Hip-Hop versus Country Western

For reasons I can’t fully comprehend, I have been on a Country Western kick lately. I say this more than a little sheepishly, because when I was younger James Hetfield of Metallica spit beer on me at a concert and I didn’t bathe for a week.

On a related note, I just Googled James Hetfield to make sure I was spelling his name right and he’s 52.

Fifty-freaking-two. The only metal you have left in you at 52 are the rods in your hip replacement and the gold you diversified your retirement portfolio into.

So here I am, completely and unironically listening to Zac Brown Band radio on Pandora, and enjoying it. Perhaps it’s because many lyrics relate to beer, of which I generally approve. There are also a fair amount of references to doing nothing, which is also right up my alley. I also get a chuckle out of the Boss-man ruining everyone’s day, because I wear a suit to work and could generally pass as a Boss Man if you dropped me in a Honky Tonk somewhere.

The best part, though, is that while I’m humming along like a thing that hums a lot (humming pig? I don’t know it’s a stretch, work with me here) one of my many little voices is providing a running commentary.

Man these guys own a lot of trucks

I love Jesus and all, but I’m not sure He has a position on either America or Apple Pie

Why is everyone so excited to be a farmer? Farming is hard work. Horses smell bad.

On the other hand, Mrs. Nostrikethat has an affinity for Top 40, which right now seems to mostly be what passes for Hip-Hop these days + Taylor Swift and is what we listen to in the minivan, which I also drive without a shred of irony.

It’s a good thing I didn’t invent time travel when I was 18 because I would be punching myself in the balls right now.

All of this is to say that I am a little musically confused right now. Lost, if, you will, on the ol’ country road on the way to Graceland, where Fergie Ferg has taken up residence like a less talented Celine Dion in Vegas singing Sur le pont D’Avignon in her native Quebecois, except Fergie doesn’t speak French, or even really English, at least so far as “mmm” and “yeah” constitute some sort of new proto-language spoken only by deviants and graduates of the University of Phoenix, which is neither a University nor of Phoenix.

What I’m saying is, I’m a little lost here, but I noticed something. You know how rappers have certain words they have to say in order for it to count as a rap song? Country Western music has the same thing. To help myself sort it all out, I have compiled this list of Hip Hop to Country Western name checks, cliches, and otherwise knee-jerk tropes.

I hope you find this helpful as you take the long dirt road back to the club for some barefoot booty shakin’.

Unless you go fishin’ instead.