They came to CMA Music Fest with nothing but dreams. Dreams and a whole lot of Daddy Toby’s money, that is.

It was, by all accounts, an epic promotional campaign. From the tour bus–emblazoned with their band logo and the title of their latest single–that was parked in prime locations throughout the festival locale over the weekend, to their participation in the City of Hope Softball Challenge (where they made up a third of their team’s lineup), to their performance on the Chevy stage outside the Sommet Center and everywhere in between, it was impossible to escape the promotional reach of Trailer Choir.

It had the appearance of an all-out, balls-to-the-wall campaign designed to introduce the world to one of music’s next big things. Without a doubt, Trailer Choir emerged from the event as the act the most successful in exploiting every conceivable publicity opportunity.

And that would be good, if Trailer Choir was one of music’s next big things.

What they are, however, is an example of how much of the industry is tragically out of touch with fans. And reality.

I had the pleasure, last July, of interviewing the trio. They were generally polite and seemed motivated, and I was impressed by their confidence–even if their declaration that their album would “have Grammy winning songs” did seem a little premature (especially considering that, at that time, they were pushing a single called “Off The Hillbilly Hook,” a title probably not especially attractive to NARAS voters).

“Off The Hillbilly Hook” bombed, failing to chart. And their follow-up attempt, “What Would You Say”–a song that referenced then-recent coal mining tragedies–stalled at #43.

Since that point, Show Dog has continued to throw support and money behind the trio, pushing three singles, a video, a digital EP and a full year of promotion and publicity expenses–all culminating in a massive push at CMA Fest 2009.

It’s a great, if not terribly original idea. You build slowly, doing radio tours, in-stores and the like, all the while developing name recognition and good will. Then, when you have a solid foundation, you go all-in.

But here’s the catch. There’s no cheese at the end of that tunnel. There’s no product. Show Dog built around something people aren’t interested in, trying to sell them a product they have no reason to want to buy.

From conception, every move Show Dog has made has pigeonholed the trio as a novelty act. From the crazy clothes (bib overalls, necktie with bluejeans) to the crazy photo settings to the crazy names to the crazy songs.

“Off The Hillbilly Hook” should have been a nonstarter. Not only has the idea of taking urban slang and setting it in country lyrics been done many times before (almost uniformly without success), there were already two similar songs–Justin Moore’s “Back That Thing Up” and The Lost Trailer’s “Holler Back”–vying for radio play at the exact same time.

As for the trio’s latest: It’s called “Rockin’ The Beer Gut.” What else can I say?

That’s one of the worst titles in country music history. The image that title elicits is not positive by any stretch of the imagination. And no matter how charming or unexpected the song may be, listeners are never going to be able to get past that. No one wants to hear a song about a person rocking a beer gut.

The music industry is going through one of its most troubled periods. And even if people actually wanted to buy music, the economy is in shambles. Consumers have little money to spend on entertainment. And you’re trying to sell them a novelty act singing a song about a beer gut?

In what world does this make sense? It’s counter-intuitive and borderline offensive.

This all reached a climax, for me, during the City of Hope softball game. At one point Big Vinny donned a Fred Flintstone costume and started shooting someone with a Super Soaker, before proceeding to step to the plate while wearing the cave-dweller outfit.

It was funny. In the same way that watching Jim Carrey mash his head into a pile of horse poop would be funny. The joke gets old real fast, and chances are it’s going to be hard to take him seriously afterward.

So here’s what you have: Trailer Choir, which is made up of a blonde chick, a short guy named after a dairy product and a 400 lb. former Sonic manager who dresses like Fred Flintstone and does the worm on stage, singing a song called “Rockin’ The Beer Gut.”

It’s every single bit as ridiculous as it sounds.

And by the way, did I mention Trailer Choir’s set outside the Sommet Center on Friday was freaking awesome?

Yes, that’s right. It was awesome. One of the best-sounding and most inspired sets I witnessed in the four days of the event.

Butter has a commanding, unique voice and the trio shares great chemistry on stage. The band was connected to each other and committed to the audience. It was one of the few performances I saw from a new artist during CMA Fest where the act took control of the scene and looked and sounded bigger than the setting. It was both impressive and surprising.

And the crowd seemed to enjoy it, for the most part. But it was hard for them to connect. Because despite the talent the band displayed, there was still something offsetting about the tone of the performance, something that made it all seem less relevant. Had the look been different, had the songs been different, maybe fans there would have felt like they were watching the start of something special. Instead, they were privy to a contrived and gimmicky sales pitch.

Butter made a remark to the effect of, “When’s the last time you heard ‘Baby Got Back’ at a country show!” And while he’s right—most of us never have—the truth is that we should never hear that song at a country show.

OK, maybe not “never.” It would be different, after all, if Jennifer Nettles sat down on a bar stool on stage and strummed it out unexpectedly. But when Trailer Choir covers Sir Mix-a-Lot, everyone in the area is left thinking that it’s just another part of a mediocre shtick. Having a 400 lb. man sing “Baby Got Back” is one of the most obvious, expected and cliched stunts I can imagine.

When they perform “Off The Hillbilly Hook,” “Rockin’ The Beer Gut,” “In My Next Five Beers” and whatever other left-of-center material they can muster, it’s easy to watch this group perform and overlook the fact that not only can they actually play and sing, they can write pretty damn well, too. One song in particular, “Rollin’ Through The Sunshine,” struck me as a unique but familiar sounding number that would stand a very strong chance at radio.

“Sunshine” is no masterpiece. But what makes a song resonate with listeners? It’s truth, not gimmickry. It’s relatability, not originality. It’s whether or not the listener hears that song and believes the artist is speaking on his or her behalf. It doesn’t have to be brilliant or groundbreaking to be commercially successful. But it does have to speak to people on some emotional level.

As touching as an inspirational song about trapped coal miners might be (”What Would You Say”), it’s not something that feels substantial to listeners. It is irrelevant to their lives, seemingly designed for the purpose of the lesson or message alone. We hear it, and perhaps we like it, but it bounces off of us. We have no reason to hold on to it.

There are, surprisingly, a lot of people in the industry who still don’t get that. And Show Dog—which has still failed to break a new act—seems oblivious to the point.

Because despite the piles of money being spent on its behalf, Trailer Choir is going nowhere. The label could double the budget and it wouldn’t change a thing. Any objective observer can look at this situation and see that the package–the look, the songs, the Fred Flintstone costume–is not working. And it’s never going to work.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, in advice to fellow writers, that it is necessary to kill your darlings. Your darlings being, by one interpretation of his statement, the little nuggets that you slip into your work because you think they’re genius. Because you think you’re a genius.

Kill them. They distract from your work. It is the writing that matters; the story, the characters. And anything that stands as a barrier between those things and the reader is a problem.

Artists and labels trying to break into the music industry in this day and age need to kill their darlings. They need to understand that fans want great music–performed by talented artists–that speaks to them and their lives. If they wanted comedy, they would go buy a Weird Al record.

There’s no room in this economy for frivolity. There’s no money to spend on goofy, off-the-wall novelty acts when they offer nothing of substance. And even if you could sell this product to its maximum potential audience, what do you think the upside of a Trailer Choir disc is? How many people, if everything goes according to plan, are ultimately going to buy into what this band is selling? Is Trailer Choir going to become a cultural phenomenon?

Kill your darlings. Write the best songs you can. Wear normal clothes, or cool clothes. Don’t cover Sir Mix-a-Lot. Don’t do the worm on stage and, for God’s sake, don’t dress up your 400 lb. band member in a Fred Flintstone costume.

If you are as talented as Crystal, Butter and Big Vinny, you don’t need to do any of these things to distinguish yourself. It all distracts from how good you are.

And you’re good. Really good. Give your potential fans a chance to see that.

But my time in Nashville over the past four days left my wishing I had gone to Bonnaroo instead. (more…)

I most certainly am.

(more…)

When Hall left Sugarland in early 2006, only a little more than a year after the trio broke onto the scene with their smash debut single “Baby Girl,” the situation seemed awkward–why would anyone leave what was quickly becoming one of the hottest musical acts in the country? Rumors began to swirl that Hall didn’t leave by choice, but was instead forced or pressured out of the group for image reasons–the common belief, back then, was that her weight was the issue. Of course, there was also the small problem that Hall was an “out” lesbian.

If the image of an overweight lesbian who has spent years toiling away on Atlanta’s Soul music scene doesn’t strike you as the kind of image that bodes well for the future of a mainstream, major-label country music act, you’re not alone. So even though Sugarland’s Jan 17, 2006, statement claimed that “Kristen has decided that she wants to stay home and write songs, and we support her in that decision,” doubts were immediately raised about the sincerity of that statement, and those doubts have continued to fuel questions and rumors–to this day, one of the most searched for phrases which leads readers to The 9513 is “Why did Kristen Hall leave Sugarland?”

The truth is that a Kristen Hall departure from Sugarland, of her own accord and free will, just didn’t make a lot of sense, and her own explanation only made the whole situation seem even more implausible. Exactly ten months after Sugarland’s official statement was released, Hall was quoted by the Kansas City Star as saying, “I don’t want to be a touring musician, I love to find unsigned acts and bring them to the level (that) we did. I love that. That, to me, is my passion and what’s fun about this business.”

That’s a head-scratch statement if I’ve ever seen one. How can you “love to find unsigned acts and bring them to that level,” when you’ve never previously brought an unsigned act to that level? Hall had never achieved any significant national success prior to Sugarland, and certainly was never involved with an act of Sugarland’s demonstrated commercial potential–a potential which was beginning to be realized even at that early stage.

Further, Hall has not, at least publicly, been taking part in the development of any unsigned acts since she left the trio. Why would Hall leave the group she helped bring into the public eye to go and do something she’d never done before and hasn’t done since?

We will probably never know with absolute certainly what the motivations of any of the involved parties are or were. But when we look at today’s events in the context of this larger situation, we can surmise that certain scenarios make sense, and certain scenarios just don’t.

Today the AP reports that, Hall has “an agreement with Jennifer Nettles and Kristian Bush to equally share profits and losses,” which, if true, can only mean one thing: someone at Mercury, someone in the band’s management, or someone in the band itself, wanted Hall gone.

Otherwise, why reward an individual for jumping ship? If Natalie Maines left the Dixie Chicks tomorrow, she would not be an equal partner in all of their future profits or losses. Surely there would still be past and future financial rewards for her involvement with the band, but equal partners? I can’t think of a legal precedent for that.

If there was such an agreement, as Hall claims, that agreement would not need to be based on her bandmates loyalty, respect, or on their gratefulness to her for her contributions in those early stages of the band’s development. Hall, having written or co-written every song on the multi-platinum Twice The Speed Of Life (the band’s debut album), was, from day one, reaping the financial rewards of royalties associated with that initial project–and, indeed, she is still reaping those rewards. Why would Nettles and Bush agree to give her a cut of profits that goes above and beyond what she was already due?

The only way any of this makes any sense is in the highly unlikely scenario that Hall, Bush, and Nettles formed an agreement, before Suagrland ever struck it big, that no matter what happened in the future they would share profits forever. They would have made this agreement knowing all the while that Hall only intended to stay until the band gained a foothold, and the agreement would signify a willingness to compensate her for her help getting them to that point. It would have been purely a business venture.

Of course, that raises the question of why Nettles and Bush would believe that Hall would be able to break them into the industry in the first place, especially considering that they each were considerably more well connected in industry circles at that point than Hall was–Nettles having been named Musician’s Atlas‘ 2000 “Independent Musican Of The Year,” and Bush having been a member of the major label act Billy Pillgram. (It’s worth noting that Bush also had a second major label connection–his brother, Brandon, plays keyboard with rock band Train.) Hall’s most notable pre-Sugarland accomplishment, aside from a series of independent albums, was sporadic involvement with folk-rock group the Indigo Girls.

But there’s another, more pressing question: if Nettles and Bush knew all along that Hall was intending to leave the group, and the three of them made the supposed deal ahead of time, why did the band’s later statement claim that Hall had “decided she wanted to stay home and write songs?”

It just doesn’t jibe. And today, it certainly seems like the most plausible, most reasonable, and most realistic scenario was that Hall simply needed to go, and she was given a financial incentive–which somebody on the inside didn’t want written down–to make the separation less painful for everyone involved.

That hypothesis has always been suspected, and it will probably never be provable one way or the other. But it’s the only hypothesis which follows any discernible logic, as it is the only hypothesis which finds the characters in this story behaving in a consistent and expected manner.

Unless we’re missing some key information, in which case this drama has the potential to explode even further.

It was a simple question. In the wake of one unsuccessful single (”The Prize“), and with no immediate schedule for the release of a second, then-Warner Nashville recording artist Joanna Cotten wanted to talk about details. About timetables. About marketing.

But this simple query was Cotten’s impossible question. Timetables? Marketing? Second Single? After cutting a whopping 21 songs for her debut project, and being unable to find the answers she was looking for from other sources, Cotten went to the top of the ladder. She went to the president of her label. “Where is this going?” she finally asked.

“We don’t know what to do,” the President said.

Cotton writes about the experience in an exceptionally candid February 28th MySpace blog titled “new beginnings.” She remains, throughout, upbeat. And there is a sense, over the course of that note, that she holds no ill will towards the powers that be at Warner. It was a question she needed to ask, she writes, so that she could do what was best for everyone.

That’s Joanna being Joanna.

As for me, I’m not willing to let Warner off the hook quite so easily.

I often defend record labels–even the majors. It seems to me that people who relentlessly and indiscriminately criticize the label establishment are lacking a nuanced view of the industry. The fact is that while labels do exist to turn a profit, they are not evil–at least not any more evil than any other business in any other field. And those who think that labels, as a rule, do not care about the well-being of their artists have clearly never worked with any of the fine label folks I’m lucky enough to count among my friends.

But this time, although I must cede credit to the executive in question for at least being honest in the face of his own blaring incompetence in this matter (an aberration on the record of someone who has proven himself time and time over), I fear some of that bad reputation is fairly earned. Because the answer to Cotton’s question shows immense irresponsibility and remains simply inexcusable.

“We don’t know what to do,” the President said. It is a statement so nonsensical in nature that it would be funny, if not for its grave implications upon the career of one of our genre’s most unique and exhilarating new voices.

“We don’t know what to do,” is something to be said after you’ve exhausted every available option. “We don’t know what to do,” is what you say when, despite your very best efforts, things just aren’t coming together. It’s what you say after Plan C fails. It’s what you say after you’ve brainstormed, gone grassroots, tried everything. “We don’t know what to do,” is what you say when the smartest record people in the entire world, who work there in your office, under your supervision, Mr. President, are just plain stumped.

After all of that, then you’ve earned the right to speak those words.

But not now. Not after one failed single. Not after one rushed pitch to radio. When you say those words now, you’re jumping ship. When you say those words after doing so little, it’s not failing. It’s just plain giving up.

And what makes the answer so particularly obscene is the fact that Warner knew exactly what it was getting into when it signed Joanna Cotten. It was not signing some disposable copy-cat act to be flaunted in front of radio and then subsequently discarded on a whim. This was not a Shania clone (they all failed, by the way), or a Faith clone (they also failed), or a Taylor clone (they are coming, and they will fail). Warner embraced, at least at the moment of her signing, the fact that Cotten doesn’t sound like anyone else. Anyone else ever.

And despite her immense talent, it was never going to be easy to introduce a product so divergent, a product which, if not carefully and intricately managed, could be felt as abrasive, into a market so creatively stagnant. Not from day one.

No, selling Joanna Cotton, the product, as a major label artist was always going to be an exceedingly difficult task. But Warner dropped the ball from the word go. The label released a single (”The Prize”) with lyrics that talked about inner beauty, while concurrently sending publicity materials featuring pictures of Cotten dolled up in layers of make-up, looking like Marylin Monroe-goes-to-the-delta.

Meanwhile, a crop of strangely sparse videos turned up on YouTube, in which the camera pans in, out, and around Cotten (who appears to be the only person in the room, except for the shadowed figure of a man playing acoustic guitar). In these videos, she’s wearing plain clothes and comparatively little makeup.

Then pictures started appearing of Cotten with her hair tied up, wearing leather.

The label managed to successfully, completely, and swiftly crush Cotten’s image under the weight of a series of stylistic contradictions.

And then Warner didn’t know what to do.

That’s the real story here. Warner messed up. The label had Cotton cut 21 songs because it wasn’t sure which artist was the right artist. It didn’t work a second single because it wasn’t entirely sure “Funkabilly” (the song and the sound) was the right choice, but it also wasn’t sure it wasn’t the right choice. The left foot was moving one way, while the right remained firmly planted in the sand.

And Warner did nothing, because it didn’t know what to do.

Actually, they did have one idea. Cotton writes about it briefly in her blog:

“Can I just bring myself to step inside the box for one single and give these people what they need to break me? Then I can sing anything I want, right?”

Wrong.

It doesn’t work like that. That deal isn’t a compromise; it’s like a deal with the devil. If Joanna Cotten had changed her style, her sound, the very essence of who she is as an artist, and had scored a top-ten hit, do you really think Warner would have let her go back and send out music that they didn’t know how to handle in the first place?

They would have wanted, requested, and demanded more of the same. And Cotten deserves all of the credit in the world for seeing through the temptation of such an idea.

So while this column is directly and intrinsically about Joanna Cotten–a savvy and self-aware artist who should be applauded for both her honesty and her courage–at the same time, it isn’t about Cotten at all. It doesn’t matter if, like me, you think she’s fascinating, talented, beautiful, and should be a really, really big star. None of that matters even one iota.

The unfortunate truth is that Warner was right in thinking that the Funkabilly project, in its then-present state, was an ultimately doomed endeavor. It didn’t know what to do with Cotten’s album because the final (unreleased) twelve song collection wasn’t nearly as strong as it could have been, and should have been. Warner was right, but accidentally. Warner was right, but for the wrong reasons.

And that’s what this column is really about–one of the fundamental problems facing the industry today. Yes, we are stuck in an outdated distribution model, and yes, we are slogging through one of the most creatively uninteresting periods in music history, and yes, illegal downloading is hurting everyone. But perhaps an issue equally as urgent as all of those, and at least equally disturbing, is that fact that labels appear increasingly incapable of cultivating superstars.

Cotten needed strong artistic direction. She needed help creating a consistent, marketable image. She needed those smart people, those record professionals, to guide her, confidently, in the right direction. She needed people to say, “This song is great, but that one isn’t good enough.” She needed a team that believed in her fully, completely, and unquestionably.

It was never going to be easy. It never is with artists who look and sound substantially different than the rest of any given format.

But those are just the artists labels should be looking for, and just the artists labels should be staying committed to. It is only the artists with distinct personalities, it is only the artists who stand left or right of center, it is only the artists who give us a reason to be excited about music because of their energy, their innovation, and their uniqueness, who truly have the ability to become superstars.

Maybe Joanna Cotten was one of those artists. Or maybe not. The trouble is that, like a handful of potential superstars before her, she doesn’t get the chance to prove herself. She had one single, one fleeting moment not long enough, by any reasonable observer’s measure, to mark an artist as a success or a failure.

So it’s not about Joanna Cotten. It’s about the fact that labels will continue perfecting the craft of mediocrity until they re-learn how to break artists that fall outside of the common molds.

At present, that’s a group they just don’t know what to do with.

Hey, those are the President’s words, not mine.

Not after two-plus years of listening to the traditionalists and the fringe anoint Miranda Lambert the genre’s savior. Not after watching a string of tacky, out-of-control performances, including her appearance on last week’s CMA Awards. And definitely not after watching Stylus magazine name Crazy Ex-Girlfriend the second best album of 2007–in all genres.

So I tried. I tried not to say it. But someone has to be a voice of reason, and the truth is that there’s just no better word to describe the actuality of the following: Miranda Lambert is overrated, and her rabid popularity is as musically unfounded as, oh, I don’t know, let’s go with Carrie Underwood’s.

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But the CMA’s failure to nominate Sugarland for Album, Song, and Single Of The Year (for Enjoy The Ride and “Want To,” respectively), left me absolutely dumbfounded and thinking that these awards mean even less than I previously thought.

“Want To,” written by the duo along with tunesmith Bobby Pinson, is a creative masterpiece ripe with fresh imagery and an unexpected rawness. It is a song that skilfully walks a fine line between Pinson’s more traditional sound and Sugarland’s contemporary leanings, somehow managing to wear both hats without sounding awkward.

But it was passed over in the Song Of The Year category in favor of Martina McBride’s, “Anyway,” which is an adaption of a years-old poem (sometimes) attributed to Mother Teresa, and, “Lost In This Moment,” Big & Rich’s gag-me-with-a-spoon wedding song.

What is this, some kind of new math?
Clichés + Unoriginal Songwriting = Good?
Brilliant!

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