Rebel Yell Or Bronx Cheer?

“We’re not a country music town, but we play one on TV.”

That may be the slogan of New York City in 2005 as it hosts the Country Music Association Awards -- an event televised only from Nashville since the program’s inception in 1967.

Yes, Music City U.S.A. lost out to “The City That Never Sleeps.” I didn’t know insomnia was such a selling point. Maybe Nashville should promote itself as “The City With The Heartbreak of Psoriasis.”

(The awards almost went to Paris, France. The opening number was going to be Toby Keith and Willie Nelson singing “Whiskey For My Men, Utter Contempt For The Lowbrow American Swine.”)

Actually, New York was chosen because it’s a “media center.” Some in the country music industry fear that Nashville has been “out of sight, out of mind” as far as East Coast sponsors and ad agencies are concerned. This, in spite of post-9/11 anthems, two country music cable channels, talk show appearances, and the enduring fame of Garth Brooks. I guess some Manhattan media types are a little slow on the uptake. (“Five years I’ve worked for this agency, and they still haven’t told me where they found a singing gecko!”)

So, by granting NYC the $30 million economic impact of the awards, the CMA is basically rewarding ignorance. The show returns to Nashville in 2006, but maybe in 2007 it could be broadcast from the garage of the bank robber who wrote a holdup note on the back of his own deposit slip.


This promises to be quite a duet: the “raw honesty” of country music paired with the exuberant exaggerations of Madison Avenue. (The fine print of the song “Daddy’s Hands” would reveal that stunt hands were used instead.)

To its credit, New York is trying to make country fans feel at home. All taxi drivers will wear a name tag proclaiming “Rajeev Earnhardt.” Central Park will become Central Trailer Park. Rather than a torch, the Statue of Liberty will hold up a largemouth bass. Yankees owner George Steinbrenner will try to trade one Dixie Chick for one Brooks or Dunn to be announced later. And there will be a new answer to the question, “Who is buried in Grant’s Tomb?” (“For one night only, it’s Con-waaaaay Twitty!!!!”)

But will it be enough to make up for the disruption? I can just see Kramer bursting into the middle of a Faith Hill ballad with some wild scheme. And the songs just won’t be the same in a New York setting. No more “Redneck Woman,” “Who’s Your Daddy?,” or “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy.” Instead we’ll hear “Redneck Transvestite,” “Who’s Your Faddah?,” and “Save A Horse, Ride A Sewer Rat.”

I hope the New Yorkers know what they’re getting into. Terrorists may aim twin planes at Dolly Parton. “New York’s Finest” may find crime scenes contaminated when too much boot-scootin’ erases chalk outlines. And there will be little suspense with the opening of award envelopes because the New Yorkers ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWERS TO EVERYTHING.

I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to stop New York’s hunger for snapping up cultural events. I hear rumors that they’re going to swipe Pamplona’s famed “running of the bulls” at the same time as the CMA Awards. (“Please help me, I’m falling/In Saks Fifth Avenue…ooo…ooo…ooo…”)

Originally published the week of October 17, 2004.