Twerking through the Ages

1984, age 14. "Head," by Prince, from the album Dirty Mind.

WARNING: This blog post contains frank discussion of some matters related to human sexuality. Proceed with caution.

It's been awhile since I've watched MTV's Video Music Awards. I suppose that's mostly because I don't think MTV has much cred discussing music videos.  I also think they are a little predictable.

Nevertheless, I'm an avid pop culture junkie, so I felt the need to investigate following the social media eruption that happened after Miley Cyrus' performance with Robin Thicke on the VMAs. I will confess that I didn't even know that Ms. Cyrus had crossed over to a post-Disney career, following the footsteps of other alum Fergie, Christina Aguilera, Lindsey Lohan, Britney Spears, Shia LeBeouf, Selena Gomez, and of course, the original beach babe, Annette Funicello.

The hullabaloo seems to be related to Miley extending her tongue and twerking during the performance.  She's been called slutty, trashy, and cheap on posts from my own friends and pop culture bloggers. Several of my friends have opined that she represents a decline in musicianship, civil rights, and/or culture at large.

I gotta say, I think it's all a tempest in a teacup.

For those of you over 30, "tweaking" is defined by the Urban Dictionary as "The rhythmic gyrating of the lower fleshy extremities in a lascivious manner with the intent to elicit sexual arousal or laughter in ones [sic] intended audience." (Congrats, Urban Dictionary, for your post-SAT vocab, but you may want to look up "extremities." I don't think the ass counts.)

When I read that definition, I immediately thought of one pop performer: Elvis Presley.

You know, "Elvis the Pelvis"? The King of Rock and Roll?  You've heard of him, right?

Well, if you don't know how Elvis earned the moniker, it's related to one of his earliest television performances. The 19-year-old singer appeared on The Milton Berle Show in 1956 and performed a couple of his hits, including a hip-shaking cover of Big Mama Thornton's "Hound Dog." Now, it's no surprise that Elvis might seek to emphasize the sexuality of "Hound Dog." The song is about a man who sleeps around.  (You knew that, yeah? I mean, you knew it wasn't actually about a dog, right?) The result was electrifying and the public reaction was immediate. Ed Sullivan, TV's most popular host, immediately declared that he would never book Presley. The day following the performance, the New York Times said, "Mr. Presley has no singing ability . . . His one specialty is an accented movement of the body that heretofore has been primarily identified with the repertoire of the blonde bombshells of the burlesque runway. The gyration never had anything to do with the world of popular music and still doesn't." The Daily News echoed the sentiment by saying that the performance was "tinged with the kind of animalism that should be confined to dives and bordellos." Other media outlets concurred.

You know the rest of the story: teenage Elvis went back to Tennessee, scorned and dejected, and lived out the rest of his days pumping gas at an Esso station, never to return to the stage again.

Well, except for the part where Ed Sullivan ate crow, signed Elvis for an unprecedented three-show, $50,000 contract, and he became the single most identifiable figure in the history of rock and roll music.

Presley went on to record lots of songs about sex, by the way, including "Shake, Rattle, and Roll," and "Jailhouse Rock," perhaps popular music's first paean to gay prison sex. (You knew that's what the song was about, right? I mean, what did you think Number 47 and Number 3 were talking about, exactly?)

In fact, Elvis was just continuing a tradition of performing songs to shock the elders. Anyone who is a blues fan knows just how "blue" the music got in the 20s, 30s, and 40s. (Go give Bessie Smith's "Kitchen Man" a listen. I once heard my friend Doris perform it and make a room blush.) And R&B singles like "The Rotten Cocksuckers Ball" by the Clovers, circa 1954, were certainly more explicit than anything the King had to offer. Hell, the tradition goes back even further to the so-called "bawdy ballads" like "Roll Your Leg Over."

And the tradition continued. Songs about sex (and drugs, the other post-30 bugaboo) are pervasive in the history of rock and roll, as are "shocking" sexual performances. A sample:

• Almost all of Little Richard's output consists of sexual innuendo, and sometimes explicit content. "Tutti Frutti" was, of course, about gay sex (You knew that, right? I mean "All the Fruits"? What did you think it was about?) and "Long Tall Sally" included lyrics like, "Long Tall Sally she's built for speed, she's got everything that Uncle John needs."
• The Rolling Stones were forced to change the lyrics of their hit, "Let's Spend the Night Together" to "Let's Spend Some Time Together" for the Ed Sullivan Show. The group agreed, but then returned to the stage wearing Nazi uniforms and regalia to protest the censorship.
• The Doors' Jim Morrison was arrested in Miami for allegedly shouting, "Do you want to see my cock?" and then exposing his penis to a concert audience.
• David Bowie was possibly the first pop artist to come out as bisexual in an interview with Playboy magazine in 1975.
• The Ohio Players released some albums.
• A 17-year-old Prince releases his first album, including the single, "Soft and Wet." Prince's Dirty Mind album, featured the performer on the cover in a g-string and trench coat and includes songs about cunnilingus and incest. Prince's Controversy track, "Jack U Off," is only one of the most explicit from the album. The newly-formed Parents Music Resource Center targets Prince's "Darling Nikki," for including lyrics about female masturbation. Prince appears nude on the the cover of his album, Lovesexy. Everything that Prince has every done.
• In 1990, hip hop artists 2 Live Crew had their album banned for obscenity by a U.S. District Court.
• Remember Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction" at the Super Bowl?
• The VMAs themselves have included Madonna rolling on the stage in a bridal gown singing, "Like a Virgin;" an 18-year-old Britney Spears donning a "nude" costume and boa constrictor; and Madonna french-kissing Christina Aguilera and a 22-year-old Britney Spears, both former Disney stars.

I mean, this is a sample — not some exhaustive list. And I'm not including all the Satan-worshipping, biting-the-heads-off-doves incidents, either. The history of music is just full of this stuff.

So what's it all mean?

Two things I think.

The first is that my aunt Awayn was right. (That's pronounced "A-1" with the accent on the first syllable, and yes, that is her real name.) Awayn is a fundamentalist Christian (and she would not mind me saying that). When I was a kid, she insisted that rock and roll was "jungle music" and that it was mostly about sex.

Well, she's right. I'm sure that the term "jungle music" probably indicates some latent racism on her part, but the music is African in much of it's origin — as is all American music. (The conversation about the appropriation of these styles, i.e., the "white boy who stole the blues," is too long for this post, but Robin Thicke is just the latest example.)

But rock and roll is also largely about sex. I mean, "rockin' and rollin' . . ." That's obvious, right? Why are we surprised that there is music about what is arguably the single most dominant biological function of every living organism on the planet? And why are we pretending it's new?

The second is that rock and roll — and many other popular American styles — are about a younger generation rebelling against the social mores of an older generation.

My guess is that Miley's manager said something to her like this: "Girl, Lady GAGA is gonna be on the VMAs. That chick wore a dress made out of flank steaks! You better step up your SHIT!"

Because, how do you shock a generation that rocked out to "Love the One You're With" and "Why Don't We Do It in the Road"? We've all seen your muddy nude dancing at Woodstock, we have read about your acid trips, and we know how you advocated "free love." It takes a lot to shock you.

And you 70s types, with your Studio 54 and cocaine spoons, your Masters and Johnson, your Coming of Age in Samoa — how exactly are we supposed to rock your world?

As for you 80s children, all I can say is that you had Prince.

Art is fundamentally about starting a conversation, making people think. For that reason, this one goes in the "win" column for Ms. Cyrus. We're talking about her performance. And you've read this far. 

The other group who has expressed strong objection to Sunday's show are those who are distressed that we are all talking about Miley while Syrians are being killed, the Egyptian government is in a shambles, and the polar ice caps are melting. To those good-hearted people, I would just say that you are right: the world can be unbearably awful at times. Sometimes art answers those issues. But sometimes (as I have written elsewhere), it just provides a much-needed, booty-shaking respite from all the awfulness. It may not be your cup of tea, but there are those, probably younger than you, who are twerking away, just trying to lose themselves in the music for awhile.

Why I'm Not a Snob (Anymore)

1990, age 18. "Time After Time," by Miles Davis, from the album You're Under Arrest.

You know the movie High Fidelity? It's easily one of my top five movies of all time. I may qualify as a nerd in several of the genus' subspecies, but I am most definitely and finally a music nerd. This is a movie for people like me. It shows the types of obsessions that we have about record labels, limited releases, track order, and the like. Perhaps given the ubiquity of Top 40 (and Top 10, Top 20, Top 50, and Top 100) lists, it also shows our passion for ordering. Top Five Track One, Side Ones of All Time. Top Five Songs about Death. Top Five Crimes Perpetrated by Stevie Wonder in the 80s and 90s.  It's true: we really do that. I can remember conversations with like-minded friends about top five (or ten) Art Blakey sidemen, break-up songs, underrated bass players, country covers, and pop records of all time. Oh, and saxophonists. The list is a staple of the music nerd's life.

Of course, inherent to the list is the idea of ranking, i.e., determining who is the best. It's kind of a weird obsession with music fans, but it's pretty universal. "You think Sonny Rollins swings harder than Trane? Are you freaking kidding me?!" "In what world is The White Album better than Revolver?" "Only a complete imbecile would think Screamin' Jay Hawkins sings 'I Put a Spell on You' better than Nina Simone." Music lovers strongly attach to their opinions. They can make a discussion of the Top Five Folk-Rock Duos after Simon and Garfunkel more contentious and of seemingly greater gravitas than the First Council of Nicaea.

Which brings me to one of my favorite scenes in High Fidelity. The record store staff are talking to a regular customer, Louis, who has just witnessed them belittling another store patron and this exchange happens:

     Louis: You guys are snobs
     Staff: No, we're not.
     Louis: Yeah, seriously, you're totally elitist. You feel like the unappreciated scholars, so you shit        on people who know less than you.
     Staff: No!
     Louis: Which is everybody . . . 
     Staff: Yeah . . . 

All this list-making, all of this obsession over minutia, all of the fierce defense over one's opinions leads almost inexorably to being a music snob.

I used to be okay with that. When I was growing up, I seemed to think that becoming more opinionated was somehow the point of it all.  After all, even the most famous of musicians and critics are virulent in their attacks on others.  I've mentioned it elsewhere, so I won't rehearse it again here, but older generations of musicians disparage the music of younger musicians almost as a point of honor. It's not just old versus new, of course. Country fans can't stand hip hop. Blues fans think jazz is pretentious and egg-headed. Hard rock fans think that "disco sucks." Etc.

As I've mentioned previously, I was a huge Prince fan when I was young. It started with the 1999 album when I was just 10 years old (yikes!) and continued through my junior high school years. But when I joined the school band, I started playing saxophone and listening to jazz. Soon my listening habits began to change. Instead of Prince, I was listening to John Coltrane. Miles Davis replaced Morris Day and I dug on Ella Fitzgerald more than Vanity 6. Needless to say, not many 13-year-olds in my zip code were head-bobbing to Horace Silver in 1985. On one hand, that made me a bit eccentric and outcast. On the other hand, it kind of made me feel superior. Superior in taste, in intellect . . . even morally superior in some way, as if the decision to spin Blue Train instead of Purple Rain was of ethical significance.

And so, over the next few years, I began to "refine" my record collection. I not only bought more bebop, I actually got rid of most of my pop records. I can even remember when I sent a crate full of them — including my Prince albums — with one of my sisters to be sold at a flea market for 10 cents apiece.

Fast forward a couple more years and I find myself in college majoring in music. I had a few great professors and a whole bunch of similarly-minded musicians as peers. My ears opened up to all kinds of new sounds that year. Also new that year was a book that came recommended from my professors and made the rounds in our studio — Miles: An Autobiography. You felt cool reading it. Hell, you felt cool just carrying it around so that girls could see that you were reading it. It's very entertaining. (E.g., from page 9: "But shit, I wasn't alone in listening to them like that, because the whole band would just like have an orgasm every time Diz or Bird played — especially Bird. I mean Bird was unbelievable. Sarah Vaughan was there also, and she's a motherfucker, too." There's pages of this stuff.)

So I'm reading this thing and feeling all cool — I remember I was home for a weekend riding in the back of my parent's car going somewhere, reading this book. Then I come across this passage: ". . . I really love Prince, and after I heard him, I wanted to play with him sometime . . . he plays his ass off as well as he sings and writes. He's got that church thing up in what he does. He plays guitar and piano and plays them very well . . . Prince is a very nice, a shy kind of person, a little genius, too."

Say what?!

Miles Davis, the Miles Davis, jazz legend and icon, thinks Prince is a genius. Not just, "Yeah, I can dance to that stuff," but "genius."

I'll be honest with you, it shook up my world. Not least of all because I remembered all those records that someone got for about $2.00 a few years back.

Well, I was still learning and apparently hadn't heard the whole story, you know? Yeah, evidently Miles had been singing the praise of pop music and musicians for a couple of decades by that point, even though my listening hadn't gotten past his mid-Columbia output. In fact, he'd even released an album where he covered Cyndi Lauper's "Time after Time." Oh man.

I kind of took it hard. At first, I wanted to side with all those jazz musicians who accused Miles of "selling out." The thing was, this guy was there at the birth of the cool. There was no one who could school Miles Davis on what was cool. He practically invented the notion.

So, I started picking up copies of all those Prince albums I'd sold off, this time on CD. I was watching Saturday Night Live the night Miles Davis died during my sophomore year.  The musical guest was Public Enemy and they observed a moment of silence in his honor. That seemed right.

I also started a slow shift in my thinking about music that continues to this day.

The thing about music is that most people listen to it because they find meaning and joy in it. When you're a music snob, it's like saying, "You shouldn't find meaning and joy in that thing that seems to be giving you so much pleasure." Why would you do that? This world is hard enough. We need joy and meaning wherever we find it, and we don't all find it in the same place.

These days I enjoy more music than I ever have. I have a couple of college degrees in music and I get why some of it is more complex or sophisticated or technically difficult or whatever, but I have to say: I don't really care. What matters to me when I'm listening is if the performer is connecting with me emotionally. They don't always, but I can always appreciate the attempt.

That doesn't mean there isn't some music I'd rather eat chalk than listen to. Kenny G still turns my stomach. You can keep your Jimmy Buffett, too. I could list a bunch of them, but I don't want to get in the way of your aural bliss. I don't have to dig what you're spinning, but musical taste is not a moral issue for me anymore. The power of music is.

Oh yeah: I'm also gonna keep making those lists. I may have mellowed a bit, but I'm still a nerd.

Cover Me

2005, age 35.  "How Come U Don't Call Me?" by Alicia Keys, from the album Unplugged.

I once had this idea for a mixtape that I wanted to call "Cover Me."  The basic idea was that each track would be an artist covering a song by the previous artist on the mix, with the first track being a cover of a song written by the final artist.  I thought it was a pretty good idea, actually, and spent a lot of time working on the mix.  In the end, I kind of lost interest in it, partly because I wasn't sure how the flow of the thing worked.  My favorite part of the mix was The Stylistics doing Willie Nelson's "Always on My Mind," followed by Prince with "Betcha By Golly, Wow," and then Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U."  I got stuck trying to find a cover of a Sinead tune that I actually liked, but those three tracks work really well together.

I've thought a lot about covers and what they mean.  Musicians have always covered other artists' material, of course, but it seems different now.  In the post-modern era, it's not enough to faithfully recreate a beloved song.  Instead, artists feel the need to re-imagine the original.  I love this.  There is something wonderful about listening to someone perform a piece that they have digested so completely and so lovingly that their own performance is something entirely new.  The piece becomes not only a work of art but a meta-commentary on art itself and what it is to really love music.

So here for you are my Top Ten Favorite Re-imagined Cover Songs.  Not all of them are of recent vintage, but they all represent a fairly substantial departure from the original in a way that only makes me love the song more.  I hope you'll take the time to check them out.

1. "Life on Mars," by the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain.  Let me begin here by saying that "Life on Mars" is one of the great, great, greatest of David Bowie's songs, one that cannot be improved upon in any way.  Unless it is performed by a ukulele ensemble.  The UOGB do a mash-up of the Hunky Dory song with "For Once in My Life," by Stevie Wonder; the title track from the film Born Free; and the Sinatra staple, "My Way."  The weird thing is that they manage it without mocking any of the sources and making an already poignant song a little more poignanter (?).  Not available anywhere but on DVD, unfortunately.

2.  "Nothing Compares 2 U," by Sinead O'Connor.  I think doing a cover of a Prince song is a pretty risky proposition.  His work is so quirky, so of-a-piece with his personality, that one risks sounding like a parody (witness Maroon 5's take on "Kiss").  But I gotta say, I think Sinead has it going on with this one.  I was never a big fan of the production on the original, so the relatively sparse setting when she sings, "It's been seven hours and fifteen days," sends chills up my spine.

3.  "Crimson and Clover," by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts.  I love, love, love this record and have since I was 8-years-old and joined the Joan Jett and The Blackhearts fan club.  The original, by Tommy James and the Shondells, is most notable for the the tremolo on the vocal toward the end, which I think is a really annoying effect.  When Joan sings, "Yeah, I'm not such a sweet thing, wanna do everything . . . " it still gives me butterflies and I can see those big eyes going wide in the video.

4.  "I Can't Help It (If I'm Still In Love with You)," by Isaac Hayes.  (Link unavailable.)  Hank Williams songs seem incredibly coverable and there are lots of good ones out there, but there is something about this b-side to "Never Can Say Goodbye," that I really dig.  The lush orchestration (it has French horns!) and the R&B vocal styling completely transform this honky-tonk classic and somehow make it seem that Hayes really spent some time feeling the import of these words.

5.  "More Than This," by Norah Jones.  Have you ever had a song from your youth that you didn't really think about at all until you heard someone cover it in a way that made you re-think the whole thing and go, "Dayum!  That's a great song!"  That's how I feel about this Norah Jones' cover of the Roxy Music original.  I pretty much love Bryan Ferry's voice, but something about Ms. Jones interpretation helps me hear this song, almost like it's the first time every time I listen.  Charlie Hunter on guitar, which is nice, too.

6.  "I'm Shakin'," by Jack White.  Now, it takes some real talent to improve on a Little Willie John song, but I really think Jack White has it.  Is it possible that the cover sounds more raw than the original?  The back-up "oooohs" from the chick singers and White's overdrive send this one over the top.  (Great video, too.)

7.  "Overkill," by Colin Hay.  Ok, this one might be cheating.  Colin Hay was the lead singer of the Down Under pop act Men At Work and here he is covering a song they made a top-ten hit.  But this version deconstructs the original in a way that you really hear it afresh, especially if you are 40-ish and mostly remember the silly video that was in heavy rotation on MTV with this one.  The spare, lone guitar just reinforces the lyric, and you can easily imagine Mssr. Hay sitting at home, late on a weeknight, singing his hymn to neurosis: "I can't get to sleep, I think about the implications . . ."  Bonus points for first appearing in a Scrubs episode.

8.  "Qué Sera Sera," by Pink Martini.  This one is just plain creepy and brings out the really dark nature of the lyrics.  Asking your mother if you will be happy as an adult and being answered with, "Whatever, kid."  Pink Martini blows Doris Day out of the water, with an atonal, angular accompaniment to an relatively straight vocal delivery, broken by an instrumental chorus that feels like the carnival in Something Wicked This Way Comes.

9.  "How Come U Don't Call Me," by Alicia Keys.  Ok, remember when I said a little while back that covering Prince songs is a risky premise?  Well, that's true, but lots of artists try it, and some of them are bound to hit.  And let me be clear: I am talking about Alicia's live version here, on her Unplugged album.  Keys' own soulful piano, the churchy Hammond, spot-on back-up singers, the entirely predictable but entirely satisfying vocal cadenza, and the energy the record captures between the performer and the audience is really electrifying.  As a rule, I am not a fan of live records, but this one just sends me.

10.  "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" by Roberta Flack.  Songwriter Carole King was reportedly displeased with The Shirelles up-tempo take on her song, even though it went to #1.  But she loved Roberta Flack's version, and it's easy to see why.  The simplest piano with a touch of strings in just the right places and time to listen to the real heartbreak in the lyric.  It really makes you ache.  (King recorded her own version on her Tapestry album, but it would be hard to top Flack's.)

What about you?  You got a favorite cover version —or do you agree with His Purple Majesty that cover versions should be banned?  I'd like to hear your thoughts.

Oh, those hills . . .

1976, age 4.  "Take Me Home, Country Roads," by John Denver, from Poems, Prayers, and Promises.

When I was a kid, John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," was ubiquitous.   It didn't strike me as unusual at the time that there should be a song about my home that was on the radio everywhere. It seemed just the soundtrack for my early childhood, too, when my family was making car trips over mountain roads to visit family in the southern coalfields.

The song has had rather ridiculous staying power as well.  The band at my alma mater, West Virginia University, still plays it every single football and basketball game.  You can hear it from buskers in Times Square.  My friend Scott Simons once told me he once played to a crowd who sang along with every word - in Japan.  One time I was standing in front of St. Giles' Cathedral in Edinburgh and heard the familiar melody coming from a Scottish piper in full highland regalia.  Everybody seems to know the words, too.  Several have pointed to supposed geographic flaws in the song, but both the Blue Ridge and the Shenandoah can be found, if only slightly, within the state's borders.

Many assume that "Country Roads" is the state song, but that title belongs to "West Virginia Hills."  The jaunty 6/8 march dates to 1885 with a Victorian lyric that is at times saccharine.  It used to be that every school child in the state learned "West Virginia Hills," but that seems no longer the case.  It is still sung regular at 4-H camps, just after the pledge of allegiance is recited.  It recently got some air time from actress Jennifer Garner on the Conan O'Brien show when she claimed that it was sung on Christmas Eve at church growing up and then sang most of the first verse.

Actually, according the website of the West Virginia Division of Culture and History, there are three official state songs.  The other two are "West Virginia, My Sweet Home," by Col. Julian G. Hearne, Jr., an attorney and career military officer, and "This is My West Virginia," by Charleston musician Iris Bell.  Alas, these two are rarely performed and I could find no more than the lyric to each when I searched online.

It does bring up an interesting subject to me, however.  For such a small state, there seem to be a lot of songs about West Virginia.

At least two of our state colleges and numerous high schools annually use a choral piece entitled "My Home Among the Hills," sung at graduations and other school events.  It has also been sung several times by the All-State Chorus.

"West Virginia, My Home," is among my favorites.  It's by Mercer County native and bluegrass singer Hazel Dickens, though I first heard it sung by Ginny Hawker.  Among fans of older country styles, this has almost become a de facto state song.

Philanthropist Lyle Clay, who has two major performance venues in the state named for him, penned "West Virginia's Home to Me."

Hancock County native and alternative music savant Daniel Johnston refers to the state multiple times in songs, but he gives a very fitting homage in "Wild West Virginia."

Then there's Phil Ochs "The Hills of West Virginia," Doyle Lawson's "The Girl from West Virginia," and Chicago's "West Virginia Fantasies."  The list goes on and on, and if you include songs that don't have the name of the state in the title, the list seems endless.  In fact, most of my songwriter and composer friends from West Virginia have written at least one song about the state.  (I'd recommend Craig Heath's "Let's Raise a Glass (To Ol' West Virginia)" and Scott Simons' holiday classic, "Chanukah in West Virginia.")

The thing is, when you spend time with these songs you begin to notice a theme, one that is a little unexpected in songs extolling the state's virtues: most of the songs are about leaving.

I'm not sure when this first hit me, but I remember being a little struck by this melancholy note sounded in song after song.  Not all of them, surely, but a very large number.

Some of them are very obviously about leaving the state, for example, country singer Kathy Mattea's "Leaving West Virginia."  She sings:
          I'm leaving West Virginia in the morning
          And I'm headin' out that California way
          I don't know what I'll find but baby it's my time
          And I'll surely leave my heart below the Mason-Dixon line.

Hazel Dickens' expresses a similar sentiment.  Dickens wrote her tribute as a young woman when the economy forced her family to relocate to Baltimore.  Her voice, full of country pathos, is perfect for the lyric:
          It's been years now since I left there
          And this city life's not one I thought I'd find
          Can't remember why I left so free what I wanted to do, what I wanted to be
          But I can sure remember where I come from.

I think the motif is noteworthy.  Many of the songs speaking of "roaming" far from home and one senses how bittersweet that is for the singer.  She loves the green hills, she loves the smell of honeysuckle in the early summer, and she loves the old homeplace where mother is buried, but she can't stay there any longer.  The mines have closed, there's nothing for her, and now she has to set out on her own, usually all alone.

The theme is found in other southern songs, I suppose.  One thinks of "Carry Me Back to Ole Virginny," or "Old Kentucky Home," and it's a common enough trope.  There is probably a reason for that.  The difference in West Virginia is that the idea seems to persist well into modern songwriting.

I've written elsewhere about my mixed feelings for my native state.  One often hears the state's leaders speak of "keeping people" here.  But there is this nagging feeling I have that when we speak of "keeping them" here, we mean crippling them, clipping their wings, so that they couldn't leave if they wanted to.  (Although it's written about a coal town in Kentucky rather than West Virginia, I'm reminded of Patty Loveless' lyric, "You'll never leave Harlan alive.")  It seems a sharp contrast from, "Start spreading the news . . . I want to be a part of it - New York, New York!"  (And really, can anyone imagine that line ending with "Beckley, West Virginia"?)

All of us hillbillies seem to share that melancholy.  We're here wishing things were better, or we are somewhere else wishing we could come home.

The sentiment is even expressed in one of the latter verses of our state song:
          Oh the West Virginia hills, where my childhood hours were passed,
          Where I often wandered lonely and the future tried to cast;
          Many are our visions bright, which the future ne'er fulfills;
          But how sunny were my daydreams on those West Virginia hills.
I wonder how many of us had just this experience when we were young, imagining something better and brighter than our families had known here, only to realize much later that those dreams were not to be realized.

And so the writer of that song says:
          Oh, the West Virginia hills, I must bid you now adieu,
          In my home beyond the mountains I shall ever dream of you . . .

For all of you who have shared that dream, I hope it is a sweet one, wherever you are having it.




(For a bone-chilling version of the West Virginia state song that captures the wistfulness of the lyric, I'd recommend this version by the Missing Person Soup Kitchen Gospel Quartet.)