Fantasy Camp Cowboys
Country music comes in all forms. There’s nitty gritty, cowboy culture, Americana, folk, outlaw, bluegrass, Bakersfield, blues, rockabilly, pop, you name it.
Its fan, however, usually come in the same form — ready to get fucked up.
Maybe it’s the boots, or the flannel, or the low cut tops and the fringe, or just the idolization of the whiskey slinging lyrics, country music fans want to party like the best of them.
Except they can’t. And never have.
Because country music fans (and frankly most Nashville based artists) are full-on posers.
Oh, you have “Southern Pride” in Michigan? We’re more north than all of island of Manhattan. I think people forget that. I described last night’s show to my aunt as “country music made by people who actually lived in places you need cowboy hats.” Last night’s performer was from Oklahoma, and we had a band from Lubbock, Texas a couple weeks ago.
They have country cred. Our country folk? Fantasy camp cowboys.
Don’t believe me? I’ve got proof.
So, when I see hundreds or thousands of country music fans stroll through doors I just know the following:
Fake IDs aplenty
Somebody snuck in a flask where you’d otherwise not put your mouth
The floor will get wetter than Sea World in a hurricane
A teenager pregamed with Twisted Tea in the parking lot
A man will lose one of his boots
A woman will lose her phone
5% of the audience won’t make the headliner
There’s a couple way too old to be making out in the front row
We’re kicking out at least a half dozen minors for drinking
And someone wants to fight
This pattern of behavior all stems from trying to be a character in the songs they love. They want the new truck or the old truck, the trad wife and the picket fence, the ability to guzzle whiskey by the gallon and sip tequila til sunrise.
They can do none of those things. Well, probably the old truck thing. But the rest is for the real country boys and girls. The below-the-bible belters and cattle ranchers of the Old West. In other words, the TV show Yellowstone* has ruined America.
*I have watched Yellowstone, my favorite character is Teeter.
All Hat
Flatland Cavalry falls into that Americana vein of country music. A little slower, some fiddle, dress up to get down flavor. The Lubbock based band came through Grand Rapids for the second time, this one to quite a bit more fanfare.
I worked their first show here in 2023, and boy the difference 18 months makes. This year’s show was by far more lively, halter tops, more fringe, more people doing dumb shit so early in the evening.
I was fighting back yawns last year. This year I was fighting back the smell of the man I was walking up to, who had just vomited on the floor and the trash bin.
And now into his crisp and clean black cowboy hat.
I approached with caution. After all, it was early, 4 minutes into the opener’s set. The top of the second song.
I asked the guy if he wanted to get checked out by the EMT. Being so early, I immediately went to medical emergency rather than over stimulation. He declined.
Not exactly.
He told me he’d “walk it off and be fine.”
I reiterated that if he chose to do so, he’d be walking it off outside and would miss the rest of the show. The endless night ahead of us. He declined again, soup bowl of inner human stew Stetson in hand.
Some venues really care about the wellbeing of their patrons. The customer experience is paramount to putting on a great show. Part of this experience includes warm food or expanded restrooms, water stations, comfy seats, or overhead heating units outside the front doors to welcome you to a cozier environment.
If someone refuses help, there’s not much you can do.
Once our man walked it off through the lobby, outside the doors, and away from the heating vents, he got a little chillier than expected.
So, he put his hat back on.
No Cattle
Josh Meloy in on the more authentic side of red dirt country.
I must admit, his fans were mostly chill. Sure, there were a few drunk dads who got a little out of control. But out of control in a “throw my back out dancing” way and not “trying to fight the world” kinda way.
And then there was the crew.
One of our front door security warned me of a crew, two “adults” and four minors that just came in and beelined for the barricade. Each of-ager had two drinks in hand and the minors mysteriously went without.
Sure, I’ll monitor them. Who would be dumb enough to drink as a minor at the barricade?
It almost writes itself!
The smallest of the crew, a fire-haired girl in rusty fringe and big flared jeans was chugging her Modelo not five feet in front of me. Duty calls.
It took me less than a minute to reach them (5 minutes into this opener) and motioned for them to come talk with me.
“She’s gotta go, and you, too for giving it to her?”
”Do you have it on video?”
”We probably do, but she definitely does,” I said, pointing to her Snapchat that was literally recording every sip.
Red got the hint and made her way out of the crowd. The boyfriend was a human Pit Mix, a mop of hair, flannel and denim shrouding his 250-plus pounds. As he walked ahead of me, he turned and asked for a refund. “She won’t do it again,” he said. Sir, she wasn’t as much of the problem as you are, and she knows this, as she’s leaving faster than you.
As I declined to comment, Pit made an about face, puffed his chest and rammed his head straight into my chest (he was approximately 5-foot-7, 5-9 in his cowboy boots). I shouldn’t have been so surprised, but soon it was on and I was doing my best 18-year-old lineman moves until Pit dropped to the floor and hugged my leg like a toddler. Then he twisted it.
After going through months of surgery recovery, my chances of wriggling out of this were slim, so I went into the twist and tumbled to the floor.
Never a proud moment when a smaller man takes you down, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. Still doesn’t sit right.
Anywhooo…I had help. [I may edit to insert names and details later upon approval later] but we eventually got Pit off the ground, each suffering some scrapes, bruises, broken glasses, and a fat lip. Tussling with an overweight infant throwing elbows from the floor will never be quick and easy, but we managed.
After we put him out on the street, Red shouts at us for his hat.
His hat? You’re lucky cops weren’t called.
A few beats go by and they’re more vocal about the hat. If this gets them to leave, so be it. I fish the hat out from the trash (not sure how it got there…) and frisbee toss it in his general direction.
“Oh, real mature!” said Red, the woman we just kicked out for underage drinking.
Country music fans from Michigan getting ejected during the opener.
All hat, no cattle.
