Friday night at LP Field, three hours into the megaton glitz-a-thon of CMA Fest, The Spin was startled by an unfamiliar sound. Weepy. Whiny. Twangy. We held our ears in bewilderment, trying to place this auditory outlier. And then it hit us: Wait — was that a steel guitar? Welcome to Country Music 2014, which you may remember from such films as Alt-Rock 1994 and Pop 2004.
Look, this isn't going to be one of those pieces that pines for some imposed benchmark of Pure Country Music. The Spin isn't going to invoke the name of Hank Ho-Tep to smite anyone rash enough to stick an arena-rock riff or a hip-hop beat on a honkytonk record. Outside influence is to country music as bleach is to orchids — an irritant that produces pretty awesome mutations. Weed those out, and you lose out on everything from Ray Charles' Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music to Jason and the NASHVILLE Scorchers' Reckless Country Soul to Taylor Swift's Red — not to mention that Hank guy, whose music wasn't exactly all Childe ballads and Appalachian hand-me-downs.
So let's just say that for The Spin, the Friday night lineup of CMA Fest was a kind of come-to-Jesus meeting with the product rolling off Music Row these days. Some of it was quite good, topped by a commanding show of superstar strength; a lot of it was reminiscent of music we'd heard elsewhere at various points in our lives. And very little of it resembled the already crossover-tilting country of recent decades past — let alone the hillbilly music and lush countrypolitan of our parents' record collections. We're not saying that's a bad thing; we're not saying it's a good thing. We're just saying the thing that is.
We hoofed it across a Shelby Street pedestrian bridge lined three rows deep with onlookers, their faces lit by a looming glow: that of Travis Tritt three stories tall on LP Field's nearing video screens, the momentary sun illuminating Planet Nashville. Tritt remains one of our favorites from the new-traditionalist uprising of the ’80s, a raw-boned country rocker and credible balladeer who brokered a one-man detente between disenfranchised honky-tonkers and Bob Seger fans. His hit "It's a Great Day to Be Alive" was the soundtrack for our half-step trudge behind the bros in ball caps and the girls in spangles and summer skirts and the occasional size 16 in size-8 Daisy Dukes, and we'd have seen more of his set if an overzealous gatekeeper hadn't kept wandering off to issue instructions to somebody, then running back in a panic and waving back the line. We did get to hear a killer version of his 1991 hit "T-R-O-U-B-L-E," which portended anything but.
Eric Church
Next up was Eric Church, one of the most interesting mainstream stars to rise over the past decade, in part because he seems to be confronting head-on the chief (heh) contradictions of playing country music now: playing music associated with fading rural tradition to a landscape of strip malls and Starbucks, and making it connect to a rock-weaned audience whose chosen tower of power is Pandora, not WSM. The screams that greeted the swampy opening chords of "The Outsiders" showed he's up to the task. Clad in his ever-present aviators, gaping in open-mouthed satisfaction after every song, he clinched his set with a hell-for-leather duet with guest guitarist Lizzy Hale on "That's Damn Rock & Roll." If anything, the bar-band swagger merited something more formidable than the pretty pale plumes of steampunk smoke puffing from the fest's imposing set — something more like KISS-style fireballs and confetti cannons.
The group that followed, multi-platinum sibling act The Band Perry, plays what traditional country would sound like if country music had never existed before Shania Twain. Their biggest link to the country music of decades past is the hard work they put into their show: Their elaborate stage moves, choreographed down to the last hair flip and hip shake, are the equivalent of the effort Opry stars of old would put into their rhinestone outfits and Nudie suits — a touch meant to tell each audience member, "You're worth the trouble." For The Spin, the lack of spontaneity dulled some of the spectacle — at her most rigidly well rehearsed, lead vocalist Kimberly Perry sometimes reminded us of SCTV's Vegas-damaged Lola Heatherton. But they got one of the biggest responses of the night, and by then end, The Spin thought they'd earned it. Their cover of the Pitbull-Ke$ha banger "Timber" (paired with their own "Chainsaw" — nice) had the feel of a new-country manifesto moment: It was by far the most playful and deftly executed of the night's plentiful hick-hop forays (as in, "Hey kid, your ear-shaped dustpan was the best thing anybody made this year in remedial shop!"). They don't aspire to be Reba big or Shania big; they mean to be U2 big, and the siblings' climactic kettle-drum bombardment in triplicate was so shameless and ballsy a stadium-rocking move that The Spin couldn't help but grin.
Then came Jason Aldean. Boy, came Jason Aldean. If Garth Brooks represented a generation of country newcomers who'd grown up weaned on ’70s classic rock, Aldean leads the wave who carry ’90s alt-rock in their formative DNA. Grunge country — whatta concept, eh? In practice, it sounded to The Spin like a lot of sludgy, grinding riffage interrupted by periodic bellows of "SHE'S CAWN-TRAY!" Obviously it connects with a huge number of listeners — a roar went up as soon as Aldean's name was mentioned, and he looks like he could have been plucked from the crowd. But a half-hour of muddy grooves and meh rapping seemed like a sentence, except for a rip-roaring closing duet on Travis Tritt's "Homesick" with the man himself that chugged like a Georgia freight train.
Miranda Lambert
By contrast, Miranda Lambert's cathartic set seemed like it was over in a breath. Perhaps you have heard by now that the "Fastest Girl in Town" pulled a fast one (and a Twitter-killing social media coup) by bringing out surprise guest Carrie Underwood to reprise their award-show duet "Somethin' Bad." It's less a song than a vehicle to convey two of the most powerful voices and personalities in modern country: The nitro truck in Sorcerer had less volatile cargo. But the thrill of hearing Lambert and Underwood harmonize then belt at full volume head to head was actually secondary to the pleasures of Lambert's set — in part because it reacquainted listeners with that steel guitar, arguably the eternal verity of country music, which in this case was played by local transplant and Steelism member Spencer Cullum Jr. In Lambert's short set — please oh please give Nashville an actual stop on the tour — Lambert managed to suggest a future for country that takes into account other tributaries in contemporary popular music without leaving the music's hardcore fans scratching their heads. Much of that range of material came from her new Platinum record: the anthemic single "Automatic," a jabbing rocker called "Little Red Wagon," the bouncy pop twang of "Priscilla."
The night's closer was Blake Shelton, Lambert's husband (and the unacknowledged subject of "Priscilla," addressed to another woman who knows the hell of being married to a much-coveted media magnet). While admitting up front that Shelton isn't The Spin's Solo cup of Bud Light — "Sure Be Cool If You Did" is bumper-sticker country at its lamest, and every time he does that hey-li'l-darlin' wink during a song it's like he's auditioning to be the Jordan Belfort of country — we will stipulate that he's a charismatic SOB who zeroes in on the warmth at the heart of songs like "Austin" and "Doin' What She Wants" like a sensitivity-seeking missile. (That said, the song he pulled out with The Voice contestant Gwen Sebastian, something about how "my eyes are the only thing I don't want to take off of you," has to be the most clumsily worded come-on since "Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee.")
Shelton finished with his blockbuster "Boys 'Round Here," a song that wouldn't exist without his breezy confidence and laid-back sense of play, before sending thousands of fans back across the river in a shambling, shuffling, beer-stoked horde over the Shelby Street bridge. There were no post-show fireworks to light the way, but that's OK. After Lambert and Underwood, they'd have only been a letdown.
It would be a lie to say the rain didn’t dampen spirits at LP Field on Saturday night: It totally did. The crowds were kept huddled under the concourse for safety before being let out to their seats around 8 p.m. (to applause), and it was still close to an hour-and-a-half later when the show actually started. We spent our time chatting with people from as far away as Los Angeles and Long Island. Good sports to come this far and be fairly uncomplaining about the terrible weather.
After sending some perfunctory “good vibes” to Chris Young who had to cancel on account of slicing his hand with a kitchen knife (yikes), the got on with Sara Evans, clad in what appeared to be a camo romper she kept unbuttoning throughout her set. She performed “Born to Fly” and “As If,” among others, but at that point, our priority was paying attention to the kindly security guard who was handing out paper towels so folks could wipe down their seats.
Little Big Town came out with “Little White Church,” a stomp-stomp-clap high school gym number that we feel would have killed a lot harder had it not been sung to people who kept gasping at the massive bolts of lightning overhead. The on-the-nose “Tornado” was not nearly as much fun as “Day Drinking,” which had the entire band move to the front of the stage and bang their drums and such. Our goodwill for the band was sapped just a tad when the ladies turdily accessorized themselves with giant sunglasses and a Wacky Slash Hat for “Pontoon,” but then we spotted a fellow audience member wearing a garbage bag with a face hole, looking like a ‘70s Doctor Who villain. Looking silly is all relative, we suppose.
Luckily for Darius Rucker, the rain was almost over by the time he came out with his middle-aged dad vibes, and people were really getting into it. He sang “Alright” which is merely just that, but the opening lyrics to “Come Back Song,” which are “I woke up again this morning / And wouldn’t you know it, pouring rain,” brought down the damn house. Much bigger cheers than the weather allusions in “Tornado.” And then! Guys! “Only Wanna Be With You!” Could not believe it. Rucker had tens of thousands, now-drying, eating out of the palm of his hand, when he introduced “a song by the Old Crow Medicine Show,” aka “Wagon Wheel.” Favorite of the night for the crowd, by far. The sound totally dropped from the last verse and everyone sang along perfectly. It was almost eerie.
Whereas Darius Rucker possesses a dorky affability, the Heckle and Jeckle of Florida Georgia Line are exactly the opposite. We got our second stomp-stomp-clap song of the concert, this time given by a busted Prince Harry in a cutoff Alan Jackson shirt and a guy looking like a goth bouncer who kept putting his left hand next to his wiener all night. Songs were performed, including one for the troops, which was the only blatant display of pandering exhibited Saturday night. We’ll give ‘em this: They requested everyone put up their lighters/phones for “Shine On,” and it looked quite cool. But Jesus, “This Is How We Roll” is straight-up garbage. When Little Big Town sings about getting drunk, it feels that the worst that might happen is you pass out on your friend’s sofa with shoes still on. A night with Florida Georgia Line feels so needlessly aggro, one half-expects a bottle to the face. Did the rest of the crowd like it, at least? We guess. Not as much as they liked “Wagon Wheel,” though.
It was just around midnight when Keith Urban was finally presented in a strategically ripped shirt that we couldn’t stop giggling at. “Long Hot Summer” and “Good Thing” were played, but after such a draining evening, it was at this point we started wondering about the logistics of how the absolutely massive screens were assembled. Karen Fairchild of Little Big Town joined him to sing “We Were Us,” and we got to hear “Somewhere in My Car” twice, thanks to the imperfect magic of television production. He was joined at the end by (jeez) Florida Georgie Line for “You Gonna Fly,” which is exactly what the exhausted but good-spirited audience did as soon as it was over.
Keith Urban
Adding to the weather pains was the fact that — two whole nights after watching Luke Bryan take the LP Field stage on Thursday — we still had Bro Nye the Science Bro Luke Bryan’s pro-irrigation anthem “Rain Is a Good Thing” stuck in our heads. But as torturous as cliche-amalgamating LB earworms like “Rain,” “Crash My Party” and “Drink a Beer” may be on the ears, watching him work the stage is fun as hell. Where gestures like raising a tall boy to toast the crowd and lyrics about tailgates and tan lines come off as crowd pandering in the hands of most of his contemporaries, with Bryan they seem genuine, and his love and joy for performing is obvious.
Plus, the stadium swoons — literally with audible gasps — every time Bryan swivels his hips, flips his baseball cap backwards and flashes his priceless pearly whites. Just about everything Luke Bryan does is douche-y on paper, and yet the man himself doesn’t seem like a douche. He seems like a guy you might even drink a beer with. He’s like the happy high school jock who’d always go out of his way to bro down with the nerds — they could crash his party any time.
Thursday was definitely the most bro-country heavy night of the festival. Joining Bryan from The Brosephere was Dierks Bentley and Brantley Gilbert. Bentley is actually a pretty solid bro, who’s mostly just guilty by association. While he does incriminate himself with light throwaways like his latest single “Drunk on a Plane,” it’s when Bentley shows heart that he really connects and shines. Such was the case with the emotional performance of “I Hold On” — a song about how, despite his riches, he still drives the truck he moved to Nashville in back when he was a nobody, and he still plays the same beat-up guitar he played when sweating it out at Lower Broad honky-tonks years ago.
Unlike Bryan and Bentley, recent sensation Brantley Gilbert has no redeeming qualities. In fact, he might actually be the worst thing in country music … ever. Imagine if you will, a monstrous Frankenstein of bottom-of-the-barrel hick-hop; a mumbly, half-hearted Tom Waits impression with a Southern accent; straight-up nu metal and Y2K-era post-grunge balladry a la acoustic Staind and Everlast. Gilbert’s music smatters together so many sounds from pop music’s darkest corners it’s almost amazing. And the only thing country about it is that the muscle-bound, tank-top-clad, chain-wallet-wearing, brass-nuckle-wireless-mic-wielding Gilbert comes of as relentlessly Southern — like a Georgia college-town bro who goes out on weekends to get in fights, get laid and sing karaoke.
Redeeming that dreadful dreck was headliner Tim McGraw, who gave the stadium a full-on “Born to Run” moment with “I Like it, I love it,” warmed hearts with a surprise Faith Hill duet appearance and appeared near tears as, with arms outstretched, as he took in the audience singing the chorus to “Live Like You Were Dying” to close the show.
A wedding reception delayed our arrival to Sunday night's festivities, forcing us to miss Charlie Daniels Band delivering a rendition of "Tangled up in Blue," though we're certain we'd have had some thoughts about that had we seen it. As we approached LP Field for the fourth night straight — the night with what was certainly the most pleasant weather we saw all week — light given off by the arena's jumbo-screens filled the night sky with an inviting purple glow. And then, just as we were feeling warm and welcomed, we heard Lady Antebellum deliver this particular lyric from their song "Downtown": "I got a dress that'll show a little uh uh, but you ain't gettin' uh uh if you don't come pick me up."
Shortly thereafter, melismatic 22-year-old Hunter Hayes bopped onstage with his elfin face and skin-tight Henley, opening with his "Storyline" — a song that, to our ears, sounds like an only mildly countrified version of One Direction's "Story of My Life" (which 1D fans will be able to catch at LP Field in just two short months). Hayes then played the Fray-esque piano ballad "Wanted," followed by a song called "Tattoo" that featured the worst lyric we'd heard since that aforementioned Lady A line — "Your name would be a good tattoo." Still, the whippersnapper is a hell of an enthusiastic performer, and a couple of the licks he doled out on his Stratocaster were far more impressive than we were prepared for. Sweet kid, God bless him. And his bass player looked like Jon Favreau in PCU, so that gave us a giggle.
Zac Brown Band kicked off with the rapid-fire, quick-pickin' "The Wind" before a cover of the John Prine co-written "You Never Even Called Me by My Name," best known for the version recorded by David Allan Coe. Brown, in his ever-present wool cap, offered an obligatory but seemingly earnest big thank-you to the fans mid-song, and that's when we thought to ourselves, "You know what? This guy is real country. Fiddles, steel, shuffles, earnestness, rugged Southern individuality." Of course, New Jersey native and dual-necked-guitar aficionado Richie Sambora appeared only seconds later to help ZBB play "Wanted" (Bon Jovi's "Wanted," of course ... not Hunter Hayes' "Wanted"). "All Alright" is a pretty safe ballad, but still — for our money — it's better than the stuff Lady Antebellum peddles. And then came the inevitable hit of the set, "Chicken Fried," a shameless, fist-pumping Southern anthem about pee-can pie and well-fitting jeans. And that — again, for our money — was better than anything we've heard out of Florida Georgia Line.
Sunday headliner Brad Paisley started his fest-closing set with "Water" — really liking fishing and boating and water sports is of course a familiar Southern concept, but the line about having a "love affair with water" conjured the image of Paisley taking a glass of water out on a date, romancing it, and probably even taking it home. Paisley sported a sparkling blue belt to match his sparkling blue Telecaster, running all over the stage during his solos and attempting to "break the record for most selfies" during "Beat This Summer" by snatching up a whole bunch of fans' iPhones and grinning as he snapped some shots. Though none of Paisley's songs tend to stick with The Spin all that well, he's another example of a committed, extra-mile kind of performer, and that's probably the element we most appreciate about the CMA Fest: These performers, by and large, really strive to make a connection with their fans, and the same can't be said of every arena act that rolls through town.
We exited as Paisley said something about how he figured this was probably the most people gathered on a riverbank of anywhere in the world at the moment, and while we appreciate the unifying sentiment, we kind of feel like there must be more than 60,000 people on the banks of the Ganges River at any given time. Right? Either way, beneath a booming fireworks display to end the whole damn thing, we made our way through the droves a little worse for wear but generally pleased to have seen so many superstars going that extra mile.
