An everyday man comes out of rural Virginia with a folk song empathetic to the working class, and the executive editor of National Review is triggered into attacking him and the song.
This establishment elite is so above it all he dissects “Rich Men North of Richmond” lyric by lyric. Honestly, the best way to read these excerpts is in the voice of Thurston Howell III:
“Yes — it is a damn shame what the world’s gotten to. But we can fix it. We don’t have to just dream about it.Indeed, if we want to, we can fix it on our own even if Washington is standing in our way or looking down its nose at us,” lovey.
He also suggests Anthony remind everybody in a song of “what makes America a great land — a land of opportunity, not of guaranteed success,” lovey.
It gets worse:
My brother in Christ, you live in the United States of America in 2023 — if you’re a fit, able-bodied man, and you’re working “overtime hours for bullshit pay,” you need to find a new job.
There’s plenty of them out there — jobs that don’t require a college degree, that offer good pay (especially in this tight labor market) and great benefits, especially if you’re willing to get your hands dirty by doing things like joining the Navy, turning wrenches, fixing pumps, laying pipe, or a hundred other jobs through which American men can still make a great living. If you’re the type of guy who’s willing to show up on time, every time, work hard while you’re on the clock, and learn hard skills — there’s a good-paying job out there for you. Go find it.
What did the pedantic do before the Internet?
What did morons do before National Review began hiring art illiterates?
As someone who dropped out of college after a few semesters, who knows what it’s like to wear a blue collar, and who did pull his own bootstraps into a pretty good living and a legitimate career, there’s nothing Thurston has written that I disagree with. But do these idiots not understand how art works?
First off, singers are actors. They assume the role of characters to tell a story, create a feeling, make a point, and reach something inside the listener. Believe it or not, Bruce Springsteen never went to Vietnam, Gordon Lightfoot wasn’t on the Edmund Fitzgerald, Jim Croce didn’t know a Leroy Brown, and no one named Billie Jo McCallister ever jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge. All Oliver Anthony is doing is using his talent in the same way singers and songwriters have for as long as there have been singers and songwriters: he’s getting into another person’s head and heart to express how this person feels. Or…
He’s telling his own story, which is something else singers and songwriters have been doing since time began. My guess is that it’s a mixture of both.
The idiocy of this criticism can only be exposed if you imagine National Review through the years…
Why does Al Jolson keep crybabying about how much he misses his mammy? This is America. There are plenty of trains and horses to go see your mammy. I see my mammy every Sunday. Jolson’s rich, so nothing’s stopping him from buying one of those new Model-Ts to see his mammy. I happen to know Al Jolson’s mammy lives in Philadelphia, which is only a few hours from Manhattan. What does that tell you? I’ll tell you what it tells you: it tells you Jolson only misses his mammy because he’s too lazy to go see his mammy. Why doesn’t Jolson sing about how America offers countless ways to visit a mammy? That’s a song I’d listen to.
Frank Sinatra is a young, wealthy, and talented superstar, and he’s whining about the wee small hours of the morning. Always on and on about the wee small hours. Why doesn’t Sinatra take a sleeping pill? America is a great country with all kinds of sleeping pills. And everything looks better in the morning–especially in America. Oh, and we’re supposed to believe Sinatra’s lonely? America is filled with 125 million people. If Sinatra’s lonely, he’s lonely only by choice. Why doesn’t Sinatra sing about how many people there are in America? A song called “There are 125 Million Americans in Awesome America.” That’s a song I’d listen to.
An abundance of mental health options available in this amazing America of ours, and I gotta listen to Patsy Cline whine about how she’s crazy.
You know what? People who don’t eat their meat shouldn’t get any pudding. What do you think about that?
Hey, I’ve been to the Hotel California, and none of that happened; same with the Heartbreak Hotel–you godless crybabies. I’ve also been on the Highway to Hell, and there are exits, pal. A fella named Dwight D. Eisenhower and a country called America built an amazing interstate system with plenty of exits.
Oh, you’re losing your religion…? Do you know how many churches are in America? Why not sing about that, eh? All the churches. You think Ronald Reagan would sing about losing his religion? You think the Gipper would whine about losing his religion instead of doing something about it?
No, Ceel Lo Green, fuck YOU. Whining about some chick in America when there are over 100 million women in this great country. Be a bigger baby.
How out of touch do you have to be to rip apart a song that speaks to a disaffected group of people and says I get you, I hear you, I’m with you, you’re not alone, we’re in this together…? That’s what art does. The best art grabs hold of something inside of us and helps us to make sense of it. Art is firing on all cylinders when it examines and explains the human condition. All Oliver Anthony is doing is commiserating and reaching out to a group of people who feel they are under assault by America’s dominant culture because they are under assault by America’s dominant culture. He’s commiserating with us in the same way Sinatra commiserates with the lonely, Patsy Cline embraces the brokenhearted, Woody Guthrie speaks for the scorned, and the blues offer everyone a shoulder to cry on.
We’ve all hit lows in our own lives. We’ve all had friends and loved ones hit bottom. The first step in getting that person ups is to sympathize and listen, is to say I understand, and you’re not alone. We currently live in a media and entertainment culture determined to make normal people feel alone, like toxic losers. All Oliver Anthony is doing is using his extraordinary songwriting ability to reach out to people who are hurting. What kind of bloodless, cold-hearted, above-it-all Fauntleroy would deny them that?
Plus, the entire article is a blazing piece of hypocrisy…
Hey, National Review. Why are you whining about a song? This is America, you crybabies, a land where you can write your own songs. You don’t need to sit around and wait for Oliver Anthony to write a song about how great America is–not in America. Why aren’t you pulling those bootstraps, showing some initiative, and writing the song yourself, my brother in Christ?
Finally, what’s interesting is how National Review failed to comment on this specific lyric in Oliver Anthony’s “Rich Men North of Richmond”:
I wish politicians would look out for miners
And not just minors on an island somewhere
But that might be because National Review was publishing gushing articles about Jeffrey Epstein years and years after his conviction for procuring underage prostitutes.
What whores won’t do for a dollar.
We have the worst elites.
