by John Bear
Daily Lobo
I would like to take a moment to thank my coworker, Joe, for choosing Kenny Chesney's latest effort, The Road and the Radio, for our first go-around. Now I can add pop-country fans to my ever-growing list of enemies. I am terribly afraid that the average Chesney fan is slightly more heavily armed than the average indie rocker kid. No doubt about it, I have the fear.
Really, it seems kind of unfair for me to be bashing on a country album anyway - such an easy target. But that has never stopped me before, and it ain't stopping me now.
To sum up this album, I would have to call it uninspired pop sludge with maximum twang. Almost every song contains a highly clichÇ-ridden guitar solo that sounds as if it were performed by an ex-hair metal band member eternally trapped in 1985. The rhythm guitar noticeably lacks soul, and when it blares through these headphones, I feel like my ears are being mercilessly slapped with endless packets of Sweet'N Low.
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The lyrics deal with issues that only come up in some strange small town I have never been to. The girl left, but the tequila remains. The Civil War has not been forgotten - I find this a little disturbing. All this town has is a Burger King and some cotton. My feet are on the dashboard, and there's some empty bottles on the floor. I don't know if lyrics sympathetic to the plight of the drunk driver are such a good idea, especially in this state.
This whole truck stop slam poet thing rolls over my head - with the exception of the drunken driving thing because I had my car destroyed last October by a guy who reeked strongly of Corona - thanks a lot, buddy. I did live in a trailer out in rural New Mexico - for one day. But I decided a nice seedy tenement building in town was much more my speed.
Speaking of speed, the track "Living in Fast Forward" sounds like a thinly veiled ode to crystal meth. Maybe it is not, but it reminds me of my days hanging out with a 10-gallon-hat-wearing tweaker known on the streets of Albuquerque as "The Cowboy." He loved this new country stuff - and Cypress Hill. Don't ask me why.
The album also features two - count 'em - two songs about getting liquored up in Mexico. The aptly titled "Beer in Mexico" sounds like Dave Matthews got locked up in a truck stop for three years and was forced to listen to Jimmy Buffet records. "Tequila Loves Me" veers even more frighteningly into Buffet territory with three-plus minutes of lamenting about love lost but tequila still accounted for. Trust me, Chesney, the tequila may love you, but your liver hates you. He should write a sequel called "Damn, I Never Knew How Much These Delirium Tremens Suck."
The greatest tragedy of pop-country is it forces talented country performers to assign themselves to vague little categories that intentionally avoid using the word country. Lyle Lovett or the Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash don't play country. They play Americana. This theft of a genre name is a grave injustice and must be put to an end at once.
Johnny Cash, long dissed by the country music establishment, would probably agree. Johnny, if you can hear me, save us.
