The Beat of America: It’s Time to Be American!

I reckon being jazz fans and all you won’t have heard of me unless you have twisted the dial down to 650 on a clear Saturday night and even then maybe not. Or maybe you were the sort of listener who would have had that Minneapolis FM show on with the guy who talked too much. If so, I forgive you. AM is real radio, with real music on it, especially coming from the Ryman Auditorium. Flip that bandswitch once in a while and see if I ain’t right.

Even if you tuned in WSM you might have heard my brother Kale instead. Daddy was a farmer and Mama had a sense of humor and when she had twins she named us Chard and Kale. If we’d been triplets I would have had a brother named Spinach. I’m the older twin but Kale is more famous. I love him, because I am bound to love my brother, but I can’t bear to talk to him because he’s gone soft. Soft in the heart and soft in the head. He keeps praising Dolly to the high heavens and giving her money so she can send books to kids. That won’t end well.

The Board of Syncopated Media, Inc., contacted me when they voted on an editorial policy that allowed for a range of viewpoints rather than just the same old guy ticking everybody off with his tiresome whining about gloom and doom and his lack of respect for our Great Country. Nobody wants to read that guff. It was getting pretty bad, and they thought a more constructive attitude might keep people from canceling their subscriptions in droves.

You can’t trust a guy who don’t believe in anything. I tried to look at some back issues of this rag and kept getting headaches. I thought of when I was in the fifth grade doing word problems. It was like he was trying to make me think and doubt things I was certain of. I had to put down the paper and go out on the porch for a few gulps of fresh air. Even tractor exhaust would have cleared my head better.

There was a poem that Kale read to me once about Jesus coming back by a guy named Bill Yates. This Yates was creepy and his poem couldn’t be set to music. “Things fall apart,” was one line. Of course they fall apart! They aren’t made in the USA anymore. Kale got one of those nice Martin D-28s, American-made. It sings and dances. I bought some imported knock-off and the dang thing won’t stay in tune.

Yates goes on to say “the best can’t make up their minds but the worst are as passionate as a red-hot stove.” Yates might have said it a little different than I remember it. But he got it exactly wrong. As I see it, all these types who can’t decide if they should spit or wind their watch ain’t doing us any good. They could get run over wondering whether to finish crossing the street. It’s called overthinking. I got no use for that. The Good Book tells us, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart; and don’t lean on your own understanding. Give Him the nod, and He’ll point you in the right direction.” Damn straight.

The Editor dude just hems and haws relying on his puffed-up brain when he doesn’t get that it’s just Satan putting sand in his crankcase. As such, he says a lot of foolish unpatriotic things that get him slapped every time he sticks his head above the stockade fence. But I only have pity for him and all the others who insist on thinking. It’s just going to make things worse.

He and all the other doubters have to stop picking on those who know better than they do—those who act on what they believe rather than measuring them with compasses—and unite as loyal Americans. “Knowing” and “understanding” are two different things. How do I know this? I just do.

Do you know how to stop all that dang thinking? Listen to some good American music. That’s what this paper is supposed to be dedicated to. I know that when the tunes are playing I don’t have a thought in my head. And do you know what? It feels great. The more I play music the happier I am. I don’t worry about how Kale is more popular and more talented than I’ll ever be, and has a nicer house and car and guitar than I do. I don’t bother with my mortgage and back taxes and that time I got a DUI after I drove the wrong way on the Interstate. (Fortunately nobody got hurt.)

Don’t try to think and dance or you’ll just fall on your face. That’s why God put brains in your head and not your feet. Fortunately, your head is distant from all the parts of your body that do stuff—and there’s a reason for that. When it comes to music and everything else, your brain is a back seat driver. Don’t let it near the music unless you want it writing show tunes. Too much cleverness there!

There really ought to be more about Country music in this paper. It’s the real McCoy right from the heart. (Jazz is from the heart too, I guess, but I could never learn all those chords.) If the jazzers yelp at Country, you could always call it “Americana.”

The amazing thing is that you can’t spell “Americana” without “America.” As we head to the 250th birthday of this Great Nation, that’s something we should all think about. If we hadn’t kicked King George to the curb, we wouldn’t have Americana, Country, Ragtime, or Jazz. We’d have Morris Dancing. Think about that…

Okay—that’s enough thinking for today. Time to put the tunes back on!