Stagecoach

Californians love ’em some country music, and the second edition of ultra-maxi C&W blow out Stagecoach has assembled a nearly comprehensive line up. Where the 2007 debut package seemed to ignore several crucial tribes—notably absent were any representatives of the honky-tonk and Outlaw sound—this year, the three-day event aims to assemble, and very nearly achieves, a span of artists that reflect the music’s evolutionary course. From historic originators to key developmental forces up to the very latest in fresh-faced, hype-fueled breakout performers, the Stagecoach menu is as satisfyingly stick-to-the-ribs, double-dipped and Southern fried as the bill of fare at a Music Row greasy spoon. And while a couple of the special dishes offered—mediocre rock & roll acts the Eagles, John Fogerty, Mike Ness—seem to stray disastrously afar, just remember, there’s always somebody who is going to order the liver and onions. 

Traditionally-minded fans may bellyache, and understandably so, about the effect an act like Saturday headliners Rascal Flatts have had on country music as a whole, but the slick, sticky vanilla-creme pop that the band reliably oozes has been eagerly sucked up by millions (hell, yes, it’s entirely artificial—but business is business). Tim McGraw’s beefy bellow may be equally synthetic but also seems more demonstrably loyal to the original form; this allegiance doesn’t transfer much into his music and generally only goes as far as lip service and a big cowboy hat, but at least McGraw knows whom Johnny Paycheck was. Trisha Yearwood brings both an unbeatable set of pipes and her legacy of high-drama soap operatics—that whole drawn-out and decidedly lurid escapade that climaxed with her accepting now-husband Garth Brooks’ public proposal onstage at Bakersfield’s Crystal Palace nightclub—and what’s more country than some good old fashioned cheatin’ and home wreckin’? The lissome self-made phenom Taylor Swift, currently enjoying a fireworks-like upward trajectory from nowhere to the top of the heap—her pink pick up truck was recently displayed at the Country Music Hall of Fame Museum—carries a populist-lite appeal that almost feels genuine (unlike the sanitized platinum shriek of American Idol interloper Carrie Underwood, say). Like the old saying goes, once you learn to fake sincerity, you’ve got it made, and in Nashville, they’ve elevated the ethic to a previously undreamt of height.

Wedged between this phalanx of phonies, pimps and payasos, though, are some impressive and intriguing artists: the bizarro shenanigans of Big & Rich, a high-falutin’ duo who recreated the Nashville institution to serve their own individualistic ends. The spearheads of the fecund Muzik Mafia crew have done so as a sort of 21st century rock & roll update of old school Medicine Show hokum, so heavy on the idiosyncratic shtick that it plays almost like a Minstrel show in reverse, delivering a weird jolt of razzle-dazzle that’s wholly all American in both it’s audacity and entertainment quotient. And Muzik Mafia alum Gretchen Wilson continues her boozy reign as white trash empress with her characteristically brilliant combination of self-deprecating dignity, shrewdly exploitive messagery and such consistently peerless talent as vocalist that she flat out makes one’s head spin. 

For the serious fanatic, though, Stagecoach offers several legendary heroes whose very presence brings electrifying anticipation. Although well up in his seventies, George Jones, the King of Country music, remains an Olympian-scale figure, one whose legacy of profound artistic perfection, disastrously severe hell-raising and undeniably indelible influence rates him as the single most exciting name on the whole roster. Jones did it the hard way, from his hellish, poverty-stricken youth to his wild and wooly, tabloid-fodder marriage to Tammy Wynette to a post-divorce cocaine and booze-fueled attempt at self-destruction that badly backfired. By 1980, Jones’ weight had dropped to a pitiful hundred pounds and the singer was half-mad (as in that infamous night where he sang an entire show using a Donald Duck voice), but he also began recording the greatest songs of an already sterling career. With “He Stopped Loving Her Today” and “If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will)” Jones re-defined the standard for honky-tonk agony with such an extravagantly artful technique that it’s doubtful anyone will ever began to rival the sheer, gut-level impact which the singer so effortlessly manifests (and, yes, his voice has slightly degraded, but seventy five percent of goddam hillbilly genius is still more than you’ll get anywhere else).

There’s another crucial Texas wildman here, also, Billy Joe Shaver; the star-crossed Outlaw poet laureate whose songs have been recorded by Waylon Jennings, Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis and Johnny Cash, is himself an intensely compelling performer with a leathery, soulful croak and an original set list that displays unparalleled sensitivity and craftsmanship. And Shaver may not get out here again for awhile—he is currently facing possible indictment on charges of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and unlawfully carrying a handgun. Long, complicated story, but, I’ll tell you what—that’s country, hoss.