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, ____, ( 10/08/01 anada414 ,
/ \ ,_____ (--|_\_,,_, _ _| _ __________ ,-.______ _,---._ __ _/ \
/ \+------ _| ) | |(_|(_|(_|_ .net------/ )----.-' `./-/ \
/ / ( |__, ( ( ,' `/ /|
\ / \ `-" \'\ / |
\ / "The Country Music Experience" `. , \ \ / |
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/ by Pavement ( ; mEoW!@/| '
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|____________________ Anada is cat-friendly! __) |__\ `.___________|/
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I'll just go ahead and admit it: I like country music. I'm not a
huge fan, I hate the country played on the radio, and I'm familiar with very
few artists, but I like it just the same.
Last weekend, I went to an outdoor country music festival. This was
no small time gig -- 7 national acts, 80,000 people in attendance, and best
of all, free! Since my typical Saturday consists of getting high, reading,
jacking off and writing shitty t-files, I would've even been up for a free
Britney Spears concert.
My roommate, her sister, six of her sister's friends and myself piled
into two cars, drove 30 minutes and arrived at our final destination:
Allegan, MI. Why would the promoters pick the tiny village of Allegan, you
ask? After all, there's nothing there -- nothing, except for hicks and cow
shit, therefore it's the perfect setting for country music.
If I had any doubts that I was taking the last train to Hicksville,
they were silenced when I saw a cardboard sign hanging in the men's
bathroom. Scrawled in black permanent marker were the words "PLEASE DO NOT
SPIT TOBACCO CUDS IN URINAL." I zipped my fly, walked out and in a loud
voice, started to tell my roommate about what I'd seen:
"JESSI, YOU WON'T BELIEVE THESE HICKS; THE SIGN SAID 'PLEASE DO NOT
SPIT --"
"Jesus, Evan, shut up!"
"Why?!"
She pointed at a congregation of mullet-headed guys, all of whom
looked as if they could kick my ass with their pinkie fingers.
The weather was boiling and I realized I'd forgotten my hat in the
car. Fuck.
We walked through the sea of rebel flags, down to the stage area.
The empty patch of grass nearest the stage was at least 600 yards back. We
moved ourselves in, sat down and began to watch the lilliputian performers.
Thankfully, the action on stage was also being broadcast to two giant tv
monitors.
The first band we saw featured a singer in a black wifebeater and
matching cowboy hat.
"I'd just like to say God bless America, and this song's called
'American By Birth, Southern By The Grace of God.'" he yelled.
Wives left husbands, dogs died and tears fell into beers. I felt a
"gee-haw!" make its way through my windpipe and into the open air.
Three of us decided to visit the beer tent. Whilst guzzling my warm
and overpriced Bud Lite, I spied a man wearing the most offensive t-shirt
I've ever seen: below a drawing of a rebel flag was this inscription: "If
you're offended by this flag, you must be a nigger."
Stumbling out of the beer tent, I felt ready to collapse -- not so
much from the beer I'd been drinking, but rather from the 100 degree heat
assault. I knew I'd be getting a free ride on a stretcher if I didn't buy a
hat soon.
Things didn't look so good as I approached a souvenir booth. My
selection of headwear consisted of various rebel flag bandanas, some Harley-
Davidson caps and a couple different Nascar hats.
I walked back to my group, the proud new owner of a Busch Beer Racing
cap that I plan to never wear again.
"I come from Southern California and they always made fun of me for
wearing this" said the singer, lifting his cowboy hat. "But y'know what I
say? GOD BLESS THE SOUTH!"
Later on, he exchanged his cowboy hat for a black bowler. "You know,
country music is great, but I also listen to some good ol' rock n' roll.
One, two, three, four, 'Wanna be a cowboy, BAAABY!'"
Two hours later, I looked at Jessi. She was curled up in a ball on
the ground, her eyes glazed over.
"What's wrong?" I asked
"I stoppppeed swwwweatinnng."
"You sure you don't wanna stay for Travis Tritt?"
"Iffff you waaant tooo."
And the thunder rolls. I was a redneck for a day. Gee-Haw!
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`-.^.-' (c) 2001 Anada e'zine by Pavement `-.^.-'
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