America pt. 1

Saturday night as I readied myself to leave the hotel I turned to Jordan, my compatriot for the night, and told him, “I want to look American.” I pulled out my plaid western shirt, switched my khakis for Levi’s blue denim, and admired my recently trimmed fu manchu mustache in the mirror. If only I had a belt buckle and a Stetson.

We arrived at our destination, the Shepherd’s Bush Empire concert hall, bought our tickets, and proudly joined the queue. We found some seats in the balcony and waited as the seats began to fill. On our ticket below the band’s name it read “w/ Special Guests.” As time passed and no opening act took the stage, we assumed that we must be the special guests. Of course we were the special guests! As fellow Americans cut from the same Betsy Ross cloth as the band, we were essentially members of their family. We began to plan how we would get to the stage when the band called us up to show all of the Londoners what “authentic Americans” look like. We can only imagine the sense of privilege felt by those sitting around us.

Soon enough, five youngish guys entered, picked up their instruments, and fiercely tore into the music. The crowd roared, the singer showboated, and the bass pounded out a steady rhythm. And when the chorus came around and the singer growled “wine, whisky, women, and guns, how can you afford not to have any fun,” patriotism swelled within me.

Old Crow Medicine Show, as the band is called, plays what arguably could be the most American of musical genres. Theirs is a blend of country, bluegrass, folk, blues, and old-timey string band music that cannot be mistaken for anything other than true Americana. “American roots music with a rock and roll attitude” is how they describe themselves. And on Saturday night they were smokin’! This is the brash, gritty, down-to-earth Nashville, not the spit-polished sounds of country radio. This is plucky banjo, smooth slide guitar, and scratchy fiddle. This is a foot-tappin’, knee-slappin’, gasping for air kind of music. And everything they served up the audience ravenously devoured. As we left the auditorium, I couldn’t be any less proud to be an “authentic American,” even if I didn’t have a Stetson.

Most of the time when we think of American cultural exports names like McDonald’s, Starbucks, and Britney Spears are mentioned, names that don’t usually inspire pride. There is a reason Americans love McDonald’s and Starbucks, it’s the same reason why Europeans love McDonald’s and Starbucks. But behind those corporate behemoths lie the true gems of the United States. I think I witnessed one Saturday night. And it was strange to recognize it. Back home Americana is our history, our surroundings, our very selves and because of that, it’s nothing special. But here in London it’s out of place, it’s not what these people know, it’s something different and exotic. The band and the music was disconnected from their setting, drawing from a place and a people thousands of miles away. And in a way I was caught in between, physically in the foreign space but a part of the music as an American. It was a rare chance to see my own culture as both an insider and as an outsider, simultaneously. What a privilege.