Over a half-century before the era of political correctness, rock and roll (and its sisters, brothers, fathers, and muthas) had its arms open to every flavor of human the planet had to offer. Whether it was a teenage Mary Lou Williams, leading and writing and arranging for a big band of men mostly twice her age, or a gay and leanin'-towards-transvestite Little Richard invading white adolescents' bedrooms, whether it was Wanda Jackson warning everyone within earshot about her volcanic orgasmic habits or Roy Orbison quivering in his leather boots at the thought of his honey walkin' away with another guy, whether it was Ernest Tubb grinning and singing "Thanks a Lot" or Jerry Lee glowering and snapping "Keep Your Hands Off It," the music's doors have been wide open to anybody thinking he or she had something to say. A far cry from today's indie rock Mensa enclave, which breaks its own ribs congratulating itself on its cleverness and "irony," and sneers at anyone looking for an unpretentious good time, anyone who might just be--horrors!--naive (not "naive") (and Bob Dylan and Lou Reed, this is what you wrought: elitist "rock"). Funny thing is, our doors are even open to those folks, 'cause, dammit, our church is more serious about America than America is.

You want a black-tie, invite-only soiree? Fuck off. Check your wallet, IQ, and pedigree at the door. Dig Butch Hancock: "There's big ol' Buicks by the Baptist Church/Cadillacs at the Church of Christ/I parked my camel by the ol' haystack/I'll be lookin' for that needle all night....