Naw, Bro.

As I mentioned the other day, Clan Mondo went to Real City on Friday, and we took Mrs. M’s car, which meant I had contemporary country music inflicted upon me on the way home. Current country hits being what they are, I got to hear a substantial amount of what is called “bro-country”, which seems to revolve around a redneck apotheosis of getting some “girl” (in tight jeans that have been cut off to a greater or lesser extent) to “shake that thang” on a tailgate/by the creek/at the field party/around a tractor while the speaking persona drinks in a manly fashion. For more on this trend, go here.

I have no problem with any of these activities, singly or in combination — it’s still a free country, more or less, and I do live in Mondoville. However, even a half-hour of this stuff at a relentless 120 bpm, with a bass drum louder than the fiddle and vocals with the vile stench of autotune, was enough to make me claw the windows.

As a consequence, I took a break from Gradeapalooza Saturday night and wrote the following:

Chasin’ Rice Along the Florida-Georgia Line.

 

I heard some guys with pickup trucks

Who sang to girls in cut-off jeans –

They’d trade some beer for feminine attention.

They said that they were country boys –

I shook my head because I knew

Merle would have kicked their asses in San Quentin.

 

Half-sung, half spoken, they were backed

By drums from old Def Leppard tracks;

They said they wanted girls to ride their tractors.

They’ve got high cheekbones, washboard abs –

The music? Well, that’s up for grabs.

They say it’s country. I say, manufactured.

 

CH: Crank up the bass drum! Autotune!

Cause it don’t matter – you can ruin

Everything Hank Williams ever wrote.

And if you boys have sex appeal

You’ll get yourself a record deal!

Dead guys like Jones and Cash don’t get a vote…

We got some more bro-country to promote.

 

They’ll cut off sleeves, wear baseball caps –

Producers fix the sharps and flats.

Let’s bring a rapper in to do the hook.

We’ll fill the honky-tonks and bars

With booty calls and steel guitars.

Buck Owens? Was he someone in a book?

I thought that country started with Garth Brooks.

 

Round up some girls and pop a cold one.

Dance while the DJ plays an old one:

This song goes clear on back to Twenty-twelve.

Now here’s another bro-co track

That might as well be Nickelback.

Yo, buddy! I can’t sing, but check these delts!

 

Hey girl, you look good in that top –

You know I’d like to see it drop.

It ain’t date rape – just parties in a field.

We’ll all just shake it by the creek,

Blast Luke and Jason from the speak-

Ers, and act just like our country music’s real –

Not just another big machine-made deal.

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About profmondo

Dad, husband, mostly free individual, medievalist, writer, and drummer. "Gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche."
This entry was posted in Culture, Family, Music, Pixel-stained Wretchery. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Naw, Bro.

  1. Jeff S. says:

    In the past ten years, my family has lived in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Georgia, so I’ve heard tons of this pop-country; your parody nails it. Any chance your band could temporarily change genres and record this?

  2. Pingback: Abraham Lincoln’s Doctor’s Dog | Professor Mondo

  3. Kenneth Hall says:

    I’ve been helping a good friend lay down some demos in his studio, in the Waylon/Merle/Don Williams/Ray Price vein (and one song has lines about laying siege to Nashville and moving the Opry back to the Ryman, both of which I endorse wholeheartedly). Kurt’s a good songwriter and the other guys are good players — I’m having a lot of fun.

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