On George Jones' Death

The funny thing about regret is,

That its better to regret something you have done

Than to regret something you haven't done

-Butthole Surfers

I regret having never seen George Jones live.

He was on my bucket list, but good is a bucket list if you don’t follow it? George Jones has played around my neck of the woods on more than one occasion-mostly casinos-but I failed to take proper notice of these events and never got to see him.

And now he’s gone, but at 81, how much longer did I really anticipate him touring?

I Lived To Tell It All is his autobiography, and it’s highly recommended. It’s available in cheap-ass paperback, so add it to your summer reading schedule. After a while, the off-the-wagon/on-the-wagon back and forth gets a bit much, to the point where you’ll agree that 81 years was a pretty generous ride, and I suppose an enviable one if you’re like me and afraid of dying young.

Maybe he was allowed to stay with us this long because our higher power has a soft spot for remarkable voices. My guess is that boys in East Texas-particularly the ones who grew up around Jones’ childhood-were raised with the expectation that they should suppress emotion and to hide their feelings.

But with George, all of that came out in that sweet blessing of a voice. He shouldered the emotions of a lot of men, nationwide, and the songs that he interpreted spoke large for those without much of a voice, or the skills of how to express their own emotions properly.

Take a look at the number of kids who are speaking about the death of George Jones right now. You’ll find a lot of sons who remember the only cassette that their dad ever carried in the glove compartment of their car was a lone George Jones tape, probably picked up at some two-lane truck stop when they were away from home.

Over this past weekend, I heard a friend tell he nearly this same story, adding that, when he was younger, he resented George Jones because it was the only tape his old man had, which caused repeated listens. It wasn’t until he turned 30 before he understood how unfounded his resentment was, and how fucking awesome George Jones is.

I can understand that. When you’re a teenager, you think that Metallica, or Pantera, or Slayer, or Black Flag, or whatever, is the heaviest sounds on planet Earth. Then you get older and understand that cats like George Jones are much, much heavier.

Your Dad was right: if you only have one cassette in your glovebox, it might as well be a George Jones tape.

Jo Dee Messina Agrees To The Dumbest Promotional Idea Of All Time

How long ago has it been since Jo Dee Messina had a hit?

I don’t normally follow country music that much, so my perception of time and how it relates to a country hit is not the best. For all I know, a song like Messina’s hit “Heads Carolina, Tails California” was a hit just a few weeks ago, when the reality is that the song just missed the top of the Country charts way back in 1996.

At that time, Messina looked like a small town redhead with a bit of unique beauty and a big voice that easily disguised the fact that she was a Nashville carpetbagger, originally hailing from the un-country state of Massachusetts.

By the end of the 90’s, the Nashville industry had advised Messina to dye her hair darker, make her clothes more revealing, and tweak her sound to become more poppier.

The hits dried up as a result, and you’re likely to find Messina touring the country’s casinos, playing “Heads Carolina” and “I’m Alright” for the thousandth time for the people who only came to hear those two songs anyway.

Messina is still making records, and she might even think that she still has a legitimate chance at returning to the top of the charts again, with just that right song, sound, or budget.

Occasionally, a little nudge from a good promotional tie in can do the trick, and Messina is no stranger to this having secured screen time for shows like Nash Bridges and Touched By An Angel. She even appeared on The Real Housewives of Atlanta recently, helping one of their cast members prep for a country music song.

That probably been the first sign of help, announcing to the world that Messina is in more need of a decent paycheck than a creative renewal. The idea at this point in her management’s eye is to get their client in front of as many people as possible, and if cameo time on cable shows isn’t an option, then perhaps other marketing opportunities can be negotiated.

The other night I was shopping a K-Mart for some household items. There in the bathroom aisle is where I first notice it: a box of 2000 Flushes with a picture of Jo Dee Messina right next to the promise “Kills 99.9% of bacteria!”

I’ve never used 2000 Flushes before, and to be honest, the idea that my toilet water can turn into an unnatural shade of blue with every flush kind of creeps me out. I don’t go to the bathroom on planes for this same reason, choosing instead to suppress my bladder and bowels into the depth of pain before relinquishing my waste to a blue raspberry liquid that probably also serves as the machine’s anti-freeze.

I was so transfixed by Jo Dee Messina’s image on this box of toilet bowel cleaner that I bought it. On the back of the sticker, customers are given an opportunity to download a free Jo Dee Messina “cd” in the popular mp3 format.
I don’t know how this promotion came to fruition and I don’t claim to know any details of the arrangement, but I’m pretty sure that I would fire any manager that agreed to put such a promotion in front of me as some kind of benefit to my career.

Who in their right mind would consider a promotional tie in with a toilet bowl cleaner?
To be fair, it does appear that this promotion is also found on other items, but none of them are much better than a toilet bowl cleaner. It looks like 2000 Flushes is owned by the WD-40 company, which means that she can also be found on cans of lubricant. Messina’s mug is also on X-14 (a cleaner, I think), Spot Shot (no idea) and Carpet Fresh (a spray that covers up the smell of cat piss).

But surely, nothing can be more offensive to your music career than tying in your talent with a product used to clean the water that flushes your feces and urine into your community’s sewage.

And if it was approved by Messina herself, then it probably explains why her career ended up in the toilet too.

Marty Robbins - Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs

Marty Robbins’ Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs was one of my purchases during 2011’s Record Store Day. I was concerned that this 50 year old piece of vinyl would surely show signs of wear and tear, but the thing looked like it did right out of the plastic wrap and, for ten measly bucks I couldn’t pass up this landmark country release. I could see the smile on my face in the grooves of the record as I was mesmerized by the old-school Columbia Records red label that listed the song titles.

Gunfighter Ballads is one of those records that transcended its genre when first released. Not only did it reach the upper eschelon of the country charts when it was released, it reached the top 10 pop charts, largely due to the success of its single, “El Paso.”

That cut, if you’re keeping score hit number 1 in both the country and pop charts.
They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, and the music found within Gunfighter Ballads is no exception either. The story goes that Robbins was residing in Nashville and became homesick for his Arizona roots. Recalling the old west and campfire songs of his youth, Marty began composing a series of ballads which later became the bulk of this album.

The album was recording in its entirety one afternoon and became the full length that he is probably best known for.

And for good reason, both the originals and the covers seem to be coming from the depth of the man’s soul. The sparce arrangement of Mr. Robbins’ trio is perfect for the material presented. It is a concept album before there was even a name for “concept album,” and the entire package has the uncanny ability to take you to a place you’ve only seen in western movies.

For me, I can close my eyes with Gunfighter Ballads playing an immediately become transported to an old west campfire, where hard-riding cowboys reach the end of the day with a bit of lonesome reflection on the trails that led them there.
Robbins’ voice is perfect, disregarding the vocal techniques of typical country singers and replacing it with a sensitive baritone that’s irreplaceable. Each song paints a story, but it’s Robbins’ immaculate voice that makes them come to life.

Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs is a vital piece of America’s music during the last century and deserves a place in every music lover’s collection. Even if you’ve never been west of the Mississippi or been a fan of old west memorabilia, the album is so genuine that it will take you directly to the feeling that Robbins perfectly creates within its grooves.

Superstars Of Country

Obsession rears its ugly head again as I’m struggling to maintain rational thought, particularly considering the financial limitations that child-rearing brings. In other words: I don’t have a lot of money to blow on cds these days. This is troubling because I’m totally fixated on acquiring Time Life’s Superstars of Country series and I’ve been able to locate a few fairly economical outlets (read: Ebay) that offer this 10 cd set at prices substantially less than what one pays on those half hour infomercials. It’s the one with the freaky looking Kenny Rogers, in case you’re wondering.
What draws me to it is how utterly complete it seems to be. Virtually every single country radio hit from the late 60’s, the 70’s and early 80’s are included on it, which means that a fairly large chunk of childhood memories could be found in that set.
Admittedly, I wasn’t a huge fan of country music growing up. At the same time, you can’t live in Iowa, or anywhere in the Midwest for that matter, and be somewhat exposed to country music. For me, it was those week-long trips to the Grandparents every summer, isolated in the airwave fringe of a Midwestern small town. It was the AM radio drift of the car rides when the top 40 stations became overrun with static, and that subtle influence that happens when you’re barely paying attention.
By the time I get over the fact that Kenny Roger’s face is now completely devoid of expression, I start to fixate on how I need to have Superstars Of Country.