When A Woman Doesn't Want You

Oh, Gary Lightbody. It's true. You have so much working against you: you're saddled with a visage that's best described as the goofier Zach Braff. No one can really tell where in the hell you're actually from- NotQuiteEnglandistan? You're a bit of tweaker onstage. VH1 is going to make all of us want to commit suicide rather than hear "Chasing Cars" one more time, which is a shame.

And yet. There is also much to love. Remember a few years ago, at the Bowery Ballroom, when you told that very cute story about shopping for sneakers? The crowd banter at the 9:30 Club? So charming. You can actually sing your songs live. You write delightfully endearing updates on your blog. You are tall! Which is why I've yet to understand your painfully intense crush on Martha Wainwright.

Not only did you write this song specifically so she could sing on it, but we have to suffer through your panting, boot-kissing introduction of her every time you perform it live. Maybe it's me - she never seems to be that excited to be there. I'm just saying. But fair enough, let's have at this before you turn into a puddle of puppy love right here and now.

And then it comes (at 2:05 for those playing along at home): Martha busts out The Sprinkler. If you missed it - which, really, you can't miss something as completely ludicrous as The Sprinkler - she does it again. Quite enthusiastically, I might add.

Gary. Seriously. I don't always agree with people's romantic choices - I mean, shit, I generally don't agree with my own - but The Sprinkler? Nothing about this song calls for this sort of behavior. This is a sad, sad, sad love song about a bond struggling to survive 16-months of touring. The "Faithfully" of its time, if you will. Loving a music man is not always what it's supposed to be! And Martha goes and mocks it with her spastic Hunch of Indie Cred.

This is not the woman for you, Gary, no matter how much you want it to be so. I'm telling you this for your own good. You can shove her in a gear case (I'm sure she fits) and trot her out at every stop for as long as you want, but she will never love you. Let her go. Call me.

Resistance is futile

There came a point in my life where I made the decision against subscribing to a regular schedule of prime time network TV; I chose the path of catch as catch can with my entertainment. It's pretty liberating, and yet there are occasional repercussions. One of these is that I became frighteningly well versed in the extensive catalogue of rare genetic diseases via the Discovery Health Channel. Another is that I found myself watching the Country Music Awards.

Much about the culture of country music confuses me. On one hand, it's painstakingly manufactured right down to those fabulous bedazzled blazers, and yet it's probably the one genre of popular music where you're really forced to sing live. This was probably the thing that impressed me most about the performances at the CMAs - the mix was utterly horrendous, but everyone with a microphone was definitely holding it down in the real. Most times to their detriment. Yes, we're looking at you, Martina McBride. I guess when really the only thing you're bringing to the table is a passable singing ability, you might as well have to actually do it. Country music singers are generally a single threat. This goes without saying: those people cannot dance - all boot-scootin' aside. Their very sense of rhythm is often questionable. And you really don't have to be terribly attractive either, although as with most professional whoring, it helps. All of this is doubly-true for men (we're looking at you, Big & Rich), since country music likes its fellas hearty and overwhelmingly male. Not a lot of dancing there, THANK GOD, just a lot of standing (perhaps some walking) and looking deeply earnest about...something. His lady. His truck. Fishing. The whole thing is alien and off-putting, and yet. I can't look away.

Let me first admit: I'm half genuine Irish redneck. I have been to a dirt-track race and eaten unshelled peanuts out of a plastic bag. I know what a fish camp is. None of my cowboy boots are from Urban Outfitters. My daddy owns a very large pick-up truck and a lot of NASCAR caps. I am not fronting, my friends.

As it turned out, Dad was solely responsible for my musical taste until I was about 13, so I listened to both kinds: country and western. But he was kind of a purist in that regard - Randy Travis and Alabama were OK, but Leann Rimes was a harpy. I didn't question this. Actually one of my favorite songs used to be "If The South Woulda Won" by Hank Williams Jr.

I'd make my Supreme Court down in Texas,

And we wouldn't have no killers gettin’off free.

If they were proven guilty, then they would swing quickly,

Instead of writin’ books and smilin’ on T.V.

It was very much the "America, Fuck Yeah" of it's time. Why Hank never ran for political office as opposed to becoming Kid Rock's towel boy is beyond me, really.

Regardless of what may have happened in my formative years, in practice I'm squarely a big stinking Yankee. I do not know my way around any weaponry, which is a major blow to my redneck cred. I abhor Budweiser products. Until very recently the concept of pulled meat was unappealing and vaguely frightening. I don't have any friends named Skillet. But none of this was really a problem. Until.

My equally Yankee, New York-bred mother moved to a suburb of Nashville. After about a year of bemoaning the withdrawal from normal pizza and Macy's, something disturbing happened. She admitted to not only knowing who Keith Urban was but liking the Sugarland album. These things always start small. When I came down to visit, she strongarmed me into a walking tour of the Country Music Hall of Fame (for the concerned: the stage costumes of both Judds are being well-preserved for posterity). I'm not sure what I did to deserve any of this besides show up. However, the assimilation is officially complete at this point: any time I call Mom's cell phone, I'm treated to Larry The Cable Guy telling me he's going to git'er done. All hope is lost.

So I'm a little concerned. This is much more serious than the high cholesterol, the other thing my genetics were kind enough to gift me. Country music will eat your soul. Any day now I expect to be shopping out of the Shepler's catalogue and naming my children Walker and Texas Ranger.