The first fight I ever had with my boyfriend was a doozy, and quite honestly, I didn’t know if we’d recover from it.
It was about chicken pot pie.
And what constitutes chicken pot pie.
I (like most logical humans) was of the mind that it is an actual pie. There is a crust. It’s chicken-y deliciousness encased in a buttery, flaky dough.
My boyfriend (and his Pennsylvania Dutch contingency) believes you drop thick, buttery noodles into a pot of chicken stew and call it pot pie. I (again, like most logical humans) call that chicken and dumplings.
The motion went to trial. Witnesses were called—his parents, my parents, other family members and friends—and photographs were entered into evidence. The jury couldn’t agree, and eventually we had no choice but to declare a mistrial.
We’ve had a few spats since then. Like that time, five minutes into watching “Game of Thrones,” I asked why there were “mannequin zombies” in the show.
“Don’t ever call them that again,” he whispered sternly. “They’re White Walkers.”
Mmmk. Note to self: Don’t joke about the mannequin zombies.
I should point out that he is a massive “Game of Thrones” nerd fan—having watched every season several times, most of them right when they aired—while I binge-watched the entire series from Thanksgiving to Christmas, a few months before the final season began. He was understandably more emotionally invested than I was.
The only time he was ever more offended by one of my fictional character assessments was when I asked him what the deal was with Harry Potter’s “forehead tatt.”
You may have surmised I arrived late to the party (or missed the boat entirely) in relation to several pop culture phenomena, and you’d be correct.
But that’s not why we’re here. Instead, all this is leading up to a bigger, more serious, ongoing argument—about country music.
I hate it. He hates it. We both hate it. So that should be the end of story, right? Except that he thinks I love it, and that’s been a problem.
It started with a conversation about the Avett Brothers, whom I love deeply.
“Well, they’re country!” he assessed.
“No, they’re not!” I returned adamantly.
“What are they then?” he asked.
“I don’t know…like an indie, folky, bluegrass-y rock band.”
Immediately, I struck a nerve. “First off, ‘indie’ is not a thing,” he argued.
“It is so a thing,” I returned.
“It’s not a genre,” he said.
I didn’t say it was a genre, but it’s a thing,” I told him. “It’s, like, a qualifier.”
“What does that even mean?” he asked.
“It means the band didn’t start out on some major record label. It means they either began recording on their own or with a no-name label. They weren’t ‘workin’ for the man,’” I said, using air quotes for good measure, “or changing their sound to fit neatly into a particular genre or producer’s vision.”
“But saying they’re ‘independent’ doesn’t tell me anything about their music. It doesn’t have anything to do with the type or genre of music they’re playing,” he quipped.
“Babe, it’s like the periodic table,” I said, thinking I would speak to his science-loving heart. “You have all these potential ‘elements’—rock, folk, punk, indie, bluegrass—and every band is like a different musical ‘compound,’ if you will,” I said, enlisting air quotes for the second time in under eight seconds. “Rarely is any band unequivocally one thing; they’re an eclectic mix of several of these elements.”
“Do you really want to go there?” he asked. (I already knew I probably didn’t.)
“Because to be an element in the periodic table,” he continued, getting a little riled up, “it has to be able to stand on its own. ‘Indie’ can’t stand on its own; it needs other elements to latch onto.”
“All right, Bill Nye the Science Guy,” (a rather complimentary insult I find myself unleashing on him every time he uses scientific knowledge against me, which is often). “Why do you have to shut down my super smart ideas?” I whined. “It’s not even the point, anyway. The point is that the Avett Brothers aren’t country.”
“But they are!” he said, pulling out his phone to search “Avett Brothers” on the interwebs. “Look! Country is one of the first words in a long list describing them.”
“OK. One, it’s not a food label!” I argued. “It’s not like the first word you see has to be the main ingredient. And two, what website are you on? Is it Wikipedia? Anyone can post there, even if they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
For the record, I haven’t been able to find this alleged site labeling them as country. Not that it matters since I was told bluegrass is the same exact thing with a fancier name.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Bluegrass is its own genre,” I said.
“If there are banjos,” he petitioned, “it’s country.”
“That’s not true!” I yelled, my voice raising an octave or two. “At best, they are distant relatives, but they are not the same thing.”
“All right,” he said, inching away from the Avett Brothers and creeping precariously toward another cliff. “Do you like ‘Sweet Home Alabama’?”
Who doesn’t? I thought. Reese Witherspoon is adorable!
“The song,” he quickly clarified. “Do you like the song ‘Sweet Home Alabama’?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Country!” he yelled with conviction, as though he knew he had backed me into a corner.
“No, it isn’t,” I said without flinching.
“What is it then?” he asked, befuddled.
“Southern rock.”
“Oh, get the hell out!” he said, half laughing (and half wishing for death, I assume).
“Lynyrd Skynyrd, Allman Brothers, CCR,” I said, “all southern rock.”
I should point out, there have been several instances in my life where I made a mature, conscious decision to choose being happy over being right.
This was not one of those times.
Instead, this argument went on for quite some time. To be honest, it never really ends; rather, we pause it here and there, and it pops back up multiple times a month (or sometimes week), depending on what artists appear on the radio or what categories show up on “Jeopardy!”
Even before my boyfriend and I began dating, I spent a lot of time “educating” people about what country music wasn’t while denying any personal affiliation to what it was. Whether I was making sure my best friend understood Harry Connick Jr. was in no way a country music singer—a conclusion I think she accidentally arrived at after seeing him play a Texan in “Hope Floats”—or explaining that Brandi Carlile is really more… “Americana,” I’ve always had a logical explanation to avoid using the G-rated “C” word to describe artists I enjoy.
Years ago, my brother asked me if I wanted to go to a Drive-By Truckers show. I had never heard of them but told him no thanks, based solely on their name, which wreaked a little too much of country for my liking. Imagine my surprise a few years later, when, super amped heading to a Jason Isbell concert, my bro referenced Isbell’s former band: the Drive-By Truckers.
Wait, that’s the band I didn’t like because their name reminded me of something I was pretty sure I hated.
Yep, I heard it.
There might be a little bit of crazy in my rationale (or lack thereof). For years, I’ve been fighting this strange battle as a lover of music, a listener of genres—but not that genre—and it seems borderline ludicrous the more time goes on.
Folk, bluegrass, Americana, southern rock, rockabilly (or as my boyfriend might say, “Country, country, country, country, country”): How many names can I find to avoid using a term that may very well apply to some degree? And how can I so vehemently hate country if I love so many things that are country adjacent?
Perhaps, rather than saying I hate country music, I should acknowledge that I dislike songs about tractors. I don’t enjoy music centering around the thrill or anguish of whiskey—maybe because dark liquor has yielded no worthwhile life experiences for me personally—or lyrics that invoke the word “Badonkadonk” to describe a woman’s posterior region.
I can easily speak that truth without hating anything—or anyone—in the process. Maybe there’s a life lesson here. Instead of being so quick to assign hatred to something that’s not my jam, maybe I should spend a little more time looking at the long list of things I have in common with it. Wouldn’t that make life a little more enjoyable?
Possibly then I’d realize one of the only things I really hate strongly dislike in life is conceding defeat—which is not what I’m doing here, because I don’t love country music. But clearly, I don’t hate it either.
I guess we’re going to have to call this one a tie.
Oh, crap. I might hate strongly dislike two things.