Acoustic memories often come with a hankering, and since I just drove to Austin with my daugther in the car a few weeks back, those hankerings have been countrified. Somehow the longing in my heart has shifted on the dial.
I’ve been bit by the bug--not a bed bug--a Country with a capital “C” bug. I was voted least likely to be bit by the country bug. I cut my teeth on Stones and Faces (and Maker’s cause that’s how they handle the younguns in Kaintuck). I aspired to become a rock guitarist (or a vet or a detective), not a country music fan. And don’t blame it on my parents: My dad only tuned to WTMT 620 for race results. I promise my dial was set to LRS-102 during the impressionable years, as the photo clearly shows. (Technically, this was Paul Neff's basement.)
How did it happen? Might be all the time I’ve been spending on farms in Lancaster County. Could be the windows were open while I drove through Nashville. Blame it on the sound of eighteen wheelers infiltrating my dreams on the road. I could’ve caught it from Kelly Ford, the diva of country music DJs, at our high school reunion. Or maybe it’s emanating from the pearl snaps on my western shirt.
Maybe I’m evolving. Nah! Too late for that.
Cards on the table, here’s what was on my daughter’s iPod on the road trip that’s now on rotation in my head:
Way back on the radio dial/
A fire got lit inside a bright eyed child/
Every note just wrapped around his soul/
From steel guitars to Memphis all the way to rock and roll.
-Will Hoge and Eric Paslay
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