What follows is a review of a review of a song entitled “Barefoot Blue Jean Night”. Said music reviewed by the dyspeptic, bed-wetting reviewer Ben Foster. His diminutive piece can be read here:
Here's to bad behavior repeated ad infinitum
If there’s one thing I think all Americans can come together on, it’s that there’s nothing so deliciously cheesy, so self-referentially anthem-driven, so eminently mockable as Country Music. To label a “Nashville” song derivative is to accuse the sky of being blue.
Toss a couple of indigenous ingredients in front of the wind machine: simple-minded pride and home-grown pick-ups, backwoods babes at beer-sodden barbecues, faithful dogs and the holy wurd. Package in Tony Lamas, fire up the wind machine and hit the slo-mo button. Time to review the lessons our Momma done taught us.
We breathlessly tune in and pretend these affected crooners are yodeling about their own lives. Yes Carrie, I feel your formulaic pain as you sidle across the salt flats in a gait lifted from some NYC catwalk. Gotta love the pipes on that gal, though, and the gams are fine too, funky stride notwithstanding. What’s her wagon train hitched to? Why Mr. Paisley a’course, his Fender plugged into nothing in particular. Be still, their cheatin’ hearts.
As a biblical sage once observed, “There is nothing new under the sun,” and he figured that out a couple millennia ago. So do we really need another ballad defending the simple virtues of country living? Or a wailing lament from the same honey-throated honky-tonker who can’t wait to hightail it out of his or her pissant town?
No sir, nor do we need the observation of some crayon wagger who figures one hillbilly template has finally been tapped for good. Seriously, guy? I was just plain befuddled at the level of derision slung at a song I’d recently listened to a whole bunch of times in a row because it was so dang catchy and the girls was so spankin’ hot. Please do check out “Barefoot Blue Jean Night” y’all!
All I was looking to do was find out if Jake Owen did his own water stunts. What I googled into was a hissy tirade by a wannabe kritic with a mess of personal issues. Maybe he’s got a thing about hygiene, as Mr. Owen does seem to go light on the shampoo. And I think he spat at me during that first stanza too.
But our writer guy is disingenuous to argue that his is not a personal attack ignoring the fundamentals of legitimate criticism, and he protests too much by defending the indefensible to every comer calling him out. Finally, his school girl use of emoticons makes any man with a pair want to puke his guts. Yup, I speak for everybody past the age of fourteen everywhere, Benny boy.
It most certainly is about right and wrong, son. Get your process right, or take up the juice harp and feel free to show us all how it’s done. ;)
