Classic Country

We were talking with friends the other day—who shall remain nameless in an attempt to protect the guilty—and they didn’t know who Charley Pride is. Ahem. One of them is a music professor. Damn it, it was Accordion Dave. Sorry Accordion Dave, but they all already knew it was you! So I was APPALLED. As one should be, to learn that people you like very, very, much, have no idea who Charley Pride is. Jerimiah and I almost ended the Google Hangout, instead we made it a teachable moment, you know we like those, so we started to sing…

“Kiss an angel good morning, and let her know you think about her when you’re gone. Kiss an angel good morning, and love her like the devil when you get back home…”

It was beautiful and magical and we were totally in sync and everyone loved it. Ahem.

Then we gave them a list of other country music rockstars to learn about before we meet next, including David Allen Coe, which came with apologies for his racism and a, But remember, he did live in a cave for a long time. Not that the excuses the racism. #EekFace

This all got me thinking. Not all people were raised on old, classic, country music like Jerimiah and I were. Which is sorta weird to us, but also good for those people cause they don’t wake up singing: “When whole lot of Decembers are showing in your face, your auburn hair has faded and silver takes its place…”

Or my personal favorite, “See the marketplace in Old Algiers, send me photographs and souvenirs, just remember when a dream appears, you belong to me…”

I can’t speak for Jerimiah, but I was raised with an 8-track player, a record player, a cassette player, and an AM/FM radio. And a mother who would sometimes drink beer and cry to Patsy, and Loretta, and Merle. You know, the greats. Her biggest dream was to see them all on the Grand Ole Opry stage. Isn’t that everyone’s dream?!

Breathe, Missy.

So not everyone was raised like me. Some people were raised on classical music. Some on Motown. Some on Elvis or classic rock. And I like and appreciate all of those genres, more so as an adult than ever before. But sometimes, when I am feeling sad, hopeless, or drinking a beer all alone I pull out one of my old records, and I spin for a while, and think about my childhood and the people who made it so memorable. Loretta, and Tammy, and Patsy, and Conway, and Merle, and Charley. Here’s to the greats!

M.

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