An acquaintance of mine recently introduced me to Austin. No, not the city of Friday Night Lights fame. Not a tallish, vaguely blonde, handsome looking fellow one would expect to bear such a moniker either. Having rhapsodized the storytelling narratives that comprise of country music, my other friend, this time to my left, chimed in to voice her skepticism at such taste. Of an entire car ride back from Tahoe listening, nay, enduring said musical afflictions. Except for that one song. She liked that one song with the answering machine.
“Yes! Blake Shelton! You know, that guy on The Voice.”
Sure I knew that guy. The blonde dude who was not the douchey dude hailing from a dubiously hued band which shall not be named.
Granted, my knowledge of country music extends to Nashville (and short skirts and t-shirts and cheer captains and bleachers). In my defense, Connie Britton is an American gem as far as I’m concerned. So if that’s not legit country music, it’s still okay. Mrs. Coach trumps all. Always. Forever. Texas forever. But I digress.
(Is it bad that I like the Country Strong soundtrack?)
And so an introduction was made, a seed planted. A video sent:
Holy 90s production values! It’s like a confluence of amazingly discordant things.. from the quasi mullet (is it a mullet or are they ringlets?) to hello Gillian Anderson meets Lisa Marie Presley! In Gloria Vanderbilt (or possibly Jordache) jeans, no less! (Sidenote: Is that what is meant by apple bottom jeans? It occurs to me that I never paused to think about what exactly I was singing/screaming along to those times on the dance floor.)
Is this what we’ve been missing out on? Has what we’ve been looking for been here the whole time?
So much.. so much. Before the conversation veered sharply right towards the lovely, the ever-avian Celine. And we proceeded to talk about that instead.