Neal Rubin: Jason Aldean sings same old song of country virtue, whether it's true or not

Plenty of people in small towns drive Honda Civics, but none of them do it in country songs.

In country lyrics, the boys drive pickup trucks and the girls in painted-on jeans ride shotgun, the way the good Lord intended.

They might get a little wild on the weekends, spending the paychecks from their honest, sweat-stained jobs, but they don’t mean nothin’ by it.

That’s just the way things are in standard, mainstream Countryland, and lots of folks didn’t notice or care until Jason Aldean released a song called “Try That in a Small Town” in May and then the video popped up in mid-July.

It’s the video that poked the bear or kicked the hornet’s nest or blew up the meth lab outside the small town with all the pickup trucks. It's awash in footage of what appear to be protests of police brutality, a carjacking, a liquor store robbery, a burning flag — all the greatest hits of the big-cities-are-evil approach to assessing lifestyles.

"Well, try that in a small town," Aldean sings. "See how far ya make it down the road. Around here, we take care of our own."

He and the song, which he didn't write, have been accused of bordering on racism and inviting violence. He says that's not the intent or the reality, and the marketplace has responded profitably, jetting "Try That in a Small Town" to No. 1 in iTunes downloads.

It's another case of the culture wars being fought with downloads, social media follows and politicians' endorsements, and another reminder that nuance and perspective could use more of a workout than we tend to give them.

As for the song, it's a familiar refrain, dating back to when country records had fiddles and sounded like they were sung through kazoos. Rural is good, urban is bad. Farming and working the line are virtuous, whatever it is those necktie-wearers are doing in New York is suspicious.

What feels new about "Try That in a Small Town" is the element of vigilantism, with a touch of felonious assault. But even that, we've heard before.

Chapter and verses

I should note that my tastes in country run largely to western, and to people who were famous before I was born. Chris Stapleton, Jamey Johnson and Kacey Musgraves, sure, but also Dolly, Hank, Willie and Lefty, and some of the people they listened to when they were kids.

It surprised me to look up a Hank Williams Jr. tune called "A Country Boy Can Survive" and realize it's 42 years old. The title pretty much covers the contents — he can hunt, fish, trap and make wine, so he's immune to recession and catastrophe — and two verses are devoted to a "good friend in New York City. He never called me by my name, just Hillbilly."

His friend, of course, was stabbed to death by a mugger. New York, right? "I'd love to spit some Beech-Nut in that dude's eyes," sang Junior, "and shoot him with my old .45, 'cause a country boy can survive."

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The common-man references, meantime, are endless, and at their best in a 1983 John Conlee hit by Sammy Johns called "Common Man." The narrator is asking his girlfriend to give up her Mercedes, her friends, dinner with her well-to-do family and restaurants that don't have drive-thrus, because "high-browed people lose their sanity, and a common man is what I'll be."

The gold standard, of course, is "Okie From Muskogee," by Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson. "We don't smoke marijuana in Muskogee," Haggard began in 1969, and all the while, whatever weed Willie wasn't inhaling, Merle was.

Likewise, we have Aldean singing about how they do things in small towns, when he split his youth between Macon, Georgia, (population 153,000) and Homestead, Florida (80,000).

Macon-Bibb County had a record 70 homicides last year, which worked out to 1 for every 2,185 people. New York had 433 homicides in a population of 8.34 million, or 1 for every 19,261 terrified citizens.

If the good people of Macon want to feel safe, they might consider catching a Broadway show.

Dream house in Music City

Singers are not required to live their lyrics. Tony Bennett had spent minimal time in San Francisco before he claimed to have misplaced a body part there.

It's peculiar timing, though, to have Aldean and his wife, Brittany, leave their 120-acre rural estate near Spring Hill in February and move back to Nashville, where their doormat quotes a lyric from rapper Lil Wayne: "Hello Mutha (Bleeps) Hey Hi How Ya Durrin."

She had called their previous house their "forever home," but things change no matter where you are.

Drugs move into small towns, and businesses wither. A small factory that employed a few hundred people closes, an employment blip for a big city but a paralyzing blow for a distant county.

Cities don't have the exclusive franchise on problems, and towns don't have one on morals.

"Full of good ol' boys, raised up right," Aldean sings, "if you're looking for a fight."

In October 2017, Aldean was on stage at the Route 91 Harvest festival in Las Vegas when a man named Stephen Paddock started firing from the 32nd floor of the Mandalay Bay hotel.

Sixty people died, 867 were injured, and now Aldean has a big hit with a verse that talks about the gun he inherited from his grandpa, and how no one is going to take it away.

Hey, that's country. Small town, good ol' boys. It might have been a nice moment for perspective, but there's a hit to be had in the same old song.

Reach Neal Rubin at NARubin@freepress.com, or via Twitter at @nealrubin_fp.

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This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Jason Aldean's small towns have plenty of their own troubled times