My radio options are minimal on long stretches of the drive from my city house to the mountain cabin. When I lose a signal altogether, I lean into the silence — no interest in a Sirius subscription or podcasts via my phone. It’s rare time to just think or, better, just drive and wonder at the beauty around me. Watch the road. Watch the colors of the light on the hilltops and the sage on the lowlands. Watch the orchard pickers at work and imagine about how different their lives are from mine and be grateful for the cherries and apples and pears they make possible.
When I can catch a signal, it’s almost always a country music station.
It’s not my first choice. I’m of a certain generation of folk and rock, love big-band swing and ’40s crooners, appreciate some older-era blues, feel my heart swell with Celtic music and am intrigued by a range of international sounds. I’m an unapologetic sucker for Christmas music.
The country music of my childhood seemed like an annoyance of whine-and-twang-and-wail. But my narrow-minded attitude started to change when an early boyfriend pulled out his guitar, when country went outlaw, when Austin City Limits came on TV, when I heard Emmy Lou Harris and Nancy Griffith and Greg Brown in concert, when Rosanne Cash sang from the list prescribed her by her father, when the distinctions of music genres faded and I learned to listen to the stories being told through the music.
Much as I appreciate the emotions that come through classical music and instrumentals, my knowledge of sound isn’t sophisticated enough to interpret an intended story. I don’t engage in it the same as I do with lyrics set to sound. And when I’m alone, for long hours, at the wheel of my car, I need to engage to stay alert.
So on those stretches, I flip past the static, past the Spanish language stations (lo siento), past the preaching until finally I find, on a clear channel, a bit of country.
Again, not my first choice. Sometimes I hit the MUTE button and go back to my own head-chatter. But often I welcome the company. And I’ve learned to value the story work.
Country lessons
Country offers stories in a classic narrative arc. Often that arc is some sort of tragedy: Boy meets girl, boy loves girl, boy messes up and loses girl. Alternate: Boy meets girl, boy loves girl, girl is a player and leaves boy in the lurch. Slightly less often, it’s a finally-got-it-right love song: Boy sees beauty in girl that others have missed, or that even girl herself has missed. Sometimes it’s about death, sometimes birth. Is it a bit Hallmark-y? Sure. But it provides a story line — one that invariably echoes some universal experience. All that in less than two minutes.
I’ve also learned to whoop with glee at the descriptions and metaphors: The love that’s like a welcome-home mat, meant as a compliment. The lost love (“She’s acting single and I’m drinking doubles.”). The long riff of lust that describes some dude’s pickup truck. Are they over-the-top and clichéd? Sure. But word play is an art, and we need to learn to play before we can make art.
Given the times, I tune in with interest to pronouns. Some singers can take me through all the above love/loss arcs without making them gender specific, or even using pronouns at all. Cue k.d. lang, Melissa Etheridge, et al. It’s an interesting thing to think about for writers who want to respect individual identity preferences without confusing readers.
More and more, I listen for the influences of one defined type of music that becomes evident in so many others. For kicks, I did a quick Google of folks like Bob Dylan and Pete Seeger and Leonard Cohen and Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell and, yep, the Beatles. All once restricted to their outwardly defined lanes. All now given credit as crossovers and influencers.
Our stories should likewise be built on shared foundations, and strive for a reach beyond the niche of subject or style. Our nonfiction narrative needs to stand on the rigorous reporting and fact-checking of investigative work; and investigative pieces should aspire to compelling storytelling.
I get all of this in those road hours with the country station as my company. I forget the songs themselves as soon as I hear them. But I cling to the lessons, with gratitude.
