Once there was this pig farmer, and he lived right next to a golf course. As you might expect, the farmer and the golf course got into a little disagreement, and, as such disagreements are prone to do, it ended up in court. Sounds like something that could happen here, doesn't it? But this little controversy is going on down in Florida, and the bone of contention doesn't have anything to do with hogs, their waste, or the truly indescribable smell thereof. No, the golf course is suing swine producer Paul Thompson because Farmer Paul likes to play country music for the pigs. Seems the golfers don't mind a little stench, but they really get their ugly pants in a wad over the sound of the Dixie Chicks.
Yankees. Who can understand them?
Farmer Paul is obviously a well-read agriculturalist, the sort that might make Thomas Jefferson proud. He even has his own website (www.pigfarmer.com). He had read about how music made cows and chickens more productive and even made small children in day-care centers happier. So he figured the pigs might do better, too, and by gum, he was right. He started playing them Dolly Parton and Garth Brooks, and the pigs calmed down and got in fewer fights. I, for one, find this last part amazing. I've been in more than a couple of taverns where country music was a featured attraction, and the effect I observed was not, shall we say, a tranquil one.
Friends, when you start messing with country music you're walking, in the words of Merle Haggard, on the fightin' side of me. How can you not love music with such poetry in it? Has Robert Frost ever written anything with the raw power of Bobby Bare's "I Never Been to Bed With An Ugly Woman (But I Sure Woke Up With a Few)"? I think not. Let's see Sylvia Plath express a woman's angst better than Deana Carter's poignant "Did I Shave My Legs For This?"
And what can move us like country music? I well remember one time when I was on vacation in Florida. I was riding in the passenger seat of a convertible. It was a beautiful sunny day, the water was blue, the beer was cold, and I should have been chortling with joy. Yet there I was with tears running down my cheeks. It was the first time I heard David Allan Coe's prison anthem, "My Son Calls Another Man Daddy." And it was only my first beer of the day, so it had to have been the music.
This is not to say that all country music exists on the same artistic plane as the above examples. Country music is as subject to Sturgeon's Law ("95% of everything is crap") as anything else. For example, Farmer Paul had better be careful not to play "Achy Breaky Heart" for the poor swine, or the golf course will nail him on a cruelty to animals rap. And if he plays them Faith Hill's hideously piercing ditty "This Kiss", he won't have to send the pigs to the slaughterhouse. They'll commit mass suicide.
On the whole, however, country music can provide us not just entertainment, but moral instruction. After all, the cautionary tale is one of the hallmarks of the genre. If Bill Clinton had taken the time to listen to the Amazing Rhythm Aces' "Third Rate Romance (Low Rent Rendevous)", then the whole country could have been spared months of heartache. Send ol' Slobodan Milosovic a little David Alan Coe. Coe reportedly once sued a newspaper for questioning his claim that he had once done time for murder. You've got to give a wide berth to a guy that will sue you for reporting that he HASN'T killed anybody. Slobo realizes that this is the kind of folks we have here in America, and he may just back off right quick.
So lay off Farmer Paul. Let's face it, we can all use a little more country in our lives. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go put on some Dwight Yoakam, sit on my porch, and crack open a cold one. Put down the clubs and join me. It'll do your heart good.
©1999 Jerry D. Rhoades, Jr.