We rejoin Silver Lining contributing writer Jennifer Levin in her love of country music. You can catch pt. 1 in the previous post. - Erin
Who says who gets to listen to what? Well…though we were not religious, my parents called the principal in protest when I was made to sing “O Come All Ye Faithful” in elementary school, and when I was 10, on a family camping trip through Kentucky, Tennessee and Mississippi, they warned me daily not to tell anyone we were Jewish. In retrospect, this level of “Jewish damage” is out of proportion to the sporadic and relatively tame anti-Semitism I actually encountered growing up, but…at a company Christmas party three years ago, jealous of the two-stepping couples on the dance floor, I asked a co-worker to teach me. “Don’t be silly,” she laughed, gulping water and grabbing her girlfriend by the hand, “Jews don’t have to know how to two-step.”
I was appalled, yet felt the need to defend myself to her in my head, angrily listing the CDs currently in rotation in my car: Jimmie Rodgers, Gillian Welch, Iris DeMent, the Carter Family, Allison Krauss and Union Station — who did she think she was? I had nothing to prove. And still…
Last August, I put off going to the Santa Fe Bluegrass Festival for the first two-and-a-half days, citing housework and other obligations. But on Sunday evening William and I finally headed for the rodeo grounds, where I knew that anyone with any street cred would recognize me as an interloper.
“Everyone’s so old-timey,” I said, and though no one had even looked at me, “I feel Jewish.”
“Jewish is like the oldest of the old-timey,” said William.
We settled into the main performance tent just in time to hear the band play Del McCoury’s “I Feel the Blues Moving In,” one of my all-time favorite songs. Knowing the lyrics to the first song I heard eased my anxiety. I let the music take over and forgot to feel like an outsider. The only thing required of me was an unending tolerance for the music. Turns out, I really can listen to it forever.
The Bluegrass Festival was a turning point for me, and we’ll be going for all three days this year. I can no longer deny who I am. However, I still need two-stepping lessons and I’d also like to learn to clog and yodel. In return, I can teach you how to make potato latkes and pineapple noodle kugel.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Monday, February 4, 2008
Silver Lining zine: You're Looking at Country by Jennifer Levin
Today's Silver Lining contributor, the lovely Jennifer Levin, comes to us from Santa Fe, NM, by way of Chicago, where she once struggled with being Jewish, Midwestern, AND a fan of Country & Western music all at once. Read on! - Erin
When I was nine I wanted to be Tom Sawyer. I wore overalls, went barefoot, and to the dismay of my family and classmates, attempted to learn the harmonica. That I was a girl living in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago in 1984 didn’t dampen my desire to exist in the 1840s. Eventually, however, I grew breasts and could no longer convince myself of the fantasy.
In high school, though I shaved off most of my hair and wore combat boots, I preferred Pasty Cline to Siouxsie Sioux. In college, my affinity for the Waterboys inspired my roommate to forbid me from choosing the music anymore, because the Waterboys picking made her feel “too white.” And when I grew up and got a job and started listening to bluegrass in my office, co-workers leaned in to ask how someone like me had ever been exposed to country music.
“Someone like me” means “Jew from Chicago.” And though I would classify what I listen to as many things — bluegrass, high lonesome, rockabilly, twang, Western swing, classic country, alt-country — it is, indeed, country.
This country-love began about six years ago when my boyfriend William came home with the soundtrack to O Brother Where Art Thou and changed my life. Everything about this “old-timey” music was right for me — I told William I could listen to “I’ll Fly Away” forever. And yet, the curiosity my new musical pursuits provoked in others gave me pause. Who was I to sing along with a church song about going to heaven?
Was I being ridiculous?
(Was she? Was Jennifer being ridiculous? More tomorrow, when "You're Looking at Country" concludes. Can't wait! - Erin)
When I was nine I wanted to be Tom Sawyer. I wore overalls, went barefoot, and to the dismay of my family and classmates, attempted to learn the harmonica. That I was a girl living in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago in 1984 didn’t dampen my desire to exist in the 1840s. Eventually, however, I grew breasts and could no longer convince myself of the fantasy.
In high school, though I shaved off most of my hair and wore combat boots, I preferred Pasty Cline to Siouxsie Sioux. In college, my affinity for the Waterboys inspired my roommate to forbid me from choosing the music anymore, because the Waterboys picking made her feel “too white.” And when I grew up and got a job and started listening to bluegrass in my office, co-workers leaned in to ask how someone like me had ever been exposed to country music.
“Someone like me” means “Jew from Chicago.” And though I would classify what I listen to as many things — bluegrass, high lonesome, rockabilly, twang, Western swing, classic country, alt-country — it is, indeed, country.
This country-love began about six years ago when my boyfriend William came home with the soundtrack to O Brother Where Art Thou and changed my life. Everything about this “old-timey” music was right for me — I told William I could listen to “I’ll Fly Away” forever. And yet, the curiosity my new musical pursuits provoked in others gave me pause. Who was I to sing along with a church song about going to heaven?
Was I being ridiculous?
(Was she? Was Jennifer being ridiculous? More tomorrow, when "You're Looking at Country" concludes. Can't wait! - Erin)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)