Judy and I were watching the fourth two-hour installment of “Country Music, the film by Ken Burns on PBS. I observed that we were probably like a sizeable segment of the audience who were watching because it was a Ken Burns production. Over time, many have appreciated his storytelling, whether about the Civil War or Jackie Robinson or a form of American music we seldom listened to intentionally but often heard because of its ubiquity.
Burns’ work has always struck me as visual scholarship, appealing to people like us who like learning new things or hearing new takes on old things, like the Civil War.
As the narrative took us from Jimmy Rodgers to Hank Williams, Patsy Cline to Loretta Lynn, the Carter family to the Judds, I wondered how popular the show was with those who had grown up with country music in the way I was drawn to the Beatles, the Lovin’ Spoonful, and the Eagles. To my unschooled eye, just about every icon in that world of music enjoyed some time in the spotlight in the film. It seemed a resource to be treasured by those wanting a visual memory bank about the story of the genre.
So how is it that simple tunes played on string instruments with plain-spoken lyrics can survive the ebbs and flows of transient popular culture and hold the attention of our national videographer and a broad audience for ten two-hour segments?
It did not take me too long to see an obvious point. Two groups of people, possibly from different sections of the nation, probably reflecting a wide diversity of backgrounds and education, were watching the same show. I mentioned that in a phone conversation with my sister.
“That’s the power of art to unite,” she said.
In Burns’ show, Winton Marsalis called music “the invisible art.” I wonder if the true power of art lies not only in its capacity to unite but also in its capacity to engage the listener or viewer in an unspoken conversation that invites one to identify, to find common ground, to understand something differently.
Country music, because of its story-telling nature, uses the words as well as the music to spell out some aspect of the human condition. Who hasn’t, at some moment in life, been “so lonesome I could cry?”
The film described how country music popularity has waxed and waned while its core soul has remained constant. There have been detours, flirtations with influences from rock and folk music, seductions into glitzy show productions. But country always returns to its roots.
The art form reflected the social unrest of the 60s and 70s yet stuck to those messages that range true no matter your politics. Heartache is not partisan. Loneliness persists in war and peace.
People of a Certain Age, you might be like me, struck by how many country songs we recognize though we didn’t listen to country music stations or buy its albums. (You DO remember albums, right?) How did that happen? Especially if the people we hung out with tended toward folk music with a social agenda or rock and roll suitable for dances.
One episode of Burns’ series was called “Don’t Get Above Your Raisin.” There is an explicit humility in the message, connected to my parents reminding me to be a good reflection on our family or Judy’s grandmother counseling “remember who you are.” What a genteel way to admonish young people to avoid the sin of pride.
(Ignore for the moment the deleterious impact of discouraging aspirations that could be the product of not getting’ above your raisin’; the British class system comes to mind.)
Have you ever heard a country song where you could not hear clearly every word? I think back to my music growing up. There were several number one rock hits I liked but for which I needed to consult some printed source to grasp the whole message. When your music consists of a guitar or banjo and a story, your story better be told really clearly.
Burns offers the insights of several country artists, all of which sound good. But they are insiders. What about those of us, who make a subconscious connection to a musical form to which we’ve never devoted a full measure of attention?
Each of us would probably answer that question differently. Perhaps, though, that is the point. In its simplicity, raw emotion, occasionally toe-tapping way, the music invites us to share our take on what it is like to be a human being. We can shake off the dust of daily doses of doom and gloom, be “crazy” about someone, be “lonesome” enough to cry, try to “walk the line, because you’re mine,” sing about the blues we have from our respective “prisons.”
The stories in country music ignite our own stories. And don’t we all enjoy reveling in those?
Daniel E. White
November 11, 2019