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.