The Sound Heard 'Round the State
Couples twirl across the dance floor—their freshly shined boots shuffling along the hardwood surface in a circle that spans nearly the entire dancehall. Single girls line the edge of the floor in anticipation of a song change and the chance to be swept up in a cowboy’s arms. Others stand at the bar ordering a new Coors Light while the house band’s last song plays in the background. As the first chord of headliner Kyle Park’s “Make or Break Me” reverberates through the City Limits nightclub in Stephenville, Texas, the counterclockwise circling ceases and the group becomes one, crowding the stage like hungry animals anxiously waiting to be fed.
As I hurry off the dance floor to join in the frenzy, two restless figures run out before me: a tall girl with long brown hair clad in boot-cut jeans, and a blonde whose curls bounce behind her as she cranes her neck for a view of the stage. The brunette stands calmly, mesmerized by the spectacle before her. She laughs as her friend anxiously searches for a gap in the crowd to squeeze closer to the action. From their looks and mannerisms these girls seem to have little in common, but as I watch them begin to sway in unison, it’s as if they have become one. As Park steps up to the microphone and begins to sing, the girls turn towards each other to clink glasses and croon along, “I know you too well, maybe more than myself, so don’t try to hide anything…” This sense of camaraderie, inclusiveness, belonging—this is the magic of Texas country music.
Our composed brunette is Lyndsie Gregorie—a die-hard Austinite whose carefree expression shows her perfectly at ease in her Texan habitat; her companion is Cassie Clayton, whose wide eyes and anxious smile expose her as a newcomer to the Texas country music scene. I see myself in both of them—having only moved to Texas from Bakersfield, California three years ago, I can hardly consider myself a native, but thanks to the people I’ve met and the music I’ve listened to, I’ve made a lasting bond with the Lone Star State. Any fan of the genre will tell you that the appeal is its capacity to make a personal connection with listeners. This may help explain why both Gregorie and Clayton, coming from such dissimilar backgrounds, repeatedly flock to the same shows. Gregorie laughs as she describes the standard Texas country music fan as “your typical redneck: lives on a farm, lives in a trailer, goes to City Limits every Saturday night, gets drunk and fights at Whataburger,” but corrects herself by saying, “The thing about the music is that even though that’s the typical fan base, it still reaches out to people that aren’t from Texas or don’t have any kind of connection…the audience is getting wider every day.” This is certainly true as Clayton describes her discovery of the genre as “finding a hidden treasure that no one gets to hear.” Coming from California where she grew up listening to rock and hip-hop, being exposed to Texas country was like entering an alternate universe. She recalls, “I always felt that country music was about a depressing dog dying or something…I never found the joy of country music until I was forced to listen.” After living in Fort Worth, Texas, for a year and having merely a tourist’s perspective on the music scene, a friend played her a song that ignited her passion for Texas country. Clayton fondly reminisces about Casey Donahew Band’s song, “Stockyards”, “I love hearing about him talking about Main Street and being down at Cadillac bar. All his experiences in life you can feel through his music, and now I can feel it too because I have been in the Stockyards and I can see Fort Worth in his songs.” Since that encounter, Clayton has adopted Texas culture as her own and now prefers Texas country over any other genre. She explains, “If you look at rap or alternative or certain kinds of music, they’ve lost the meaning of words, and country music has kept its authenticity.”
Maintaining “authenticity” is central to the history of the genre, as this was one of the main goals of Texas country’s founding father, Willie Nelson. Most music critics and historians pinpoint the birth of the genre to 1971, when the country music legend decided to abandon Nashville, Tennessee, and return to his roots in the state of Texas. Nelson rejected the money-driven, corporatized environment that Nashville country came to embody. He referred to it as “the Store” where artists traded originality for gimmicks in hopes of making a buck. Along with other musicians such as Jerry Jeff Walker and Waylon Jennings, Nelson led the Progressive Country Movement, which was later coined “Outlaw Country” by outsiders trying to cash in on their sound. Under their leadership, Austin, Texas, became a new Mecca for country music. Though in the past mainly male artists (such as Cory Morrow, Cody Canada, and Stoney LaRue) have found their niche in Texas country, in the past ten years the scene has made a shift to a younger audience and given a voice to many female musicians as well, including Bri Bagwell, the Rankin Twins, and Charla Corn. Evidently the nature of the scene has evolved, but Austin continues to produce art that is simply too “weird” to be accepted by businessmen in Nashville. This status as an alternative music capital remains a source of pride for Austinites, as more than 1,900 performing artists reside in the “Live Music Capital of the World.” Many of these artists are eager to declare themselves “anti-Nashville.” Texas country artists aren’t afraid to limit their audience: topics like proper joint rolling techniques and bashing the federal government are among Cross Canadian Ragweed’s biggest hits, and a visit to a Whiskey Meyers show will undoubtedly include a ten minute guitar solo that would send most pop-country fans running for the door.
Yet for many Texas country artists, the allure of stardom and riches is enough incentive to deny their roots and move to Nashville for a shot at “the big time.” Unfortunately for those who do not succeed in elevating their status in the industry, the fans of Texas country music are notoriously unforgiving to those who have “sold out.” Performer Pat Green epitomizes this phenomenon. With the 2003 release of his album “Wave on Wave,” Green made the switch from independent Texas artist to another cog in the Nashville machine. Though he did receive a Grammy Award for the title track, his following efforts received little attention. His failure to remain relevant in the industry led him to return to Texas where his career is now but a shadow of the glory he achieved in the 90s with albums like “Dancehall Dreamer” and “Carry On.” Fans no longer see him as a legitimate Texas representative and therefore few have accepted his return home. Recently at a Fort Worth watering hole, I had the pleasure of meeting Texas Christian University alumnus, Steve Springer, whose knowledge about Texas country music could rival Willie Nelson himself (his Texas Rangers cap and southern drawl only accentuated his expertise). Springer disdainfully remarked, “Pat Green will never be as big in Texas as he was about ten years ago. Never in my life. In 2001, he played a rodeo in Odessa that I paid two dollars to get into, but then all of a sudden, he went mainstream and you’re having to pay twenty, twenty-five dollars to hear the same music. That’s bullshit.” When asked why he felt so strongly against Texas artists who chose to pursue their career in Nashville, he began gesturing wildly and interrupted me to shout, “If you’re gonna alienate your fans like that then you’re not ever gonna make it. If you can make a living being a Texas country music artist, stay in Texas.”
Though outsiders such as Clayton and myself have successfully used Texas country music as a way to relate to our foreign surroundings, there is no doubt that being a native Texan gives a new level of appreciation to the scene. In a place like Stephenville where pigs/goats/horses outnumber people and small town life is cherished, Texas country music truly relates the lives of its fans. At City Limits I spoke with a trio of young men who prefer to be referred to collectively in this article as “Steven.” Through their whiskey-fueled rants, the three Wrangler-clad, burly young men from West Texas related the mantra of Texas country fans, saying that the music is “pretty much our life story, it’s what we do!” The genre’s most popular themes reflect this claim because its songwriters aren’t outsiders paid to copy a formula—they’re born and raised Texans sharing life experiences. Whether it’s the sentimental story of marrying your high school sweetheart or a drinking song to help you unwind with your buddies after punching the time clock, Texas country lyrics relate to the everyday man and uphold the values of the culture. Gregorie explains, “So many songs in Texas country remind me of somebody or remind me of a story. You’re so much more enthusiastic about the music because it’s who you are.”
My own experiences since moving to Fort Worth from Bakersfield have given me a glimpse of this insider perception of the music. The first time I heard Josh Abbott Band’s song “End of a Dirt Road,” the chorus immediately led me to recall my inaugural ranch weekend in the Texas Hill Country. Abbott sings, “You won’t find street signs where I wanna be. I wouldn’t give a nickel to have it paved in gold. Everything I love is at the end of a dirt road.” His words stirred my memories—the smell of the campfire awaiting us after hours of sitting in a silent deer blind, the sense of wonder I felt watching the sun set amongst the brown, rolling hills. Making the connection between Abbott’s song and my adventure in the Hill Country was when I realized how deeply native Texan fans of the music must feel about the genre. Abbott’s song expresses respect for the environment, devotion to friendship, and spirituality. I felt proud to be living in Texas and joining a culture where my values were accepted.
As “Steven” boisterously reminded me in our conversation, “everything’s bigger in Texas,” and this undoubtedly includes state pride. This larger-than-life perception of the state stems from childhood—according to Ashley Swanks, an education student at Tarleton State University, fourth graders in Stephenville are instructed to compose essays entitled, “Why I’m Proud to Be a Texan.” As even the public education system sustains the fulsome ethos of the region, is it at all surprising that Texas country music reflects this aspect of the culture as well? This unconscious desire for identity has created the “Texas Myth” which permeates through all sections of culture, especially music.Though Texas hasn’t been an independent nation since 1845, citizens maintain their identity as Texans just as strongly (if not stronger) than their identity as Americans. The Alamo and the capital are holy ground; Davy Crockett and Sam Houston were gods among men. Some fact, some fiction—the tall tale still exists. Drawing on this tradition, you’re bound to find several songs on the set list of any Texas country concert meant to unite the audience. “God Bless Texas,” Waylon Jennings’ “Luchenbach, Texas,” and Wiley Hubbard’s “Screw You, We’re From Texas” are examples of anthems that reinforce the audience’s solidarity by alluding to common points of pride. Though few remnants of the Texas Myth and frontier past remain in the lives of most modern Texans, many still take pride in their ancestors’ unique, independent history, and following Texas country music serves as a way to conserve this memory. Gregorie explains, “People want a story to share, like how we’ve come to be a state and how much diversity we have and what we have to offer. With Texas country music, people want something to identify with, because even though the majority of the state is urban, there is still a large population that is rural, or at least has country roots.”
As the final chord echoes from Kyle Park’s acoustic guitar, the house lights slowly turn on to expose the roaring crowd. I stand amidst a sea of satisfied listeners, leaning against each other while finishing their last drinks and chattering excitedly about the spectacle they’ve witnessed. The atmosphere mimics an exodus from a Sunday morning church service—there is a palpable sense of fellowship in the air. We all came here for the same reason: not only to drink, dance, and see a show, but to leave feeling connected to each other and to Texas. Magical moments like this have made this Californian feel at home deep in the heart of Texas. I link arms with Lyndsie Gregorie and Cassie Clayton, breathless after hours of excitement, as we exit the dancehall with Park’s lyrics still ringing in our ears, “As I pass the City Limits sign, gotta get home soon, so until next time, I’m leavin’ Stephenville…”
