Following the 41st annual CMA Awards the other night, you could say that, to quote Newnan, Ga., native Alan Jackson, “the whole world’s gone country.” Country music has taken hold of the mainstream in a way not seen since the early-’90s heyday of “new traditionalist” acts like Jackson Garth Brooks and Clint Black. From former “American Idol” firecracker Carrie Underwood to the ubiquitous Kenny Chesney to Atlanta’s own Sugarland, the awards show—and country music itself—seemed far more relevant than, say, the Grammys.
(Quick shout-out here to Sugarland for winning Vocal Duo of the Year, breaking the longtime stranglehold Brooks & Dunn have held on the category. Although, really, neither one of those acts, strictly speaking, qualifies for the term, since they depend on more than just the two members up in front to make the music. The White Stripes is a duo: Sugarland is two talented people with a backing band behind them. And what’s up with the lovely Jennifer Nettles and her new ultra-twangy accent?)
Yes, you could say the whole world’s gone country—but then, that presupposes an agreed-upon definition of exactly what country music is, and what it means. And that’s where things get a little tricky. “Country,” as a genre, has long since relinquished whatever definitive power it once possessed, and has become as elastic a catch-all as “rock.” For many acts, all it seems to take to qualify as a member of the country club is to add a little fiddle or steel guitar to your basic pop-rock chassis. It also doesn’t hurt to throw in a couple of references to life in the heartland (which more and more is just as synonymous with the South as it is the Midwest).
If Rascal Flatts, with their retina-damaging jackets, spiky hairstyles cribbed from ’80s bands like Mr. Mister and frenetic, empty-calorie marshmallows like “Me and My Gang” can stake a claim to the same musical landscape as George Jones, then what internal consistency can country music claim? Heck, if Jessica Simpson can pass for country, then the form has either pitched a very big tent—like the Republican Party whose conservative values and blind, flag-waving patriotism form part of the music’s backbone—or it’s become so diluted as to be meaningless.
Or maybe both. Just ask the Eagles, who performed a song from their new album at the ceremony. Now, it’s certainly true that the Eagles long ago bridged the divide between rock and country, and if any band deserves to be embraced by country fans, the Eagles make more sense than Bon Jovi. But it’s also true that the performance was a shrewd marketing move for the group, whose new album is sold exclusively at Wal-Mart—the big box retailer of choice among a large part of the country music-listening population.
After all, the Eagles chart high with Baby Boomers (the remaining members are all 60 years old or closing in on it)—especially suburban Baby Boomers, who listen to the band’s greatest hits compilations in their SUVs on the way to the office parks and strip malls (most of them anchored by Wal-Marts) that define their daily commutes. Country owes much of its current surge to these aging music fans, who’ve found themselves muscled out of rock radio formats by grating acts like Panic! At the Disco and are driven to seek solace in a format that places a premium on melody and smart song construction. To be sure, those two elements sometimes seem the only things that the various acts huddled together under today’s country banner share in common. (Rascal Flatts being an exception; if middle-of-the-road ’80s arena-filling bands like Journey were considered “corporate rock,” Rascal Flatts is the epitome of “corporate country.”)
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a bad thing that many modern country acts have grown up with Bon Jovi just as much as George Strait or the Eagles—far from it. In fact, some of those acts, artists like Dierks Bentley or Eric Church, are channeling those influences into some of the freshest music being played on country radio.
But it’s also true that country’s broadening identity invites opportunistic hacks (like Rascal Flatts) and carpetbaggers (like Jessica Simpson and, yes, the Eagles), all eager to tap into the genre’s deep and devoted fan base. And that results in the gradual chipping away of the format’s cohesive elements, until all that’s left are the surface identifiers—10-gallon hats, twangy accents and the occasional songs about God and family.
The difference might be somewhat elusive, but it’s nonetheless very real. Comforting as it is to think that country’s ascendance means American culture has wholeheartedly embraced a music that harkens back to our rustic roots and a glittering yesteryear of bedrock faith and values, it’s proof of a different kind of American value at work.