Twang

Close friends of mine know that I am an insufferable opera snob. I affect disgust when a moron three rows behind me crinkles the wrapping of a peppermint during a performance. I thrill at the ear-splitting high notes, the resonance of a pitch-perfect baritone, and become giddy when a genuinely gifted tenor powers through a climatic aria.

It is all closely cultivated behavior.

My deep dark secret is that, dare I say it, I was raised on the Grand Old Opry. It is true. My dad would tune in clear channel out of Nashville every Saturday night and we would sit around and laugh at Grandpa Jones, croon with Marty Robbins and Eddy Arnold, howl with Minnie Pearl (How-deee!), and stomp and clap when Flatt and Scruggs broke into a little Orange Blossom Special. My God it was great music. And, still is.

Even more difficult to admit is that since settling in Welch, I am increasingly tuning into Eagle 102.3, WELR, the Country Giant in Roanoke. You probably hear it playing in the background now.

I haven't been to an opera since Norma back in May in Tulsa. And, I am not renewing my season tickets.

Instead, these days I am wearing cowboy boots routinely, rolling the windows down in the truck when I drive into town, swilling lots of beer, and sweating like a Hebrew slave in the humid Alabama sun. And, I am tapping my foot when I hear the twang of a steel guitar, the whine of a fiddle, and sweet beauty of a band of rednecks singing about lost loves and remembered roads not taken.

Today, country music speaks to me. It is basic and simple. When I hear it, I take my tie off and reach for a cold beer. I don't know many of the new country stars. Much of their music sounds like the stuff I listened to in the early 1960s. It is essentially rock and roll with a Nashville twist.

If you ever want to spend a deeply introspective and probing evening, tank up on more suds than you should drink, then put on any Hank Williams or George Jones album. All of your past regrets will flood back, you'll cry like a school girl, and feel immeasurably better in the morning. Nobody gets under your skin like a country singer.

This land, this house, this place, they all demand a music of their own. To be a part of this, I have to turn from the opera house and take the dirt road.

It is a comfortable, familiar, and pleasant ride.