Guilty m’lud…

I’m not a big fan of the expression “guilty pleasure” because it cunjours up images of either genuinely good music which just happens to not have been released in the last 5 years or an excuse for people who enjoy listening to boring rock and pop to give their tastes a more interesting name. I do have one song, which, through association I shouldn’t be allowed to like.

It’s the kind of song an ignorant Tea Partier would relate to and it’s got the most sickly, overproduced 90s Nashville sound but it’s a hell of a drinking song.

I first heard it at the tender age of 22. I was in Kansas City watching my beloved St. Louis Cardinals play the Royals in the magnificent Kaufmann Stadium, sat roughly where this picture was taken from so I could see a horiffic lightning storm rolling hunderds of miles over the midwest plains towards us. By the 7th innings the storm was almost upon us when the unmistakeable picked into comes in and the whole ground chimes in in unison:

“Blame it all on my roots/I showed up in boots/And ruined your black tie affair…”

I couldn’t help but be impressed. It was certainly better than the lawnmower race they had had during the previous break.

As the chorus kicked in the heavens opened with a downpour I’ve never seen before or since but that song stayed in my head long after it had stopped raining and the majority of the fairweather fans had come out of the stands. I don’t care if it makes me a small-government-loving, gun-control-hating, family-values redneck – I love this song.

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