because I bothered him every day for a month before Something to Write Home About by the Get Up Kids came out. I also had just heard about Jimmy Eat World (this was 1999) but didnít know any of their albums, and he gave me Static Prevails instead of Clarity. Seriously man? Anyway, around the same time Bill asked me to pick up a couple CDs at the store while I was there, one was Stankonia by Outkast, well before every frat boy was warbling Ms. Jackson poorly. That day, I got my props. But they were not for me, no, they were for Bill Santiago.)

ďWah wah wah, blah blah blahĒ
ďClubbin, slappin hoís, drankinĒ
ďPlease shoot me before I quasi-sing another lineĒ

Iíll give anyone $1 million to guess what the previous three quotes represent before reading the next few sentences. If you guessed modern pop, rap, and rock music represented by such garbage as Deathcab for Cutie, Pit Bull, and Nickelback respectively, send me your mailing address. OK, maybe Nickelback is reaching a few years in the past, but Iím still pissed off that they were ever popular.

Now donít get me wrong, Iím just as guilty as anyone for tuning into a local station that plays Rhianna, C-Lo Green, and Adele on repeat 24 hours a day if Iím looking for a mindless pick-me-up for no reason. At the same time, I could also do an eight ball of blow and do less damage to my brain than listen to that crap. But thatís a different story altogether.

Anyway, what the hell happened to music on the radio? Itís been an ongoing issue for some time now, but has anyone actually listened to the junk that is projectile-vomiting out of car speakers across America these days? Occupy Wall Street? Letís try occupying Maroon Fiveís pharmacistís office until he stops supplying them with whatever drugs they take that makes them feel like theyíre cool for singing a duet with Christina Aguilera about Mick Jaggerís ass.

If youíve been nodding your head while reading up to this point, do yourself a favor the next time youíre driving to work and check out whatever station plays the kind of music youíve probably spent your whole life making fun of: Country. Yeah, thatís right. Country.

Before you stop reading, let me ask you a question: do you like beer, chicks, and horses? If you answered yes—and if you didnít youíre either lying or a jerk—then youíll love country. One of the previous three topics is literally the subject of every country song. Thatís it.

You see, I used to be just like you. You name it, I did it. Blasting Little John, dougieíing, dropping it like it was hot. Thereís no need to be embarrassed about it, it happens to everyone. But then one day I received an invite to attend a Kenny Chesney concert in the summer of 2010. Believe me I had my apprehensions. The only time Iíve ever listened to country music before was during annual trips to a friendís hunting cabin in the middle of Nowheresville, Pennsylvania while hanging out with mutants in a bar on top of a mountain. You think north Philly is scary? Try walking into a bar with all of your teeth, wearing clean clothes, and being literate in a part of the country where itís weird if you donít have a gun on you. That shit is scary. And the only way to fit in is to pretend like you like country music while getting hit on by some 35 year old chick whoís brother is staring at you from the other side of the bar and youíre not sure if heís pissed because sheís cheating on him or if he wants to join the party. So you can understand if my opinion of people who like country is that theyíre gun-toting hicks who like to bang immediate family members. Nonetheless, I agreed to go to said concert, mainly because I was hammered when I got the invite. There may have been a loose woman involved too, but like I said, I was wasted so Iím not too sure.

Anyway, letís talk about country concerts. Have you ever been to a Halloween party and seen a hot chick in a skanky cow girl outfit and thought to yourself that you wish there were thousands more of her? Of course you have, and thatís exactly what youíll find at a country tailgate. Itís as if God said ďhey guys, I know the world is kind of shitty right now, so let me give you a day to hang out in the sun with a crap ton of beer and while Iím at it, hereís 20,000 ladies with cowboy hats, knee high boots, and short jean skirts.Ē Thanks man. If you want to see the largest gathering of the happiest people in America, go to a Kenny Chesney concert. It will change your life. Do you think itís a coincidence that country music outsells every other genre in America and this is what the concerts are like?

I used to be just like you, listening to the same depressing, dumb-ass music, hoping for something to come along and make it all stop. Country music has healed these wounds, and it will do the same for you, I guarantee it. You know what my commute to work is like now? Itís fun as shit. I get to hang out with Zac Brown and Blake Shelton and we talk about fishing, drinking, and chicks. You know what pisses me off in traffic these days? Nothing, because Toby Keith and me discuss who we like to have sex with. Or you can keep listening to some dude who wants to bang Mick Jagger.

bill.santiago@brutalhorse.com
ink splash

Jacques Dangereux, app by WildTaters

Check out The Ringer by Camp Dracula,
available now.

The Ringer, album by Camp Dracula