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the comedy of Homer and Jethroe or Phil Harris, a hymn by Tennessee Ernie Ford, the honky tonk blues of Hank Williams, the pop sounds of Patti Page, the feminist plaints of Kitty Wells, the western folk ballads of Marty Robbins, the rockabilly of Gene Vincent and Carl Perkins, and the exquisite bluegrass of Lester Flatt, Earl Scruggs and the Foggy Mountain Boys. Those names, of course, are just for starters. It is one of the great ironies that the New York media barons of yesteryear labeled all of this “hillbilly music.”
The Nashville sound of today is a pale, mediocre third cousin once removed of that great era. What passes for “country music” is mostly bad “pop” and third rate bubble gum rock that presumes to reflect country life, but is more a exurban version of MTV’s adolescent sleaze grunge scene, refined by a slick studio sound that abhors originality. The singers wear silly hats and try to sound like each other rather than themselves. Little of lasting value gets through that system.
And there is no bluegrass allowed. Locally, there was
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