The other day I was talking to an old friend whose musical taste I’ve always held in high esteem. I had sent him a disc with a smattering of songs I’ve been drawn to the past year or so, plus two more of Ray LaMontagne’s music (because I can’t help my spreadin-the-Ray-love self). When I asked him how he liked it, his unexpected reply was, “Great songs. Noticed a country streak in you though. You into some sick thing with some gaucho over there? Haha.”

The first thing that flashed in my head was: country?? (Well, not really. The first thing was a guess at what a gaucho might be. I had to go check Wikipedia. *hangs head in shame*) I quickly replied that I’ve been listening to a lot of folk music lately, which might be construed as country-ish. Then I lamely whimpered, “Is Ray LaMontagne considered country?” As if labeling Ray as such would magically give me peace about being called a country music fan.

What is this self-defense mechanism that kicks into gear when someone catches me enjoying country music? Isn’t country music the most popular genre in the US? After all, country music has produced two of the top selling solo artists of all time (Elvis and Garth Brooks.) Hasn’t country music influenced many respected music legends? Artists like Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, James Taylor, Eric Clapton … heck, we’ve even seen John Mayer and Dave Matthews on CMT’s Country Crossroads.

Country music has its roots in, among other genres, folk music and the blues. So why is it easier to admit to being into folk music, or the blues, but riskier to say hey, I like country music? Is it for fear of being thought of as a “my horse died and my woman left me so now I’ll just sing my honky tonk off in a nasally whiny voice with a fiddle in the background” fan? Or it that sad stereotype mostly confined to the certain geographical regions (cough*northeast*cough), where so-called intelligent and discriminating listeners are expected to aspire to music snobbery?

I know so little about music history and genre delineations here. Growing up, it was mostly just an artist or song preference. I remember riding to school listening to the radio, and the stations would play a Zombies song, followed by Esther Satterfield, then Cotton, Llyod and Christian, and rounding up the set with a little Captain and Tennille. Songs weren’t seen primarily as country, or pop, or jazz. They simply had great or boring melodies, intelligent or sappy lyrics, strong or forgettable vocals. Genre? What was that? How do you even spell or pronounce that?

More than once, I’ve been asked to explain how to categorize music. And more than once, I’ve been unable to answer that clearly. Now, I just say I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter to me anyway what the genre is (true for the most part). It’s other people that label music as such, and I’m not sure even they know how to answer that. There are some that are easy – like bluegrass, or some jazz, classical, new age. But what in the world is “Adult Contemporary”? How does one tell if a song is more “Rock” than “Pop”? Then there are all these hybrids. Folk Rock, R&B Soul, Country Pop … it seems like it’s all based on the general feel of the song, and if so, then doesn’t that depend on who’s feeling it?

I really don’t have a point here (I’ve been doing that a lot lately). I listen to just about all kinds of music, and don’t go through the same defensive mode when it comes to the other genres. (Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. I do get a bit defensive when admitting that I listen to Barry Manilow, and feel the need to qualify that by saying it’s mostly his more obscure stuff that I like. Although I may have, on occasion, been spied singing along to Copacabana. But like half of the people who do the same, it was purely involuntary. Like a spasm you can’t control. Yeah, that’s it.)

Maybe I’m just thinking out loud and trying to convince myself that it’s really okay to be a country music fan, period. Because in truth, I am. I just have to get over the perceived stigma that seems to come with such an admission.

So, to paraphrase Band-Aid Boy from a recent Monkbot convention in New Orleans, let me say, loud and clear: My name is Ivoryhut, and I listen to country music. There. I said it. I’m not ashamed.

And no, I’m not into some sick thing with a gaucho somewhere.

…

Here are some of the tracks of that CD I sent. Country? Folk? Alternative? Blues? Soul? Maybe country folk blues? You be the judge. Or, just listen and enjoy.

Ray LaMontagne – Empty

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John Mayer – Gravity (AOL Music Sessions version)

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Sufjan Stevens – To Be Alone With You

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Hem – All That I’m Good For

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Mark Knopfler, Emmylou Harris – If This Is Goodbye

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Amy Winehouse – Love Is A Losing Game

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James Morrison – The Last Goodbye

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A friend and much-admired writer (among his other titles, which include artist, songwriter, poet, photographer, journalist, and arguably just about anything and anywhere creativity can take an invididual) wrote this in his blog recently:

Writing is both a curse and a beam of grace. Before I actually start writing my weekly article for Philippine Star, I notice a heaviness building up in me. I am beset with fear, doubt and inertia about writing. I am stumped by the perennial questions most writers face which is, what to write about. What do I really want to say? But often, the moment I sit down and commit to write, something does happen. It’s like inspiration always shows up when we go through the trouble of asking Her to. And yet, the fact that it happens 99% of the time is not reassuring enough for me. Often, we fixate on the 1% that things will go wrong. I guess that’s the accompanying angst that writers go through. It’s a paradox. Without the accompanying doubt, the beam of grace like the cavalry that comes to the rescue, is worthless.

 
I go through the same paralyzing inertia the moment I think to myself, “Hey, it’s been a while since I’ve written something on my blog. Maybe I should fix that.” For me, it’s a war between structure and flow. When I’m away from the computer, certain events throughout my day trigger thoughts in my head that entertain me, often to the point of me thinking I’d like to write about it. Then, when faced with the screen and the blinking cursor, I freeze. What were those thoughts again? How do I put them down without sounding like a rambling idiot?

 
How can I organize my thoughts into a cohesive, flowing whole when I need post-its on my refrigerator to remind me to sort out my kitchen drawer?

 
Being a regular follower of Jim’s blog and having read all the articles he’s written, I was very surprised to find that he agonizes over every post or article. Each one is so well-crafted and insightful that I always believed his writing was an effortless art fashioned from a heightened awareness and sensitivity, an everyday man who found the secret to communicating universal truths and making them deeply personal for every reader.

 
I don’t have that gift. It’s usually hit-or-miss with me. Or, at the very best, hit-or-keep-trying. Sometimes, as a dear friend once put it, writing for me is “like bleeding for words.”

 
When I used to play basketball, I was a streak shooter. Half a quarter would go by and everything I threw in the air somehow found the basket. Then, just as suddenly, I’d get cold and start tossing bricks. My coach knew to take me out of the game then and let the streak find me again before frustration set in.

 
I think I’ve always thought of myself as a streak writer. When I’m in the zone, the words come easy. And they come often. I like those streaks and learned to wait patiently for them.

But often, the moment I sit down and commit to write, something does happen.

 
Perhaps therein lies my problem. I sit down and hope to write. Maybe it’s as simple as just committing to write. Maybe it’s not so much waiting on the sidelines for the streak to show up and get back in the game. Maybe I just have to show up, intent on playing.

 
Oh, did I mention I’m also a streak resolution-maker?