Recent Ray Wylie Hubbard discussion about the state of country music got me to thinking about something I wrote in Truck: A Love Story (Full disclosure: I once did a story for a men’s magazine in which I had my eyebrows plucked and got a spray tan, so I got no room to talk.) (Also, only reason I didn’t wax my abs is ’cause I got no abs.):
This new stuff suffers from overgrooming. Even the redneckiest tunes ring tinny. One sometimes fears the lyrics of the latest busted-heart song were transposed from a marriage encounter handbook. It isn’t that today’s superstars aren’t talented and hardworking. It’s just that their way of doing things has passed me by. I look at the pretty cowboy on the Jumbotron and think, It is one thing to polish your craft, it is quite another to wax your abs. Recipe for the real deal: Combine two parts busted heart with one part busted knuckles, sprinkle with cheap trucker speed and crushed Valium to taste, and marinate in hard luck and leaky motor oil. Stir in Genesis and Revelation, add a dash of hope, and finish off while being forcibly evicted from a hotel bar. Hello, Tanya Tucker.
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