It seems like such a short time ago that country music was frightfully uncool. The commercialization of Nashville in the early to mid-1990s had left us with country “stars,” people like Garth Brooks and Shania Twain. Rejected by the country base for “selling out,” and loathed by the musical cognoscenti for simply applying the term “country” to their music, this new brand of artist nonetheless succeeded smashingly where it counted: the charts. They sold tons of records and achieved widespread popularity as crossover hitmakers. Yet the Shania album was always the one people were ashamed to admit they owned.
By the late 1990s, when all genres of music had found their way onto the pop charts, a refrain had entered popular discourse which sums up country’s fate on the American cultural stage: “Oh, I like all kinds of music, except country.” Country has been different, something so far outside the bounds of pop music that it is (or was) a taboo even to draw on country as an influence.
But the times, they are a-changin’. And strangely enough, it’s the elitist snobs who had once formed the crusade against country music that are leading the charge this time. Country, it seems, has found its way back into American popular music, through a back door conveniently left ajar. Rock music, looking for somewhere to head after grunge had faded in the mid 1990s, turned circumspect, looking back on its past and drawing from long-forgotten influences. At the time, there existed a few seminal bands, notably the Illinois-based outfit Uncle Tupelo. They were among the first bands to recognize the debt that alternative rock owed to country and began a synthesis of country, rock and punk that would begin a small revolution on the rock scene. While at the time their contribution to the rock scene was dwarfed by the success of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, Uncle Tupelo’s work would become one of the defining sounds of alternative rock’s new direction.
After a major-label release, 1993’s Anodyne, the band broke up, with ex-members forming two different groups in the aftermath. Lead vocalist Jeff Tweedy, along with drummer Ken Coomer, John Stiratt and the multitalented Max Johnston, formed Wilco, while the other vocalist, Jay Harrar, formed Son Volt with the original Uncle Tupelo drummer, Mike Heidorn. Both bands have championed the sound that Uncle Tupelo pioneered. With the concurrent glamorization of country by the large Nashville labels, the more progressive sounds of Uncle Tupelo, Wilco and Son Volt offered salvation for country music.
Strangely enough, this time the urban musical elite were on board. Having been shunned by independent stations in favor of “college rock” in the 1980s and early 1990s, the new breed of hybrid bands offered a fresh sound that was authentic without sounding too much like Garth Brooks. Critics rushed to heap new titles on the emergent genre, calling it “American roots rock” or “Americana” or “alt-country.” Many bands followed in the trend, rediscovering the emotive beauty of the country sound which had been lost over the last two decades (including the Brit shoe-gazers Mojave 3, see show review to left). Of the two bands left in the wake of the Uncle Tupelo breakup, Wilco has arguably been more successful. Their subsequent albums have not only continued the country-rock theme of the early Uncle Tupelo material but also reached out to include rhythm and blues and pop influences.
Perhaps the peak of the success of this new form came with the 1998 release of Mermaid Avenue, a collaborative effort between British songwriter Billy Bragg and Wilco. The album was formed from previously unrecorded songs left behind by folk hero Woody Guthrie. This raised Wilco into the national consciousness. On Saturday night, Jeff Tweedy will play a solo show at the 9:30 Club, and he promises not to disappoint, bringing with him the unique country-punk-rock-rhythm and blues style that he invented.
