This is my confession. This is my warning. And this is my struggle.
Tonight I had dinner in Warner-Robins, Georgia, at a southern comfort-style place. The food was alright, though the green beans left something to be desired (perhaps they absorbed some of my salty demeanor). Playing low throughout the place, over muted basketball games on televisions and families deciding sides for their entrees, was a country and Southern rock station. These genres dominate the radio airwaves in middle Georgia, rivaled only by stations with “praise”, “inspiration”, or “grace” in their name. Even the generic rock station I found bends well into that twangy acoustic territory on a regular basis.
I like those genres pretty well, to be clear, often way more than just that. In fact, some of my favorite artists and songs are within it. But country in particular rides a fine line for me. Too many mentions of trucks, dogs, women, or beer, and I simply can’t enjoy it much anymore.