Variety recently published an article asking: “Does being a Morgan Wallen fan make you MAGA?” That’s the wrong question. A better one might be: Does listening to Morgan Wallen still make you a country fan?
It’s a valid question. Here’s why.
There was a time, not that long ago, when country music actually sounded like country. No algorithmic doubt. No Spotify crossfade. The twang was unmistakable. The stories were raw. You’d hear about a heartbreak, a hometown, a broken truck, a cold beer. Simpler times, sure. But unmistakably country.
Fast forward to now, and try telling me with a straight face that Post Malone’s “I Had Some Help” is country. Yes, it’s catchy. Yes, it topped country charts. And yes, it’s got the aforementioned Wallen growling somewhere in the background. But let’s be brutally honest: it’s not country. It’s pop with a bolo tie. Just like Beyoncé’s “Texas Hold ‘Em” wasn’t country, despite the banjo. Just like half of what comes out of Nashville these days is more suited to a Peloton playlist than a porch swing. (RELATED: Is Post Malone a Good Role Model?)
What we’re witnessing isn’t just evolution. It’s erasure.
Country music, once rooted in place and pain, is being disassembled in real time.
We can trace the descent. Country was once regional. The sound of Appalachia. Of coal dust and calloused hands. Hank Williams gave way to Johnny Cash. And Cash passed the torch to Willie, Waylon, and Merle. These were outsiders. Rebels. Poets with real guitars. Then came the Garth Brooks era — the stadiums, the staged spectacle. Country went mainstream, but it still had dirt under its fingernails. (RELATED: The Appeal of ‘Richmond’ Extends Beyond the Small Town)
Then came the early 2000s. Shania. Faith. Tim. The crossover era. Country started flirting with pop, and pop flirted back. But there was still a line. Taylor Swift danced on that line before hopping off it entirely.
Now, however, there is no line.
The charts are dominated by songs that use country like a seasoning, not a base. “Country” has become a marketing tag, a sonic suggestion. As long as there’s some degree of drawl, a slide guitar tucked in the back, or a rural-themed lyric, it counts. Even if it sounds like it was cooked up in the same lab as a Katy Perry single.
It’s not that these songs are bad. Post Malone’s “What Don’t Belong to Me” is a rather decent track. Beyoncé can do anything she wants musically, and she’ll nail it. But the point isn’t talent. The point is genre identity. Once a genre loses its core — its tone, its structure, its values — it becomes unrecognizable.
If in doubt, just ask rock.
Once the swaggering voice of rebellion, Rock is now a ghost. Technically, it exists. But where? Who? The genre that gave us Nirvana, Zeppelin, Hendrix, and The Clash now limps along as a brand category for people in H&M leather jackets. You could win a Grammy for Best Rock Album today and still be someone no human being has ever heard of.
And I fear country is heading the same way.
If this trend continues, a decade from now, “country” could mean almost anything. A trap beat with a mandolin. A dancehall track with cowboy boots in the video. A synthpop ballad about a farm, written by a Swedish AI and sung by a hologram in a hat. And critics will hail it as “genre-bending brilliance.” Because that’s what they always say when they don’t want to admit the genre’s dead.
It’s not necessarily about keeping country pure. It’s about keeping it honest. Country music doesn’t need to sound like it’s from 1955. But it should sound like it comes from somewhere. And right now, most of it sounds like it was born in a boardroom and tested in a focus group.
There’s a reason so many Americans, especially rural Americans, feel culturally displaced. It’s not just the politics. It’s the sound. The stories. The slow fading of things that once felt like home. (RELATED: Oliver Anthony’s Army Is Here to Stay)
So, what’s left?
Of course, there are still real country artists out there. There are musicians like Zach Bryan, Colter Wall, Charley Crockett, and Sierra Ferrell, scratching at something honest, picking guitars instead of dragging samples. But they’re swimming upstream. Because in the current landscape, the algorithm rewards the hybrid. The market wants the blend. The industry wants whatever sells in both Nashville and L.A. at the same time.
And so country music, once grounded in place, is floating into abstraction. Like rock before it. Like jazz before that.
One day, kids might learn about country the same way they learn about swing or surf rock — as a historical footnote. A niche. A playlist. A vibe. And when that happens, no twang in the chorus will be enough to bring it back.
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