[dropcap]C[/dropcap]all today,” said the television announcer, at two in the morning. “Order all the country hits from the fifties and sixties. Including the love songs you remember.”
I want to know what teenagers did with the world’s love songs. And I’m talking about real ones, not songs about knocking boots in Nashville. Tunes like, “Can’t Help Falling In Love With You,” or “He Stopped Loving Her Today.”
Time Life sent me eighteen CDs, with two hundred seventy-eight country songs. I played them during a seven-hour drive to Georgia while eating chili-cheese Fritos.
The first song to grace my stereo was, “Crazy.” Then, “Gentle On My Mind,” followed by, “Okie From Muskogee.” You might not even know these songs, but that’s not important. They’re tender tunes, sweetly sung.
When I reached Lake City, “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” played. And by Jacksonville, I was singing along with Willie Nelson.
In my dark windshield, I could almost see my mother and daddy slow dancing in our den to, “Tennessee Waltz.”
The truth is, modern music isn’t about love. Hormonal adolescents took over our world, and then they quit wearing underpants. They sport sunglasses indoors, and use verbs I’ve never heard. George Jones is dead, and Willie looks a little less pink every day.
I suppose my grandmother was right. “Today’s society isn’t interested in love. And when folks quit singing about love, beware. That ain’t a world you want to live in.”
Well, we’re not there yet, Grandmomma, but you’d be awfully disappointed in us.
Because we’re pretty damn close.