Being from the D.C Metro area with family from the Northeast, there was very little about me I considered “Southern” even through I grew up in Virginia. I tasted my first grits when I went to college in Richmond, and I didn’t utter the word “y’all” until more than a year into a reporting contract that took me to the Florida Panhandle. But, my mom went through a brief Melissa Etheridge phase in the early 90s just like everyone else’s, so I’m no stranger to most of the country classics. When I studied abroad in Shanghai, “Country Roads” at a karaoke bar took me close enough to home.
This spring break we continued my quest to visit all 50 states with a trip to Nashville. We met up with friends and toured the zoo, spent a day at Mammoth Caves in Kentucky, saw a show at the Grand Ole Opry, and walked more than once down Broadway, which reminded me of New Orleans with music spilling out of every door and window except that instead of jazz it was country.
Though I wouldn’t consider myself a country music fan, our visit to the Opry and the Musician’s Hall of Fame made me see the genre in a whole new light. It’s not all pickup trucks and cold beer. Hearing Craig Morgan sing about waking up a man on a cold bench who was “almost home” nearly had me in tears. Lainey Wilson singing about her daddy’s boots and how she hoped to find someone one day who could fill them, and Jelly Roll taking the whole auditorium to church with his songs of redemption. It was incredible to see the talent and power of these voices right in front of us, effortlessly telling stories through song. Most of those are voices I ignored for years, thinking all they had to say was something about football and denim.
I guess that’s what music appreciation is all about. No matter the genre, the instruments, the accent, it’s still the universal language for storytelling. I’m not sure if I’m a little bit country, but maybe I’m a teeny bit country now. And still a whole lotta rock and roll.
Our Life in A-Z 