How did alt-country become musical roadkill? 10:00 AM CDT on Saturday, August 14, 2004
BY THOR CHRISTENSEN / The Dallas Morning News
The state of music didn't look too healthy in 1997. Grunge was all but dead, the teen-pop plague was spreading and alternative-rock had been hijacked by poseurs like Sugar Ray and Matchbox 20.
But a savior seemed to appear on the horizon, and its name was alternative country.
Led by twangy rockers such as Wilco, Whiskeytown and Dallas' Old 97's, alt-country had such a bright future that radio stations and magazines cropped up in its wake while record labels signed just about any scruffy band that could sing "Your Cheatin' Heart."
By the time the Old 97's released their Elektra records debut in June of 1997, the buzz had grown into a roar of media hype.
"Every one of us was going to be 'The Nirvana of Alt-Country,' " Old 97's guitarist Ken Bethea says, laughing. "It was ridiculous."
Of course, it never happened. MTV ignored the trend, the superstars never materialized, and the big labels began dropping artists as quickly as they'd signed them.
"The exuberance it had in the beginning has faded away now," says singer Alejandro Escovedo. "I don't think alternative country really exists anymore. It was just a little spark, and it didn't really change anything."
So how did this "next big thing" wind up as just roadkill on the music-biz annual report?
Like so many fizzled experiments in pop music, it was a mix of unrealistic expectations and bad marketing. It was also a case of déjà vu.
In the early '80s â?? 10 years before anyone thought to add "alt" to "country" â?? the movement was known as "cowpunk." As Lone Justice, Jason & the Scorchers and Rank & File began attracting critics and radio play, predictions of platinum records swirled
"When it started, it was just punk rock," says Mr. Escovedo, ex-member of Rank & File. "We were listening to Johnny Cash and Marty Robbins and Chuck Berry, just trying to educate the audience and ourselves about all these great things you never heard on the radio."
But as fast as it began, the genre sputtered and groups disbanded. Ultimately, it was a trend that "was more about wearing a bolo tie or a funny cowboy hat," says Mr. Bethea. "None of those bands were able to put together a string of good albums."
Still, the sound didn't completely die. Up-and-comers such as Uncle Tupelo and the Jayhawks kept going, as did left-of-Nashville country acts such as Steve Earle and Lucinda Williams. And by 1994, when Rick Rubin produced Johnny Cash's American Recordings CD, alternative rock fans began figuring out that country was cool.
Two new radio formats began fanning the flames: "Triple A" (adult, alternative, album-oriented) and more country-oriented "Americana." In September 1995, the genre got its own magazine, No Depression, named after a Carter Family song and an Uncle Tupelo CD.
A year later, the hype reached a fevered pitch when Billboard ran a mammoth cover story declaring alt-country "a vital musical force that's drawing the attention of major labels."
Vital as it was, it had a huge marketing problem: It was way too broad. Ranging from high-decibel rock bands to whispery folk singers to hard-core country crooners, alt-country is a genre of a thousand sounds.
"You can't settle on one definition of what it is," says No Depression co-founder Peter Blackstock. "On the one hand, it's made us grow and get broader as a magazine. But on the other hand, the attention among all those artists gets dispersed."
The second marketing curse was its name.
"Any music that has the word 'country' in it, people under 21 immediately think 'dumb-ass redneck," says Mr. Bethea. "It's like a wall: The rock crowd that buys popular music hates country. If Neil Young and Tom Petty came out today, they'd be called 'alt-country,' and they'd be doomed."
If the genre was too country for rock fans, it was also too rock for mainstream country fans.
"The country music that sells millions isn't really country â?? it's Faith Hill singing pop ballads," says Dallas singer-guitarist Jim Heath, a.k.a. the Reverend Horton Heat. "That's one of the reasons I've never pursued the country thing more."
And unless an artist chooses that route, "it's unrealistic to think you'll sell millions."
With their photogenic lead singer and radio-friendly hooks, the Old 97's were one of alt-country's best hopes to make the big time. But their best-selling album, 1999's Fight Songs, sold only 94,000 copies in the United States â?? a failure by major-label standards.
After severing ties with Elektra Records, the group signed with a smaller label, New West, and its new CD, Drag It Up, has sold about 11,000 copies in the United States since July 27. Not bad for an underground band but a fraction of what the Strokes or the White Stripes sell.
"I like garage rock ... but that movement is based on rebellion, which is way easier to promote to a 16-year-old," Mr. Bethea says. "Our music is about songwriting, and that's a harder thing to market."
In hindsight, the grand expectations were mostly based on overheated media and good ol'-fashioned music-biz greed.
The '96 Billboard article quoted one cash-thirsty record honcho as saying that alt-country could be as big as grunge.
Everyone interviewed for this story claims they never bought into the hoopla.
"When it was being called this 'next big thing,' I always said, 'Actually, this is the next medium-size thing," says Mr. Blackstock of No Depression.
"And for the most part, that's how it's played out. There never was a breakthrough. The closest thing was the O Brother soundtrack, but that was more of an anomaly."
Commercially, alt-country may be yesterday's news to major-label bigwigs, but it's holding steady under the radar.
Triple A stations play alt-country acts in cities such as Seattle, Boston and Austin (the format doesn't exist in Dallas). And grassroots labels such as Bloodshot, New West and Yep Roc seem to be thriving.
And according to Mr. Blackstock, there's been no drawback for the bands that went to smaller labels after bombing in the big leagues â?? except for bruised egos.
"Being on a major label, you can build a fan base of 20,000 to 100,000 people, and that's enough to continue to exist reasonably well. The Old 97's are a perfect example of that," he says.
Artistically, the movement may be stronger than ever. Marquee acts such as Wilco and Ryan Adams are experimenting with noncountry sounds â?? which keeps the genre from stagnating â?? and promising new artists keep popping up, such as My Morning Jacket, Mindy Smith and the Drive-By Truckers.
And the very same thing that makes alt-country so hard to market to millions â?? its stylistic breadth â?? keeps it vital.
"If every band sounds the same, then how's a trend supposed to last?" says the Reverend Horton Heat. "That fact that it's so diverse means it's gonna keep going â?? and something big might still happen."
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