How can I miss you if you won’t go away?*

It’s probably worthwhile letting you know now that we are country music fans round these parts.

Not ‘Country and Western’ as some folks like to say.

There is a difference and ma’am, it’s a difference worth knowin’.

We don’t line dance.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

We don’t belong to clubs. Nothing wrong with that either.

We just like songs.

And skilled musicians.

And three chords for us to play on a guitar.  Sometimes we like more.

And concerts.  We like concerts.

We live in the wrong country for country concerts.

We’d love to see Eric Church or Kenny Chesney or Keith Urban.

But we have seen The Mavericks,  Dwight Yoakam,  Brooks and Dunn,  Mary Chapin Carpenter,  Kevin Welch,  Kieran Kane, Taylor Swift and even Garth Brooks back in the bad old days.

And we’ve seen quite a few Australians too.

And plenty of others who aren’tsomuch country singers.

There’s quite a lot of CDs in our house.

Yes, we still buy them.  Liner notes don’t look as good on the screen.

We’re not just country music fans … Lord, no.  (and Lorde, no)

We like folk music too.  And some rock.  And definitely a bit of pop.  Not so much jazz.  Or blues.  Or opera.

But we, particularly I, like musicals.

At the moment we’re mainly listening to Jake Bugg, Passenger and James Blunt.

A little break from the country folk.

I didn’t mean to spill all this.

But it explains my post titles*.

They’re all (sometimes, but not necessarily, really bad) country song lyrics.

Country and western, that is.

 

Lately we’ve seen this guy…

…and this gal…

…and this guy.

This song made me cry.

He knew it would, the scoundrel.

 

Cheerio,

Sookey-wookey Super Sue x