Even with its occasional focus on female singers – last night Patsy Cline, Brenda Lee, and Loretta Lynn – and its recognition of the influence of African-American musicians, Ken Burns’ Country Music feels sometimes like the white man’s last hurrah.
Last night Country Music focused on Hank Williams, but it included an interesting story about Ernest Tubb, who, appearing at Carnegie Hall with a group of country stars, told the audience, “Wow, this place could sure hold a lot of hay.”
Whoever wrote the ad copy for Ken Burns’ new documentary - “Nothing unites the country like country.” - shouldn't have been so modest. The summer I worked on a farm in France I learned that my boss loved Jennings and Cash almost as much as he loved Brassens and Brel.
That was 1976. It took me much longer to come to an appreciation of one of the fundamental genres of my musical homeland. It was not until 2004, in fact, when I participated in the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville. One night a local, driving a group of us around in his car, put on a CD of Cash and his wife June Carter singing “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” and, instantly, my ears (and mind and heart) were opened to the beauty and the honesty of the sound. And it seemed to me, riding through the Nashville night, that that old reworked hymn about family and eternal reward was just as legitimately about country music and the people who make it.
The Spectator contained a letter to the editor from one of its own columnists (the sort of thing that makes me a faithful if not constant reader of the magazine) concerning the appearance of Boris Johnson on his BBC radio show. The subject of the show – this was before the move to 10 Downing Street – was Samuel Johnson, and the columnist, Matthew Parrish, wrote: “Boris Johnson proved a sparkling, energetic, and erudite champion of his namesake…”
There are people, at least in this country, who compare Britain's new prime minister with our PM (president manqué). But can anyone imagine Trump being described as “sparkling” or “erudite” on any subject, let alone that of a 18th Century writer?
Back in May I spent a day in Philadelphia, wandering familiar streets and taking photographs, some of which I posted on Instagram. In my old neighborhood of Queen Village I took a picture of a large mural that featured a mournful, mixed-race angel overlooking the Center City skyline. The word “Rise” appeared above his left wing. I didn’t post the photograph; I thought I’d wait until the city experienced a crisis.
That took three months.
Last night a little Central American girl appeared in my dreams, waving to friends as she was taken away by ICE.