Homeland Security Farm Report: Real Americans Listen to Hardcore Country

Glen Rock, PA – Many "Farm Report" readers have asked me: Farmer Crispy, what are your views on the pressing issue of homeland security?

Bitch, it’s morning again in America. Everyone’s flying Old Glory. Arab men are being randomly detained. We’re calling our great nation the "homeland." We’ve got your ass under surveillance.

And now that we’ve got your ass under surveillance, what we gonna do? Well, we gon search your ass for signs that your ass is disloyal. Now one thing that’s fairly easy to monitor are your preferences in music. What MP3s you downloading? What CDs you ordering off Amazon? And finally and most important, what are our monitoring devices telling us about what’s playing there at the house?

We haven’t forgotten the subversion sewn by rock ’n’ roll in the 60s. As to that r&b and rap shit, you know that some black folks are Muslims? Remember Malcolm X? Rappers do. Classical music? That’s for pointy-headed intellectual leftists who are the first to betray their country when the going gets rough. Opera or Broadway show tunes? We’re gonna be rounding up homosexuals too. They’re bad for morale.

Now is the time to demonstrate your loyalty in the only way that really means anything. You know what I’m talking about. Hardcore country music. Hardcore country music. Hardcore country music. Real Americans listen to hardcore country music.

George Jones is playing to the rhythm of the falling bombs. You want to get dragged off to our secret internment facilities? I thought not. Okay then, here’s your guide to freedom.

Think about this way: it’s like Hank Williams is still alive. It’s like Robert Johnson is playing the county fair tonight. It’s like Charlie Christian just cut a new album. Swear to God: it’s like Jesus is preaching the Sermon on the Mount right now live on CNN. We’ve got to manifest our gratitude now, while the man’s still alive. In 50 years, country singers will be singing odes to Jones. The greatest living master of his craft is, shockingly, at the height of his powers. No one has ever sung a country song as well as George sings, say, "Half Over You." Buy this thing, if not merely to evade detention, because it is a great work of American art.

Yup. This is what you’ll be listening to in our new regime. Over and over. It’s like 25 songs. And there’s a whole lot less schlock here than in the usual Travis studio album: it’s straight-up trad. Certainly RT’s voice is one of the sweet things in life: so deep, so right. Here you just get a tour through the best of a great career.

The time is ripe for the return of Southern rock, yes? I mean, you don’t actually want to know Neil Young’s views on this Taliban thing, do you? Where’s Lynyrd Skynyrd when you need them? It’s true that this is a two-disc rock opera about Lynyrd Skynyrd. And it’s dedicated to "America’s Greatest Rock Band": you guessed it. But you know what? It’s great. It sounds like good Southern rock with a bit of a bizarre twist. The problem with LS wasn’t ever that they weren’t good. The problem was that you heard "Freebird," "Sweet Home Alabama" and "Gimme Three Steps" too many times. Anyway, Southern Rock Opera is one of those ideas that’s much better in the execution than in the conception. These guys play hard and Southern as hell. They use and they construct Southern mythology.

"You can reinvent yourself every time you pray": that thought is almost enough to make me religious. Actually, this whole album is enough to make me religious. It is contemplative, meditative, devotional. It’s mostly just Tagliere and his acoustic, meandering through a series of sweet, melancholy songs. The songs themselves are about the reinvention of the self, and they feel true. A good point of comparison are Will Oldham’s lo-fi masterpieces, and though Tagliere lacks Oldham’s obscured beauty, he makes up for it with melodic inventiveness, which even occasionally takes him toward Squeeze or Lennon/ McCartney. Lord knows what Bong Load Records is, but as you search for this thing, check out milesofmusic.com.

Every so often a record comes along out of the blue and just slays you. This thing surely represents a mature musical vision, even if this guy seems to have come from nowhere (well, England). It’s somewhere between Everlast and Dr. John: it’s got a deep Southern thing going, but every so often you hear a snatch of rap and hiphop beat. In fact, this album represents a synthesis of many styles. There’s country here, blues, jazz, reggae, even some Latin stuff. But it’s never a random melange. Topley gives the impression of having mastered all these vernaculars and processed them into something perfectly coherent. The voice that sings these great songs is a big deep growl that occasionally slips down toward the limits of the human audible range.

And not only that, but it’s a pleasant album to listen to. Wanda likes it. Emma pronounces it "okay." Even Vince doesn’t immediately hit the off switch. It’s hard to picture anyone who likes popular music not enjoying this thing. The disc is not due out until January. So I’m giving you fair warning: start saving your Green Stamps now. Slay on, my man.

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All right, as the homeland security regime falls into place, you’re going to have to listen to bluegrass music, whether you want to or not. And you ain’t getting away with Alison Krauss, either. No. Instead you must listen to:

Straight up: I think this is the best bluegrass band there is. Their harmonies are one of the true miracles of American popular song: astonishing in their beauty and perfection. And it goes without saying that they’re instrumental virtuosi. This live album collects a lot of their best material and that they could just get up onstage and sound like this is astonishing. I’d say that listening to this shows you’re a real American, but even the frigging Taliban could love this shit.

Ginny is somewhere between Emmylou Harris and Hazel Dickens: tuneful and affecting, but she sounds like she just emerged from some dark holler where they haven’t heard anything since 1958. I guess we’d call this an old-time acoustic country album rather than exactly bluegrass. Rural, moving, rough, true.

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Even country music can harbor wimps and potential traitors, though:

No, you’re not getting out of this by listening to Lyle Lovett, who may have had secret dealings with Mullah Mohammed Omar. Plus he’s insanely overrated in the upscale pseudo-country world.

Candy-ass little Billy Gilman has one of the best versions of "Baby Beluga" recorded in the last few days, though I actually prefer the Lucinda Williams, or maybe Louis Armstrong. Elvis Costello’s "Baby Beluga" was the most intellectual. Anyway, I thought I survived Raffi when my two-year-old daughter stopped demanding it over and over in 1991. Raffi’s stuff is usually melodically bland and lyrically so p.c. that it hurts your teeth. Potentially, a generation could transition effortlessly from Sesame Street and Raffi to Al Gore: smiling a meaningless smile, uttering empty words, welcoming all the world in its rich diversity to the Absolute Void. It is incomprehensible to me the Asleep at the Wheel, Marty Stuart, Raul Malo and the like could record these songs: the excellent performances show exactly how idiotic the material is.

I remember back in like ’83, a rock critic (I think it was Anthony DeCurtis) told me that he thought Michael McDonald was the greatest white soul singer of all time. Maybe that’s true. Take James Brown, castrate him, give him a race-change operation, surgically remove his edge and angle, and you’ve got MM. I know you’ve been waiting all these years for a Michael McDonald Christmas album. Still, maybe you should try to hear the version of "Angels We Have Heard on High" that opens this album before you actually invest. If you are a Christian, you will find your faith challenged by the mere fact that MM is your coreligionist.

I know. It’s too late. You already bought this. I loved–really loved–Adams’ Heartbreaker, for its variety, sincerity, unconventionality. But this thing is just errant wimpery. It’s got a very consistent sort of faux-70s sheen, but the melodies are fundamentally boring, and the performances just kind of fey. Maybe a little tunnel-busting on the ground in Afghanistan will harden Ryan off a little.

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Okay, get yourself over to Tower. Just remember, we’re watching. Your flag decal can’t get you into heaven anymore.