THE COUNTRY AND WESTERN BLUES I have a friend with reasonably good musical taste. He
said that he had been under the impression that Country and Western music was a pretty
lugubrious affair; that the tempo was usually slow, the singer usually mournfully
warbling about some romantic disappointment and, in general, an atmosphere was
diffused which could be termed non-dynamic and lacking in oomph, sparkle and fizz.
	I suppose I could be taken to task about what 'reasonably good musical taste' means.
It could signify narrow musical interests, even unreasonable prejudice. My friend's
assessment of Country and Western music could be violently disagreed with.
Whether his opinions were superficial or not, they were borne out by my experience at
an open-air Country and Western concert I attended recently. Admittedly, not all the
music was mournful, but the general effect on me was definitely depressing.
	If you like a certain type of music, if you are enthusiastic about a
particular performer, it is likely that you would look forward to a free concert
featuring your favourites. Such was the case last year when a famous jazz band made
the joint jump.
	On the occasion of the Country and Western concert, my group of friends, and
in fact the entire audience, were in an appreciative and exultant mood. I must admit
that I had no such anticipatory shivers, but had to admit that certain Country and
Western numbers which had reached the charts in past times, such as 'You Needed Me',
~My, my, my, what a Beautiful Day', and ~Stand by your Man', had some good points,
whether it was appealing melody, effective harmony or catchy rhythm. Perhaps they
would play a few of my favourites, or at least play numbers which would be tuneful or
gimmicky. Such was my wistful hope.
	So why the hell did I go along there, you may well ask. It was not in the
eager anticipation of suffering - I don't consider myself to be a masochist. Was the
company scintillating, then? My friends were a selection of line dancing ladies with
whom I hoofed the light fantastic two, or maybe three, times per week. Was it that
their jolly company would compensate me for the anticipated tedium of the concert?
That was a chance few people would risk. So why on earth.. . .? Well, I was simply
doing my husband a favour. Last year he bought a weird piece of headgear at the jazz
concert, namely a headband with two wire antennae sticking up on each side, each
topped by a scarlet heart. If this contraption was switched on, the hearts would flash
simultaneously or alternately. This elegant piece of nonsense got broken somehow or
other, and my husband, who was overseas at the time, begged me as a special favour to
obtain another of these scintillating tiaras, so he could cut a dash at some future
social function or other.
	Upon arrival at the town square where the concert was to take place, and while
records were being played on stage prior to the arrival of the principal stars, I took
a look around. Most of the stalls were of the hamburger and hot dog variety but,
hooray! The very last one on my circular tour specialised in the vending of the
horrendous headpieces previously described. Alas, no flashing hearts were available
this time, merely flashing bloodshot eyeballs or red devil's horns. The eyeballs had
it.
	That, of course, was destined to be the highlight of the evening, but there
were three hours to endure before the arrival of the taxi home. I just had to hang in
there. The first guitarist-cum-vocalist named Gordon Fossett was accompanied by a girl
and a keyboard player. These three were front stage, and sang separately or together.
Apart from the unfortunate fact that they did not perform one song I knew, the
experience was pretty bland and the singing not noticeably gloomy.
	The girl fascinated me in that she sported a very small bosom that virtually
sat on her stomach. I may have been old- fashioned in thinking a bra might have
helped. She wore boring red trousers and a white top that might have come from St.
Vincent de Paul. The principal singer did at least wear dressy Western gear, while the
keyboard player was draped in a baggy gray shirt and similar trousers that did not
exactly invite inspection. He appeared to have as much dress sense as the blonde girl
with the bust hanging down onto her navel.
	A couple of the numbers they played were actually up-tempo. Two women behind
us were frantic Fossett fans who joggled a 'Gordon Fossett, We Love You' banner
through the ninety minute ordeal.
	Two of our party - fervent Roynon Faggott aficionados - were becoming more and
more excited as the time for their idol to appear, approached closer. I started to
feel quite curious. What on earth would this Faggott guy be like? He must be really
something to generate such frenzy. A veritable Elvis, no doubt, complete with sultry
looks, tight jeans and pelvic thrusts galore, dynamically delivery catchy numbers
backed with driving rhythm.
	At last it seemed that the idol was about to appear, and the crowd went wild.
A small bunch of people emerged from a van alongside the stage.
	"Which one is Roynon?" I enquired. My friend pointed to a figure mounting the
stairs to the stage. "There he is!" I couldn't believe it. There had to be some
mistake. A bowed, senescent figure, being assisted, like a frail geriatric, up the
steps, was clad in dark grey or black trousers and sloppy joe. His face was craggy and
lined, and his grey, shaggy hair hung in uneven hanks, flopping down over his face and
shoulders.
	Surely this could not be the great star who had made so many CD's and wrote
not only his own songs but many for celebrities?
	This sorry figure took centre stage. I scolded myself for passing judgement
too soon. After all, this was a musician. I should at least wait until I had heard
some of his music.
	Well, I suppose he could sing after a fashion, and his backing group was more
than competent, but as he wrote all his own numbers it was ightly unlikely that I
would know any of them. As I endured his mostly funereal batch of ballads, I thought
mournfully that even if he had not set out to write the most boring set of songs
possible, melodically, lyrically and rhythmically, he might as well have done so. To
put it another way, he might as well not have bothered.
	Each dull, uninspired, terminally boring number was, amazingly, greeted by
vast acclaim by the masses of swaying, screaming fans waving their scarves and
banners. Loudest of all were two ladies in my party whose eyes fairly bugged out with
ecstatic joy, resembling the bloodshot eyes waggling on wire stalks on the heads of
other fans behind me - the very headgear whose acquisition had involved me in this
torment.
	There was at least one up-tempo number called 'I ride a Horse'. Quite frankly,
the lyrics could have been composed by a four-year-old, and probably were. They were
matched by the melody which ranked several notches below ~Baa, baa, black sheep' in
musical interest. Nevertheless, everyone appeared to be leaping around madly,
stomping, flinging their arms about frantically and threatening to crack each other on
the head.
	All except me, of course. There just had to be something wrong with me. Why
wasn't I cavorting around and screaming like everyone else? Why wasn't I yelling 'I
ride a Horse' with the same tribal mania as these demonically gesticulating dervishes?
As far as I was concerned, R. F. and his minions could gallop their horses over the
local cliffs straight away.
	A chord was struck, a light was lit, the truth was set before my eyes. I was
just not with it! While everyone else was leaping and yelling, my sentiments more
closely coincided with
	The cord is frayed
	The cruse is dry
	The link must break, and
	The lamp must die.
	As far as I was concerned, it was 'Goodbye Forever' to Mr. Faggott.
	Don't get me wrog. I go to line dancing and enjoy the up-tempo numbers as
well as the slower ones. We dance a good selection of numbers with catchy rhythms and
tunes. But no more Country and Western for me - at least, none in the style of Mr.
Roynon Faggott - or should it be Really Frightful? As far as I was concerned, most
Country and Western is, I'm afraid, Chilly and Wintry, Colicky and Windy, Clichéd and
Worn, and, above all, Corny and Weepy.