The Grand Ole Opry

Swinging to the opposite end of the spectrum, I head out the following night to the Grand Old Opry, simply because I’ve heard I have to.

Now this is an education of sorts. The auditorium is fantastic—the stage framed by the outline of a barn, but that’s really the only rustic feature. The first host is Little Jimmy Dickens, a sprightly fellow with a jacket AND pants sporting more sequins than a Motown revue. He’s got a constant stream of funny banter, excellently delivered and mostly playing on the fact that he’s 88! A lot of folks up on stage seem well past their prime, but cashing in on some classic songwriter status. I’m not much of a country music fan, so I’m sure that some of this celebrity is lost on me. (Sshhhh….don’t tell anyone.)

I’m intrigued by the spectacles on stage. So much of country music is about masculinity and enforcing historic codes about working hard, proving your manhood, that sort of thing. Yet the men on stage are decked out in tight pants, suits with elegant beadwork and brocade, coiffed hair and makeup (though I’m sure we’re not supposed to notice this part). I mean, in many ways, these guys are going head-to-head with many glam-rockers I can think of. I love it—the showmanship, the timeless hurtin’ songs, the playful revelry all helps me to appreciate a long tradition. Ricky Skaggs, Marty Stuart, Tracy Lawrence (the epitome of authenticity in his jeans and denim shirt), Crystal Gail… I leave feeling I understand something about this tradition. In fact, being down in Tennessee is giving me an appreciation for either the popular music itself or the foundations of popular music that define the American soundtrack.