DAVID BELCHER
WHITHER country music, we found ourselves asking as Johnny Cash's
son-in-law, Rodney Crowell, opened last night's proceedings in post-punk
leather trousers. His drummer was, moreover, a durn' skinhead, while the
bassist was beyond the pale in a folkie's jumper.
If all was sartorial confusion, Rodney's music bore too many hallmarks
of his earlier employment by Emmylou Harris to be totally convincing
country-wise: it was classy, it got greasy near the end (especially when
Rodney delivered a mini-denunciation of George Bush) -- but it was too
polite.
Country is sentimental and improper, and that's why us white trash
love it so: Johnny couldn't let us down, could he?
It took time to find out. Seeking to aid his convalescence from heart
surgery, almost every member of the Carter family took a turn at bearing
the onstage load before Johnny. His band, led by another son-in-law,
looked and sounded authentic, perhaps from a truck stop in Waco (or
equally a Yoker bar: country is universal after all).
His wife, June Carter, and two Carter sisters shimmered in sequins;
son John sang an Eagles song (rendering further comment unnecessary).
Finally, the Man in Black ambled on in his gunslinger's frockcoat.
Polite though he was, he did not let us down, never could have.
Whether standing up for Jesus and the underdog, or getting fatalistic,
mawkish and haunted, Johnny Cash was ragged but right. Get Rhythm and
Sunday Morning Coming Down were epic. The historically wayward A Croft
In Clachan, with its refrain about ''the English on the run,'' may
become a new Scottish anthem.
As exclusively revealed in yesterday's super, soaraway Herald, Johnny
announced a three-day country festival for Culture City 1990. Y'all come
back real soon, Cash-Carter family.
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