( read more)ĭylan Scott is a genuine, authentic, corn-fed, down home, Southern-raised, good-ol’ classic American dickhead my friends, and he’s looking to abscond with more than his fair share of the American dream by dropping the zipper on his $1,200 fashion-ripped jeans and rubbing his nutsack all over everything true country music fans celebrate and hold dear just so he can afford a really bad ass truck and screw hot Vandy chicks he Svengali’s in the douchiest bars in Nashville into thinking he deserves to be a star. Sam Hunt is Mad Lib lyrics overlaying shitty electronic beats thrown together in 30 minutes. It’s been flabbergasting heretofore to see critics give Sam Hunt a pass simply because he’s a guilty pleasure for them, and turn songs about getting a hand job in the back of a downtown taxi into some important, forthright expression of our time that deftly blends modern themes with small town sensibilities.
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I want to see all you Sam Hunt apologists-you know who you are the ones that work at entertainment outlets that only know country music from the outside looking in and say about Sam Hunt, “Gee I didn’t know I liked country music until I heard him,”-come and defend this abortion. “Body Like a Backroad,” despite the Herculean efforts of Sam Hunt’s back catalog of audio abominations, somehow, inexplicably, sets a new low for this country music interloping pop star who would fuck off the entire 90 year history of country music if it meant getting a hit in a format where he not only doesn’t belong, but defines the absolute antithesis of-the perfect antonym to-and only continues to hang around because he knows he would get his ass handed to him if he tried his hand in the pop format with this vomitous dreck. Even Florida Georgia Line isn’t stupid enough to release a song like this, and they still have to recite the story of the rabbit going down the hole to get their fucking shoes tied every morning. The level of objectification and misogyny in this song would make the quarter-century dead corpse of Conway Twitty writhe as if it was in an epileptic fit. To release a song called “Body Like a Backroad” in the year of our Lord 2017, after we suffered through five years of embarrassment as a genre at the hands of the Bro-Country scourge, it goes so far beyond aggressively cliché, it’s just downright grotesque. But this is a moment to call the dogs out and hold there feet to the fire.
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Feel free to peruse Saving Country Music’s Album of the Year nominees and Song of the Year nominees if you’re looking for something good. And please, no bellyaching about how we should focus on the positive. But you won’t find any evidence of that here. Granted, overall it feels like country music is improving, including in the mainstream, at least marginally.
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This year was a great example of how you should never think it can’t get any worse, because it can, and did, and by a long stretch. Man did Music Row in Nashville turn in a whole slew of stinkers this year, setting new lows for the substance, and non-country-ness of “country” songs in 2017.