[Songs My Son Should Know] Robert Earl Keen | The Road Goes on Forever / Feelin' Good Again

One thing that I am musically assured about is the fact that I have spent a lot of rewarding hours with outlaw country, a raging buzz, and my own thoughts.  There are very important and poignant times when pasty hipster shit just doesn't give you the lemon-up-your-jacksie that outlaw country demands.

To know outlaw country -- to relate to it, to sing it drunkenly to nobody, to commandeer a jukebox with a $10 bill and a Lone Star, to hit repeat on an entire album while sitting on the dark porch -- is to know exactly where you stand with your masculine emotions.  With those, I stand square.

Nobody seems to know exactly what country music actually is, these days.  From what I can tell, the genre was lost in translation somewhere between the transition from the magnificent Texas-redneck-hippies-and-cocaine of the 60s through 80s to the soft-dicked-dilution of Garth Brooks and Tim McGraw in the 1990s.  The genre just devolved into CMT and cross-over music festivals involving trite aberrations like Lady Antebellum and Rascal Flats, which are labeled 'country' for no other reason except having sprung from the trash heap that is Nashville.

Country music is -- and will always live as -- Willie, Waylon, Cash, Hank Jr., Merle, Kris, Guy, Earl, and several of their like-minded counterparts; the rough-and-ready cowboys of the honky tonk.  Subsequent torchbearers, like as Robert Earl Keen, Lyle Lovett, Jerry Jeff Walker, and Cory Morrow are also acceptable as true Texas Country.  And this is what I am talking about here.  Leading the third generation by way of the second.

It is this defiance against the polished, twangy turd of Nashville's glitter and pomp that will allow country music to survive as, not only a genre, but as a culture of sweat, and manual labor, and Gilley's.  Like Darrell Royal opined when faced with a proposal from the administration in the 1960s to adorn UT's iconic football uniforms with stripes and unnecessary orange-y glitz; 'These are work clothes. No need to candy 'em up."

Texas country is work clothes.  Nashville is the Oregon Ducks.

Melissa reminded me the other day of this classic, classic Texas Country sing-along.  You just try not hammering it home if in the company of one or more Texans, and even more so if the assemblage is drinking Shiner Bock by the fists full.  Un-possible.

When Melissa and I took a roadie from Phoenix to San Francisco, then later from Phoenix to Austin, we were serenaded by this song that reminds that road trips across the southwest are no fucking joke.  The road goes on forever.  But as compensation, the party does not cease.  Nope.  Not ever.

Everyone in Texas needs to have a favorite country song.  Its just the way it is, like picking a football team to root for or a favorite Q joint.  Its part of our legacy as Texans.

I would go further than calling this my favorite country song, and without hesitation, call this perfect masterpiece one of my favorite songs of all time.  End of.

As a general rule, I fucking loathe hokey narrative-driven songs.  They remind me of glammy show tunes, which are great in an appropriate setting, like, let's say, the London Palladium -- but absolutely dreadful for my ears and sensibilities in small-speaker format.  Unfortunately, this is a well-known character flaw in most of country music.

But like any steadfast statement, there are generally exceptions.  One is Willie. The other is Robert Earl Keen.  The man can tell a hell of a fucking story through harmony and melody.

Feelin' Good Again is a dewy-eyed vignette that gives a beautifully impressionistic insight into one momentary breath in the life of the protagonist: The bar, the band crooning Otis Redding, the townie surveying the typical rapscallions playing stick, the drunken caballeros outsinging the band, the perennially spatting couple on that temporary upswing, the unexpected $70 of beer money found in an auxiliary pocket, the lady friend on the stair.

The whole setting is painted so magnificently by Keen, that I've pictured the exact same detailed bar room scenario in my own thoughts in each of the countless times I've listened to it over the course of the last 14 years.

They said that David Allen Coe wrote the perfect Country & Western song, and maybe he did.  But Robert Earl Keen has written the formula for keeping Country music relevant. 

[Songs My Son Should Know] The University of Texas Band | The Eyes of Texas / Texas Fight

So here we find ourselves on the absolute brink of college football, and for those of us in Texas -- and Austin in particular -- this signifies the beginning of autumn since there is a very palpable change in the seasonal hue around this town.  Summer's contemporary colors turns the chloroplast in our threads into fall's classic burnt-orange.

The cacophony of wildlife immune to summer's weight is suddenly replaced by the uproar of brass and wind and percussion, the plaintive re-stashing of  luggage in the closet rotates with the ritual of undraping team-branded accessories denoting the flagrant barbarism of the Longhorns.

Fall is also high season for inebriation, shouting at an uninfluenced television screen, fretting too much about a 4-4 defense vs. the rush attack.  It this season that makes the entire region -- hell, the entire country -- come alive with anticipation and passion and pride, for the school colors represent affirmation in ourselves and those who wear the colors with us.  Not only can college football impact our generational genes for eons, but alter our very internal biological fluid.  The goal is orange blood, identifying with similarly-minded braggarts and assholes; flashers of a manual steer head.

Most of all, Fall is represented by hymnals of tradition; music written for the grand colosseums of physical theatre -- which, ironically, is played in majority by small instruments for the sole purpose of motivation as if summonsing the cavalry.  It is the musical composition to a story of battle, art narrating combat; piquing intense emotions from the disciples and acrimony from the rivals.

Despite that, these traditionals represent something enjoyed by both children and pensioners alike, creating a rights-to-passage sent down through the generations.  Such is the timeless message of the Horns: Texas Fight, Hook 'em, and The Eyes of Texas are Upon You.

You have successfully registered for this class.  Goodbye and good luck.

.. and ou sucks.

[Songs My Son Should Know] Alt Rap Mixtape: Kid Cudi | Pursuit of Happiness ✌ Das Racist | You Oughta Know ✌ Odd Future (WGKTA) | Orange Juice

Yesterday, I was referencing Alt Rap in this post over on the other page, and I summarily followed that up by wildin' out on 9% beers and indie rap with Melissa on the front porch all night long like it was the first night of Negril Spring Break -- so, I thought, why the hell would we not talk about some underground, indie-influenced hip-hop today, to help with this skull fracture?

Enzo will indisputably grow up with a healthy diet of all rap's most popular and fringe subgenres -- most notably, the lyrically dextrous, rhythm-based rap of the 1980s East Coast; the urban-grime, beat influenced, gangsta rap of the 1990s West Coast; and the experimental, electronica avante-garde rap of the 2000s Mid-America.

One of the advantages of living in the Live Music Capitol of the World, is the opportunity to catch acts like these as they were intended: the dirt lot, abandoned warehouse, parking garage rooftop, pop-up club, small-venues of SXSW.  Fuck it, they'd put these acts in a drainage ditch if only they could fit a 5x5 stage and get a permit to give away free Goose.

One of the dreams I've had since pre-parenthood is to take Enzo to the full, four-day shitshow that is Austin's indie mardi-gras.  I'm not sure at what age SXSW is kid-appropriate, but last year, I scoped all the cool-dads with their progeny in tow, hitting up Grimes and Big Boi like motherfuckin bosses.  I plan on being admitted into that segment of Gonzo indieism (although, full disclosure, Enzo's first gig appearance was at 2011 SXSW courtesy of Melissa).

Like so many of us -- the people around my age reading this, at least -- we grew up like delinquents on rap.  Keggers involved Beastie, Nas, Bone, Common, Pharcyde, NWA, Ice Cube, Dre, Snoop, Eazy, Jurassic 5, Tupac, Biggie, Public Enemy, and Wu.  You wanted to work out in the high school gym?  Hope you liked rap; the same gym that likely played a shitload of Duran Duran and The Crüe only a decade prior.  Heh.

 Kid Cudi | The Pursuit of Happiness

For the indie-heads listening, these percussions, rhythm movements, basslines and synthesizers might appear familiar, as they were performed by MGMT and Ratatat in collaboration with Kid Cudi.  And, apart from the overt message in the title and the amazingly driven beats, the words reflect a blithe regard for anything going on, except for at this moment. 

Das Racist | You Ought to Know

Me and some pals of mine were fortunate enough to be in the final dudebro push into the tiniest club I've ever been to on 6th Street -- seemingly built for five people, but hosting at somewhere in the 50,000 range -- for Das Racist's 2010 SXSW gig.  It was worth unintentionally grinding with some of my closest friends in order to hear these guys perform.  This song is an all-time [An Avenue] porch-lounging favorite, particularly during those high-ABV nights.  This song provides the will for us to pop open another bomber that we know we probably shouldn't.

Odd Future (WGKTA) | Orange Juice ft. EarlWolf

If you are not between the ages of 21 and 39 or have a decent amount of principles, I would probably recommend that you not click on the song file above -- just in case you wanted to have yourself a lil looksee.  Odd Future (WGKTA) performs some of the most brackish shit your Victorian ears will never hear -- however, the duo of Tyler the Creator and Earl Sweatshirt may be the most talented in the short, but prestigious, history of rap.

Wait.  Moreso than OutKast, GangStarr, EPMD, Black Star, Erik B & Rakim, muhfukka?  Well, OK.  I see your point, but Odd Future are at least in the conversation.

At the time of this recording Tyler and Earl were just 19 and 15-years-old, respectively.  Their musical talent doesn't even begin to taper off at rapping, with classical instrument training and record producing also a formidable bullet point on their resumes. (And, you may have heard of Odd Future charter member, and current internationalist, Frank Ocean, who was 21 at the time of this album's release).

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So, although not an exhaustive list, this is a good primer to get Enzo started in the world of heavy weight lifting and throwing raging flyer-parties in the backyard with a bunch of impressionable candykids.

And who will be the coolest of the cool-dads, then?  Swag.