Putting Garth Brooks in his place: history
College students, as open minded as they often think they are,
frequently hold prejudices against "mainstream" artists. When an
artist has achieved a considerable amount of commercial success,
young people often suspect it has something to do with shallow
pandering, of stooping to the lowest common denominator, as if
making money for creating music is a great evil.
Not that this has ever dimmed your average 21-year old’s opinion
of Kurt Cobain or R.E.M. No, the musicians under scrutiny in this
particular scenario are artists in other, tainted genres. Dance
music. Hip hop music. Country music.
Note that the three genres I mentioned above reflect views and
lifestyles different from those male, white, middle class kids who
purchase the majority of alternative rock albums. It reminds me of
something that music critic Ken Barnes once noted: that most of the
’70s rock contingent (once again, white and male) that hated disco
very likely felt that way because it was recorded and enjoyed,
mostly, by women, gays and people of color  by people
different than themselves.
All of which brings me to Garth Brooks. I don’t think I’ve ever
mentioned this before in this column, but I’m a huge country music
fan. Admittedly, I’m not a big fan of the
Nashville-gone-to-Hollywood garbage currently in vogue. Like most
pretentious rock critics, I’m more of a traditionalist: Hank
Williams and George Jones and Loretta Lynn, Randy Travis and Joe
Ely and Jimmie Dale Gilmore, and lately, the glorious Iris DeMent,
who, despite the fact she’s released only two records, deserves to
be inducted to the Country Hall Of Fame tomorrow.
Naturally, I can get away with praising Iris DeMent without
getting drudged by my peers  she made No. 3 in Spin’s
year-end, Best Albums of 1994 list, after all. But announcing I was
going to write a defense of Garth Brooks reminded me of how
stupidly ignorant and insular your average,
better-than-the-rest-of-the-world college student can sometimes be.
I may have passionately swooned over Sonic Youth and Hüsker
Dü before it was in vogue to do so, but glorifying Garth, to
the few people to whom I spoke about this prospective column, meant
giving up my precious, hard-earned cool credentials.
"Aww, he sucks," a friend of mine berated me. "Why are you
wasting your time on him?"
"Ever sat down and really listened to his music?" I shot
back.
"Well … a little … in passing …" he impotently answered.
His next defense? "But my parents listen to that crap."
"Your parents listen to the Beatles don’t they?"
"Well … uh …"
"So what’s the problem?"
Of course, I know where the real problem with Garth Brooks lies.
It lies in Southern prejudice, as deeply ingrained into the
collective psyche of (mostly urban dwelling) Northern and Western
Americans as any other still-bleeding wound cut by the Civil War.
Let’s face it, folks from the South think and feel in different
ways than your average UCLA student, and they have funny little
accents to prove it. Why should you, with all of your education,
listen to anything yet another hick has to say?
Garth Brooks may be a hick, but he’s no dummy, and he’s got
something to say to his target audience, which includes you,
too.
Listening to his greatest hits collection during vacation (The
Hits, on Liberty Records) brought home how much I really admired
Brooks and his music, but it also displayed what I feel is the real
meaning behind the word "alternative": he challenges his
audience.
True, musically, Brooks’ highly melodic, well-constructed songs
go against no grain that I can discern. But a few of Brooks’ lyrics
 one in particular  stand as proof that the man
possesses integrity. Unlike many mainstream country artists Â
and for that matter, a whole truckload of alternative ones Â
Brooks has no fear of telling his audience something they might not
want to hear.
"We Shall Be Free" originally appeared on Garth’s The Chase, and
it earned the distinction of being banned from much of country
radio. In it, he dreams of a world where people are judged by the
content of their character rather than the color of their skin,
where people can worship whatever kind of God they choose and where
all views are tolerated and accepted. It’s your basic imagined
utopia song, country music’s equivalent of John Lennon’s
"Imagine."
The line that got Garth into the most trouble was this one:
"When we’re free to love anyone we choose …" Naturally, he was
asked about it when he made his subsequent (and alas, inevitable)
appearance on a Barbara Walters special. "A lot of people see this
as an endorsement of homosexuality," she told him. "Is it?"
Brooks didn’t miss a beat. Not only did he reply in the
affirmative, but he "outed" his bass-playing sister on national
television (with her OK I’m sure) and laid down his stance clearly:
If you have any problem with homosexuality, you have no business
buying my records.
Watching this at home, I couldn’t help but jump out of my chair
with exuberant enthusiasm  it was like I had just seen the
1969 moon landing. I had always admired Brooks from a distance, but
this clinched it. Here’s a guy whose demographic by association is
well-known for its political conservatism (think of Lee Greenwood’s
beer commercial-inspired "God Bless America" or Hank Williams Jr.’s
album-length exercise in jingoism, America -The Way I See It).
But Garth didn’t let that bother him, and he still doesn’t. "I
never thought that there would be any problems with this song," he
writes in the liner notes to The Hits, and though I bet that’s not
true, I’m awed that he didn’t let that stop him. Instead of
coasting on his fame, Brooks gambled, making a statement about
something that was personally important to him.
Compare this to the allegedly alternative Pearl Jam, who have
yet to offer the audience anything musically or ideologically
challenging to its audience. By releasing Vitalogy, yet another
installment of the group’s programmatic, patented brand of whiny,
fatalistic, contrived angst, is Pearl Jam really telling the
audience anything it hasn’t thought or felt already? Probably
not.
Even without this song, or Brooks’ pro-woman "The Thunder
Rolls," Brooks’ music is definitely worth your attention. Who says
music can’t be valued on entertainment value alone? Anyone who can
resist a song whose tagline is "Mama’s in the graveyard / And
papa’s in the pen" needs a humor gland implant. Anyone who doesn’t
think that "Friends In Low Places" isn’t fun (or that "oasis" isn’t
a great rhyme for "places") hasn’t been drinking with the right
people. And anyone isn’t moved by Garth’s ballads, especially "What
She’s Doing Now," doesn’t know good drama when they hear it.
So go ahead friends, you have my blessings. Buy Garth’s limited
edition anthology The Hits, available until this June, when it will
go out of print forever. It’s as essential to your record
collection as Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation or Hüsker
Dü’s New Day Rising, if not more. Not every great artist goes
unheard, after all.
Tatum has fantasies about putting James Taylor into a
guillotine. His column appears every Wednesday.