Being from the South, David has done a great many things that I have not. This includes, but is not limited to: catching fireflies, sipping water from Mason jars, shooting rifles, using “mater” and “tater” to describe vegetables…the list goes on. In fact, he has a pretty healthy appreciation for most things associated with the American South, barring, of course, ignorance, racial intolerance, teenage parenthood, and apparently, most country music.
This past weekend we got a full-on education not just in country music, but country dancin’ too. Our good friend from Boston and recent Nashville transplant, Dana, came to visit. And as Dana is always down for a “G with an O, O with a D, T with an I and an M and an E” (that spells Good Time for all of you unfamiliar with Alan Jackson), we were more than happy to let her plan our evening. Turns out that a band she follows in Nashville was having a concert just outside of Atlanta at a venue called Wild Bill’s (http://www.wildbillsatlanta.com/), “America’s largest dance club and concert hall.” We agreed to go, if for no other reason than to see if that claim was truthful.
The club was large (though it is still dubious whether it is, in fact, the largest), the drinks were good, the band played well. But what really fascinated me was the dancing. I’ve never been to a nightclub where people aren’t dancing in pairs, or really even solo, but line-dancing together. Granted, I earned my Girl Scout square-dancing badge, but that was many moons ago, and my cowboy boots had forgotten pretty much everything beyond the Electric Slide. After an hour or two, I hit the floor and start following along. Heel toe, heel toe, rock step, kick… it was quick and exhausting, but I found myself laughing like crazy as I tried to keep up. Closer inspection of my fellow dancers revealed stylistic quirks, and one couple broke the mold and began to freestyle in a corner. It was surprisingly graceful. I asked David if he wanted to dance with me, and received an emphatic head shake no (he changed his mind when the music shifted from Honky Tonk Badonkadonk* to more mainstream pop; even I was slightly put off by Trace Adkin’s attempt at a rap video).
At a break in the dancing, Dana, David, our roommate Michael and I sat around a bar table catching up. Over the speakers suddenly came Chris Cagle’s “What Kinda Gone” and three of us (guess which three) burst into song. The look on my dear boyfriend’s face was hysterical—shock mingled with mild perturbation. Dana translated it into “appalled.” She then turned to me in surprise. “I didn’t know you liked country music.” It’s a statement I’ve heard quite a bit. In Boston and California, my immediate response is almost defensive—“It’s my guilty pleasure.” As in, I don’t listen to it all the time, isn’t it silly of me?
But down here, where it just makes me one with the rest of ‘em, I finally had the guts to reply, “Yeah, I love it!”
**Also, you're going to need to watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNVguvNE7qc
No comments:
Post a Comment