Pauline Nevins

"Three chords and the truth," said Harlan Howard, the late country music songwriter, “is all you need to write a country song.”

Country music fans will recognize the quote. I heard it for the first time while glued to the telly recently watching "Country Music," the historical documentary created by the brilliant filmmaker, Ken Burns.
I was not a country music fan. The male singers sounded miserable — drinking and misbehaving. The female singers either sang about putting up with this nonsense or plotting to put the guy out of his misery. I proudly turned my nose up at the genre. Until one night.

The year was 2008. I was curled up on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, watching the Kennedy Center Honors, a celebration of artists who made significant contributions to American culture. The Bush couple were in attendance that evening, a tradition for a sitting president and his wife. Laura Bush looked different that night. And it wasn’t just the First Lady’s dress — a shimmering burgundy gown with a surprising thigh-high slit. Mrs. Bush was personal and funny. She stood in the middle of the stage looking up to the balcony at two Georges — her own George, and one of the evening’s honorees, singer George Jones.

“When I was still in school,” Mrs. Bush began, “my friends and I must have put a 1,000 quarters in the jukebox listening to George Jones belting out ‘The Race is On,’ over, and over, and over. And,” she went on, "when Frank Sinatra paid his tribute he went as far as he could when he said, 'George Jones is the second-best singer in America.'" The audience roared.

And then, as I was taking a sip of my wine, the first few cords of George Jones’ biggest hit-filled my living room — "He said I’ll love you ‘til I die …”

The screen blurred. A tear plopped into my Chardonnay. I was glad I was alone. Then I did what all British-born people are taught to do. I blew my nose and pulled myself together.

But what will I do, I thought, if this song plays somewhere in public? What if I have the same reaction? I decided to inoculate myself. In the following weeks, courtesy of iTunes, I played Jones’ song once a day. After three weeks I was cured. I could listen to the song and hold back the tears. All I had to do was gulp.

So I blame George Jones that I no longer sniff at country music, and was willing to dedicate 16 hours of my life to watching the Ken Burns documentary. I’m glad I did. The series was a wonderful, poignant history of country music, a uniquely American genre. But in recommending the film to friends I heard myself talking more about the artists than the music. About how sad I felt to hear that as a young boy, George Jones was ripped out of bed by his drunken father who demanded that he sing and whipped him with a belt if he hesitated.

And how surprised I was to learn this about Chris Christopherson. That he’d been groomed to follow his father’s career path, a general in the Air Force. Christopherson chose instead to follow his passion — songwriting and singing country music. How he’d taken a janitorial job mopping floors at Colombia Studios to be close enough to recording artists that he could slip them a song or two. Christopherson looked pained as he revealed in the documentary that his mother had disowned him — disgusted by his country music career choice. She’d written that nobody over the age of 15 “listens to that trash,” and told him not to ever come home, not even write, that he was an embarrassment to the family. Johnny Cash was recording with Colombia at the time and someone showed him the letter. “It’s always great to get a letter from home, isn’t it Kris?” Cash told him. Made Christopherson laugh.

And then there’s Charlie Pride — an African-American singing country — an anomaly back in the day, and still a rarity. Pride recounted, without an ounce of bitterness, how he was received at an event in Detroit before an audience of transplanted white southerners. Most had heard Pride’s music. None had seen him. Waiting in the wings Charlie heard thunderous applause when the emcee introduced him. He walked onto the stage. You could have heard a pin drop.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Charlie, “ I realize it’s kinda unique me coming out here on a country music show wearing this permanent tan.” The audience laughed and then applauded.

At the end of one of Pride's documentary interviews, he challenged African-Americans to come out of the closet and admit they like country music. I could drink to that.