Faith Hill

12/2004

It’s true. I had a problem with country music.

There was a time when, in all honesty, I would have described the country scene like this: Rascal Flatts is a pest control company. Faith Hill is a place you go with your boyfriend, but not the wrong boy, or you might end up with a nasty infection called Cledus, in which case you will need a good doctor and quick. Kenny Chesney is a holiday spice that works wonders on Grandma’s fruitcake and George Strait is the international code phrase for, “I’m gay.” If you’ve got a LeAnn Womack crawling around your attic, better call Rascal Flatts and, if when, dining out you must order the Vince Gill you may live to regret it. Lastly, trust me on this: if you’ve got a Pinmonkey problem you’ll need more than Rascal Flatts.

Country wasn’t my thing. Not new country, not old country, not future country. But I’ve changed and, yes, there was a handsome man involved who took me to Faith Hill and taught me a thing or two about the fiddle. I’m glad he did. Somehow I ended up skiing in Crested Butte with country stars. One thing led to another and I’m happy to say I’m now a legitimate country music fan and can weigh in on issues facing the industry like Toby vs. Natalie, old vs. new, country vs. pop and all things Shania.

Thank you Kenny. And congratulations.