The Musical Divide

This is something of a turning point for this feature. The ‘80s truly were a wildly unpredictable and underrated time period in country music, both in terms of quality and in how events of the latter half of the decade paved the way for the beloved ‘90s era. As we move away from discussions of the Urban Cowboy movement and responses to it, we now turn to a rapid uprise in new singer-songwriters who would bring needed change to the format. Oh, you think I mean the class of ‘89? In due time, friends. For now, let’s turn toward another class: the one of ‘86.

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In September 1985, The New York Times published a report, written by Robert Palmer, with the headline, “Nashville Sound: Country Music In Decline.” Translation: Country music was dying.

Technically, Palmer wasn’t wrong. His main argument was that certain older country music stars had struggled to attract younger listeners (even despite how certain others, like George Jones and Merle Haggard, actually found new life), and that the format’s aging audience no longer bought records or attended concerts in sizable numbers. He also cited the short-lived Urban Cowboy phenomenon as part of the reason for the decline, and noted how sales had fallen hard in recent years.

Again, fair enough. Where he crossed the line is when he said this: “These good times are gone and for most of the established country stars they won’t be coming back.” Furthermore, “It’s not just the Nashville Sound that seems to be dying, it’s the Nashville dream.”

He missed the rest of the story. After all, Alabama had established themselves by this point as country music’s first million-selling band. And in terms of new acts and established sounds, there was truly something for everyone during this time period, whether one loved traditional country music or wanted to see it branch out further, be it through progressive songwriting or crossover sounds (or some other thing). I’ve written about that from an artistic standpoint before, but it also involves more technical changes within the industry, including through label management and an influx of new producers.

Basically, it was a bleak period for country music, but it’s through those dark times that a renaissance period emerged. Producer Jimmy Bowen took over the Nashville division of RCA Records in 1984, and worked with now-established superstars like George Strait and Reba McEntire to further their respective hot streaks. There was another one, on the other hand, who focused on newer talent.

Tony Brown was a former pianist for Elvis Presley and Emmylou Harris who became a record executive in 1978, and, later, the vice president of A&R at MCA. He himself was a producer dubbed “too hip” for Music Row, so it’s no surprise that through him, three Texas iconoclasts were signed who would all test country radio’s willingness to stretch their boundaries and accept both exciting new sounds and grittier songwriting.

And … well, it kind of worked. Sorta. Lyle Lovett delivered offbeat acoustic tunes that balanced a sly wit with some emotionally devastating material, and Nanci Griffith drew from her folk inspirations to deliver poetic, stripped-down roots rock (she was self-described as a “folkabilly”). As for that whole “disrupting country radio” part … well, Lovett cracked the top ten. Once. But even without radio play, these artists carved out long careers and became major influences on the next generation of songwriters; they just needed to sever ties with Music Row to find their true audience. It’s the sort of very subtle influence that this decade doesn’t receive enough credit for in establishing the next one.

And as for why I’ve established this heady bit of context, it’s because the third artist of that group, Steve Earle, is the one who arguably had the most success on the charts … and also the one who burned any ties to Nashville faster than anyone else. This isn’t the time or place to discuss Earle’s infamous troubles with the law, or his hard-drug habits and redemption that paved the way for one of the most creative run of albums to ever exist. This story, for now, is a bit tamer: the story of a young songwriter from San Antonio who quit school after the 8^th grade, drifted in and out of trouble, started playing guitar and eventually settled in Houston for a time, where he first met hero and mentor Townes Van Zandt.

Yes, that’s tamer. Anyway, after Earle moved to Nashville, he met other songwriters who originated from Texas, like Rodney Crowell and Guy Clark, and furthered his musical education. He found work as a songwriter, and while early cuts like “When You Fall in Love” and “The Devil’s Right Hand” found their way to Johnny Lee and Waylon Jennings, respectively, it wasn’t until he released his debut EP that he gained ground in Nashville as his own artist.

And so, if we’re to synthesize Earle’s early sound the same way we did for Lovett and Griffith before, it would be a working class-oriented country-rock fusion that invites as many comparisons to Van Zandt or Clark as it does to Heartland singers like Bruce Springsteen and John Cougar Mellencamp. Regardless of whether I just offended someone or not with that description, there was nothing else quite like it in country music.

Really, in the grander scheme of Earle’s discography at large, there’s nothing quite like his first two albums, both of which were pointed at country music’s mainstream in theory but never really fit the mold – even at what was arguably the genre’s most creatively weird and enriching point in history. And while I do personally prefer his more expansive comeback albums released throughout the mid-to-late ‘90s, there’s still an edge and drive present in 1986’s Guitar Town that always makes for an easy revisit.

No, it’s not as overtly dark or dangerous as albums like Copperhead Road or The Hard Way, but there is a raw, blue-collar-focused sentiment to his early work that makes for an interesting study. It’s a bit ironic to hear a title track dedicated to a place he never fit in with comfortably, but I think the real core shown here is through Earle’s understanding of what he writes about, whether it’s for hopeless, failed dreamers, or himself. Heck, maintaining that connection with the heart and soul of one’s subjects is what country music is all about, and at least through tracks here, like the punchy, working-for-a-living mentality of “Good Ol’ Boy (Gettin’ Tough)” and the small-town angst of “Someday,” he does.

Better yet, there’s a consistent focus, reflected not only in a collection of groove-heavy country and roots-rock, but also in the green-eyed focus of a performer who’s already lived a hardbitten life and is still learning the ropes. It’s mostly jumpy in a way that somewhat reflects that youthful angst, not only through that iconic bouncy riff of the title track, but also the excessive use of organ to lend these songs more punch and flair. It’s loose but not quite breezy, and while there are a few moments where it can make for a somewhat odd tonal mismatch – like the surprisingly bouncy “Goodbye’s All We’ve Got Left” that feels a tad too lightweight and the equally strange and clumsy attempt at ‘50s-inspired country in “Think It Over” - you’ll also get roiling odes to the outlaw persona through the jangly “Hillbilly Highway” and the generally aggressive chug of “Good Ol’ Boy (Gettin’ Tough).”

But I also think it’s the second half that leans even more effectively into more dynamic production and compositional instincts, and feel more revealing of a performer who could stand proudly beyond just the shadows of his influences. In that regard, “My Old Friend the Blues” may be the lone slow, sad country ballad in his catalog as it coasts on that ghostly pedal steel, but it’s a damn effective depiction of the haggard desperation that fuels this album. And that it leads into “Someday,” one of my favorite Earle tracks and one that carries such a huge anthemic swell in all of its snarled holler in refusing to settle for a dead-end life, well, it’s a perfect one-two punch. It’s what even makes “Fearless Heart” such a standout for me, a love song of commitment that for most other performers might scan as a tad overly cheesy, but here feels like a way to keep the fight going – a testament of strength that even acknowledges it’s been beat before, but keeps moving onward regardless. It wasn’t a single, and I can’t imagine what Earle’s career would have looked like had he had more chart success than just two top ten hits with this album, but I feel like this could have furthered a road to stardom, had he wanted.

Of course, that road, as we’ve heard echoed throughout time, is a demanding one that takes its toll, and while there is a personal resonance to that shown through Earle’s later struggles, revisiting “Little Rock ‘N’ Roller” these days is not easy. Dedicated to Earle’s son, the late Justin Townes Earle, as something of an apology for missing all of the time away while out on the road, it’s an empathetic reflection on someone else’s struggles that carries the spirit of this album in general.

And though the folk-inspired “Down the Road” somewhat acts as a closing moment of levity in coming full circle on life’s lessons, in shifting from its lighter, more rollicking, mandolin-driven beginnings to a more percussive-driven approach, it shows that it’s a never-ending struggle to grow and learn. The miles may lay long behind you, but you’ve still got miles to go, to paraphrase it. Earle may not have stayed in this relative sonic lane for too long in his career, but as far as beginnings go – or rather, here, the next chapter of Earle’s own story – it rarely gets better than this.

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Join me next time, where we’ll discuss another side to the class of ‘86, with Dwight Yoakam’s Guitars, Cadillacs, Etc., Etc.