Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Cal Smith, born Calvin Grant Shofner on April 7, 1932, died on October 10. He was best known for the 1974 hit, "Country Bumpkin." A tangible part of my childhood, the song still echoes in my head whenever pumpkins are displayed or the newest batch of Pumpkin ales hits the store shelves.  Where I grew up in Northern Wisconsin, the old  Blues Brothers  adage rang true that there were two kinds of music, "country and western." My parents always listened to country music in our house (My mom preferred '90s country radio) and there was always a bunch of western in there as well.(Mostly from my dad). I remember hearing "Streets of Bakersfield" often drifting from car radios and home stereos. I developed an early attraction to some of these songs, even though years later I would hide it behind a sheen of four chords and punk rock. A secret shadow self of country knowledge and Western Swing bravado remained, only unsheathed for music trivia and in the dar...

I'm sitting here listening to Charlie Rich's 1974 LP, The Silver Fox on this snowy evening, drinking hot cocoa, and once in awhile glancing at the snow as it drifts slowly to the ground. The record came out shortly after his countrypolitan breakthrough, Behind Closed Doors , but surpasses that overproduced, yet very satisfying album. Rich feels at ease on this one, telling stories about his development as an artist. The Billy Sherill production does not seem as overblown, and Rich's natural delivery anticipates the MTV Unplugged performances of a decade  and a half later. He does an interesting medley that includes classical pieces he learned as a child, a satisfying bluesy version of "Don't Put No Headstone on My Grave," and a rocking and rolling version of the song "Break-Up," which he had recorded earlier for Sun Records. Rich was a musical chameleon who excelled at many styles and it is never more evident than on the Medley's choice mix of s...

We are Lost There is a feeling in the air, barely recognized. A feeling of bittersweet retribution floating from the ground -- from the air It is tragic, barely remembered, nothing less than a connection, nothing less than an undiscovered moment, relapsing into a popular epiphany. I see the embittered moments of our youth. I see the sacrificial lambs of our generation bouncing prosaically in halls of quiet remembrance. Why are we so lost in this transgression? Why are we the ones who can't remember? Our generation is massed together like clay Earthen in construction, lost in the moment. A ghostly transition clumps together, a sullen moment; when we were kids, you and I were scared. We felt the pressure of happenstance, a ghost, a death, a measured moment of time; I still feel that way -- I feel like something is wrong -- we need to move. The air is tragic -- let's find a solution to our problem, to our fear, to the feeling of danger . . . A telephone call...

I'm throwing a fiction snippet up just for fun. I probably won't do many more, but if anyone likes this, I might post again. I enjoy being thrown into the middle of the action, and I want to see what others think. We often live vicariously through the work of others -- nightly television programs, crime novels, postmodern literature, neighborhood gossip, whatever our vice of the moment is. How often though do we really imagine what it would be like to truly participate in these other stories? Instead of relying on the distance that the fictional barrier creates, can we truly confront these other worlds? Or must we be content to live vicariously through stories told by others? Creating or narrating our own stories or adding to the overall discussion is always a possibility. I would like to continue that discussion, whether it be blurring the lines in writing, by putting ourselves in the place of others. Or, perhaps, just keeping an open mind to the other lives and possibilities...