Where Else Can You Get That?

I frequently find myself in conversations in which I'm defending the virtue of country music. Yet, you never know where you'll find validation for the things you love.

In the book I'm currently reading, the author articulates the beauty of the genre so simply:

"'Each song is a narrative,' he explained. 'Conflict, crisis, and resolution, all in three minutes. Where else can you get that?'"

This quote is delivered by an Indian-American surgeon. Who knew? See, you don't have to be from Texas to love country music after all. Although I think it helps.

(By the way, current read is Playing by Berkeley's own Melanie Abrams. Not a waiting room read, folks. But compelling nonetheless.)

Crazy Heart

So, I almost didn't see this movie. One, the Kentuckian couldn't muster much enthusiasm for it. And this was due in part to the fact that some friends of ours who had seen it said it was the worst movie they'd ever seen.

Yes. The worst EVER. Strong words, I dare say.

These "friends" said it was so depressing and boring that one among them considered walking out mid-reel and another contemplated stabbing herself in the eyes with the spoon end of an Icee straw. Needless to say, I had my doubts. I wasn't expecting much. And maybe this is exactly why I LOVED it.

Yes. Love is a word you might think I used somewhat casually. In fact, I only use it when necessary. And this is an issue of necessity. Crazy Heart is beautifully acted (obviously), the music is incredible, and I can't wait to see it again.

I'd heard Crazy Heart compared to last year's The Wrestler. The comparison left me a little depressed. Perhaps it was the residue of the depression which followed watching The Wrestler the first time. Talk about a wrist-cutter. I'm tellin' ya. That movie put me in some kinda awful funk. But Crazy Heart was different even though there are some similarities.

"Bad" Blake is a washed up but legendary country star wallowing in resentment that his protege's career eclipses his own. He meets a young reporter and they fall in love and he plays the part of father to her son very well. The relationship inspires Bad to seek out his own estranged son and start writing songs again. When the relationship ends after Bad loses her son in the Houston tunnels, Bad finally gets sober to get back what he's lost.

This is a movie about redemption that's truly about redemption. Not redemption through death, which seems to be the only way to find redemption in movies lately (see: The Wrestler). Jeff Bridges is superb as Bad ("Friends" said you could actually smell his whiskey breath through the screen). But what's even better is the music.

Co-written and produced by T-Bone Burnett (raised in Ft. Worth) and Texas-by-way-of-New-Mexico artist Ryan Bingham. (Just downloaded his first album from iTunes. Amazing.) Everything T-Bone touches turns to gold, including the music of Cold Mountain, O Brother Where Art Thou, and the Robert Plant/Alison Kraus collaboration, Raising Sand. The original songs from the movie are already personal favorites, especially "I Don't Know" and "Fallin' and Flyin'."

I know the merits of the movie have been beaten to death by the critics, Academy, etc, etc. But I had to say my piece. It's right up there with the other contemporary Texas classics, like No Country for Old Men and Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. If you love country music, if you love Texas, you will love this movie.

St. Selena, TX

In this month's issue of Texas Monthly, the Mike Leach vs. Texas Tech scandal is just a smattering of text on the cover. The rest of the design is an iconic-style portrait of Selena Quintanilla Perez, who is perhaps the patron saint of Texas. And undoubtedly the Queen of Tejano Music, as the article claims.

It also says that even when she broke attendance records with her final performance in the Astrodome at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, she was virtually unknown to white audiences. I can't say this is true for myself. But maybe I had an edge because I lived in the same town where she was born and attended the same elementary school she did. Unfair advantages, to be sure.

I still remember when she was killed. Murdered, rather, by her own friend. I was in junior high, eleven years old. The hallways were very somber and lots of students were even in tears. A large percentage of the students at my school were Latino and many of my best friends were Latino. They grew up speaking Spanish, unlike Selena herself, and loved her music. Her English cross-overs "Dreaming of You" and "I Could Fall in Love" were anthems at school dances for years after.

Fifteen years later, her songs take me back to Texas, to my schools where whites and Latinos sit side by side in class rooms and at lunch tables. They share a culture if they choose to. I can't see that here in California. Maybe I'm missing it. But it seems like everyone stays away from each other.

Issues like immigration law and teaching Spanish in schools are controversial. Almost too controversial to talk about--depending on who you're talking to and what side of the fence you're on. I can't help thinking we're all in this together. Nothing proves that more than Selena's popularity during her lifetime and her legacy after her death.

She is/was both/and. Both Texan and Latino, an icon to Spanish-speaking peoples on both sides of the border. Yet she was neither: self-conscious about her Spanish in Mexico, American as apple pie. Can I not claim Selena as part of my culture because I'm white? Some would say so.

The Kentuckian grew up in a predominantly black community in northern Kentucky. Granted, even today, a well-to-do black real estate agent drives his Hummer with trepidation in to rural communities in this part of the world. But the Kent was surrounded by the African-American culture of the South. Played side by side with them in basketball games. They were his friends. They became men together. A regular Larry Bird. He is white with black influences to be sure. Is it any less real because he isn't black?

We're so focused on lines and boundaries and rules. I decide what defines my culture, don't I? Selena was born on the Gulf Coast of Texas. We are the same. My people came from Europe. Hers came from Mexico. But we are both Texans.

The Last Rodeo Tour

As some of you might already know (let's face it, if you live in Texas, you probably DO already know), Brooks and Dunn have announced their retirement. Old news, I know. However, their upcoming performance at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo pours salt in my wounds since I will not--repeat, will NOT--be there. March 20. Reliant Stadium. Please go and send a piece of the bittersweet joy to me via carrier pigeon.

Country music is something I really, really, really miss about Texas. I tell you, I've never listened to so much country music in my life since I moved out of Texas. Sometimes, it's my only salvation. A little Pat Green. A little Willie Nelson. A little George Strait. Just puts me right in a mood. However, the Kentuckian doesn't much have a heart for Alan Jackson's "Dallas." I think it's a little too close to home.

Country music gets no R-E-S-P-E-C-T here on the west coast. I know, there is bad country and there's good country. I'll be the first to tell you that. At times, the puns and double entendres are too much even for me. But classic, outlaw, and Texas country get an automatic "in." And so does George Strait. Because he's George. That's all.

I'm telling you, though, Californians have no love for the steel guitar and the fiddle.* I recently attended a barbeque in honor of March Madness (in which no basketball was watched and the ribs were inedible (we'll discuss BBQ in another post)) and somehow, a country song found its way into the carefully constructed Lil' Wayne play list. You would have thought it was Nickelbach or Creed or some shite like that from the volume of screeching. The host quickly corrected his party foul and replaced said country song with another, more appropriate tune in which I'm sure Alvin and Co. were on backup.

I'm no square. I love a good bass-busting, pants-sagging, ho-bashing track every now and again. I know it's hard out here for a pimp. But I do question the psychological fortitude of a person who cannot muster the slightest appreciation for country's greatest hits. The angst! The loneliness! The longing! What's not to love? Give me Willie and Waylon and the boys any day.

*I recognize that not ALL Californians are country haters. Just the ones I know, of course.

(Photo shamelessly lifted from www.brooks-dunn.com)

A National, er, State Holiday

That's right, folks. Today is the anniversary of Texas's declaration of independence from Mexico in 1836. Settlers in Texas drafted up this tricksy little document here and thereby said, "Hmph, we gonna take our toys and go home." I'm kinda glad they did, since it makes Texas one of THE most history-makin'-est states in the union.

In honor of this momentous occasion, I will be listening to Little Texas's 'God Blessed Texas' every hour, on the hour, until I just can't stands it no more. Not really. I'll listen to it a few times and two-step alone in my kitchen before I must get back to the grindstone (since we don't celebrate Texas holidays out here on the West Coast. Darn shame, I'll say).

Grown-Up Christmas List

So, Christmas is in eight days. It snuck up on me once again. I'm not sure if it's supposed to be sneeked or snuck or snucked, but we'll go with snuck for now. I am headed to Texas after all.

Christmas is in eight days and happily, I'm sitting in the Oakland airport awaiting my cushy Southwest flight to Houston. (Note: Oakland Int'l Airport has free Wifi y'all. Other airports of the world, watch and learn.) This Christmas is going to be a wee bit different from the others cause the in-laws from Kentucky are also joining us. It's going to be a full house and it's going to be awesome.

Isn't it so funny how Christmas changes as you grow up? I used to get sooo excited about Christmas morning that I literally could not sleep. Or, worse yet, I'd go to bed at like 6 pm and wake my parents at 5 am to open presents. Maybe if they hadn't spoiled me so much, Christmas morning wouldn't have the same thrill factor. Literally, one year--I think I was three--they got me so many presents that I got tired of opening them and refused to open any more. I'm not exactly saying that with pride, folks.

Nevertheless, this year I still made a mental Christmas list. It's changed a bit from Barbie Dream Houses and cell phones and purses. This year, it looked more like food processors, pot holders, cook books, digital cameras, and gift certificates to Lowe's. I am officially old. My Christmas list is more grown-up than ever. But I guess it's all relative.

Here in the airport, they're playing one of my favorite Christmas songs. Not 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer'. Not 'Feliz Navidad'. No, not even 'I'll Be Home For Christmas', although it's a good one.

'Grown-Up Christmas List' has always made me get a little choked up. You probably know what I mean, cause the chorus goes a little like this:

No more lives torn apart,
That wars would never start,
And time would heal all hearts.

That everyone would have a friend,
That right would always win,
And love would never end.
This is my Grown Up Christmas List.

Kinda breaks your heart, doesn't it? Mostly because we all know that such wishes are likely to go unanswered. But wishing, hoping, and trying can always help. I think we all wish for such things. But in the meantime, there's nothing wrong with hoping you'll get an iPhone, or a new pair of boots, or a leather-bound copy of your favorite Austen novel also.

What's on your Christmas lists? Tangible and intangible items alike?