It’s no secret that the modern country music establishment in Nashville is conservative – musically, socially and politically. The rougher themes of the honky-tonk era, the feminist strains heard in songs by pioneers Kitty Wells and Loretta Lynn, and the prickly political conscience that existed in the Vietnam era are today largely gone.
Instead, at the top of the charts at least, are artists who are there because they proudly play it safe. Country music is the number one selling musical genre in the US, and it’s that way because of a system that reflects old Hollywood: songs created by collaborations and not individual visions, stars groomed primarily for their broad visual appeal and music that is unabashedly pop and no longer reflective of regional inflections or blue-collar angst.
This is the dominant pop music for audiences that have long felt alienated by hip-hop or don’t connect with electronic teen fare courtesy of Justin Bieber and cohorts. One of the most unique attributes of modern country is that it is ageless, streamlined to appeal across a wide generational span, from teenagers to boomers. Which suggest that Nashville, the ABC drama that makes a mid-season return on Wednesday, should be as similarly expansive because it lifts the hood of the industry for a look inside into how things really work.
Wrong. While Nashville the television show is front-loaded with attractive men and women in muscle T-shirts, blond perms and cowboy boots – nothing too different from what we’ll soon see at the Academy of Country Music awards next month – the show itself takes a deeper cut into themes you’ll never hear on country hits radio: homosexuality, drug abuse, euthanasia, abortion and domestic violence.
Credit Nashville creator Callie Khouri for injecting real life into storylines that show real struggle behind the hits. Center stage is Rayna Jaymes (Connie Britton), a Faith Hill archetype who is seasoned on sorrow, with husband Teddy in jail and ex Luke Wheeler (Will Chase in the Tim McGraw role) playing the field. Her rival is Juliette Barnes (Hayden Panettiere), a brash and troubled rising star whose downward spiral rivals the real-life turmoil of Carlene Carter, among others, but whose music echoes current upstart Kacey Musgraves.
As a showcase of strong female leads, there is nothing like Nashville on television, but there’s also nothing quite like it on country radio, where men outnumber women. As for veteran women artists like Emmylou Harris or Dolly Parton, forget it – they don’t even get airtime.
What Nashville gets right are the more superficial mechanics of the industry. Jaymes’s record label Highway 65 is a vanity project that becomes a new home for Markus Keen (Riley Smith), a washed-up rock star seeking a boost in his career. Keen’s opportunistic left turn is reflective of similar maneuvers by ageing rockers, from Kid Rock to Steven Tyler of Aerosmith, who went country after it became evident that rock as a genre was faltering and their fans were regrouping under the Nashville banner.
Nashville also portrays the struggles of songwriters who jockey along Music Row, hoping to strike publishing gold, but who often end up writing by committee for stars eager to stockpile their albums with surefire hits. This factory system has replaced the auteur method represented by veteran songwriters like Tom T Hall and Kris Kristofferson, and critics say is the reason why contemporary hits have lost their edge and instead recycle themes involving partying, trucks and beer. It’s no accident that Wheeler’s fictional hit is titled If I Drink This Beer, and rocks like a commercial touting Miller Lite.
The fantasy of Nashville is found in those storylines that don’t necessarily reflect reality in Music City. Women no longer represent the majority of chart leaders and certainly don’t exercise rising power in the industry other than as sexualized images to counterbalance the male majority. Homosexuality is also invisible in the industry despite the saga of Will Lexington (Chris Carmack), a rising star who comes out of the closet and, while being dropped by his label, is generally accepted by his peers with admiration. Then there is abortion, another taboo. No matter, in Nashville, Panettiere’s Barnes is racked by a decision to get the procedure but decides against it in the final hour.
Even for the casual viewer, spending time with Nashville will get them closer to what makes the city’s cultural connection with the music so special. The Bluebird Cafe, a haven for songwriters any night of the week, figures heavily as does the historic Ryman Auditorium, home of the Grand Ole Opry. When newcomer Layla Grant (Aubrey Peebles) makes her Opry debut in season four, it is treated as a coronation, as it is for every singer deemed lucky enough to step up to the microphone during the Saturday night broadcast. Cameos from Jim Lauderdale, Pam Tillis, JD Souther, Vince Gill, among others, also reflect the soul of the city.
Maybe the best way to appreciate Nashville is to remember that it too is a product of the very industry it portrays. This week Opry Entertainment announced an international concert tour featuring stars of the show, following two consecutive touring years. This will be the first year the tour will reach the UK. Also in May, Big Machine Records, home of Taylor Swift, will release the eighth volume of music from the series. That’s right. Eighth.
Besides those efforts, the series has also produced a Christmas album, several live volumes, as well as singles and individual albums from its fictional characters. In contemporary Nashville, the line separating fact from fiction is thin and, with this show, growing thinner.
