There were many things I loved about living in Alabama: the intoxicating smell of magnolias, the river that meandered lazily through land so green it hurt my eyes, the meat-and-three-course restaurants where the only drink on the menu was sweet tea, and the people who simply delighted in striking up a conversation with a stranger.
But during my 35 years living in Alabama, there was one thing about living in the South that I avoided: country music. It just didn’t resonate with me. I didn’t own a truck, I didn’t drink much beer, and I’d never been dumped by a cute girl in cowboy boots. Am I stereotyping you? Probably, but it seemed like this theme was repeated on every radio station in Birmingham.
But I embraced what was in my blood over there, where I met so many people named after country legends, like Dollies and Hanks and Lorettes and Willies. I have a few Willies saved in my phone’s contact list, but I don’t know which are which.
Now that Springsteen, Sinatra and Bon Jovi are in sublime, seemingly anti-country New Jersey, I was surprised to learn that Jersey also boasts its own twangy roots: Clint Black was born in Long Branch, Ricky Nelson in Teaneck, Jimmy Dean lived in Tenafly in the ’80s, and Nancy Sinatra’s boots were made for walking, after all.
I was even more surprised to learn that Wildwood’s massive Barefoot Country Music Festival, held every June, attracts some of the biggest stars in country music and draws 35,000 people to the beach. New Jersey really loves country music, after all. I was keen to attend, both to see what I’d been missing since immigrating to the US from Syria in 1984, and to further my admiration for American culture.
read more: Barefoot County Music Fest 2024 Review, Featuring Keith Urban and More
When I arrived at the sun-drenched festival in Wildwood, something strange happened: I was met by a group of fans who had traveled all the way from Arab, Alabama.
What chances does an Arab American from Alabama have of meeting someone from Arab, Alabama, a sleepy little town north of Birmingham? Arab isn’t pronounced like my nationality, but… Arab.
A group of Sandy Wiesner fans have been to the festival four years in a row, always occupying a corner of the front left side of the stage. They arrive there at 6 a.m. to secure the coveted spot.
“I’ve been a country music fan since I was a little kid,” Wiesner says, “my mom and dad took me to Woodstock when I was 5 years old. I remember playing in the mud and someone painted a peace sign on my cheek.”
Wiesner spoke slowly and sluggishly, like maple syrup sliding down a tree trunk, and I miss that way of speaking, because in New Jersey, words fly off as if fired from a cannon.
That Southern accent brought back memories of the country music I listened to in Alabama, and despite my aversion to country music, I’ve written about and photographed some of its stars over the years.
One of them was the late legendary singer Loretta Lynn, whom I photographed for Southern Living magazine. After the shoot, she asked me if I’d heard her song “Coal Miner’s Daughter.” I blushed and said I hadn’t.
“Hey, hey, I’ll fix that right now,” Lynn said, picking up her guitar and singing her signature song in front of me. I listened in awe to her voice, which resonated like a sunset, exuding many shades of majestic beauty.
Another encounter was at the Hank Williams Museum in Georgiana, Alabama, where I told them I wasn’t familiar with his music and they sent me home with a box of his CDs.
The heart of the country
Back at Barefoot: While waiting for the music to start at the massive four-day event, I met plenty of fans who helped me gain a deeper appreciation for country’s more solemn side.
Mike Moorby and his wife, Robin Sass, were “founding” members of Wiesner’s group.
“My wife, Robin, is a total country guy,” Moabi said with a laugh. “Before we got married in 2021, I had never listened to country music. But now I love it. We talk about whiskey and broken trucks and heartbreak.”
Next to Mooreby was Shelley Gujruich, a representative of a Pennsylvania pharmaceutical company. She nodded in agreement. “Oh, it’s heartbreaking. I know that feeling.”
I couldn’t help but draw the New Jersey parallels: Sinatra, Springsteen, Bon Jovi all sang about heartache, and while some (myself included) might scoff at the self-deprecating country lyrics of tacky hits like “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” the heart of the music and the expression of raw, human emotion are all the same.
Not to mention the community aspect — the group includes Marg Ventura and Barbara Valente, a couple who just got married this May — it’s this fan group that Ventura loves so much about the festival.
“These friends are amazing. I couldn’t imagine a better place to celebrate our wedding.”
When it was finally time for music, the group of fans I was chatting with erupted in excitement as former American Idol finalist and country singer Dillon James took the stage with his band.
As I heard the lyrics and watched fans cheering and swaying as far as the eye could see, I felt a connection to country music that I never felt in the South. Maybe it’s because I’m older, and maybe wiser, or maybe it’s because I’m searching for a deeper connection to that most American of American genres.
Or maybe in Jersey they don’t play to impress, they play because they want to, so I related to them more. And as expected, the songs were tales of love and loss, happiness and sorrow… mostly sadness.
Interestingly, the New Jersey festival has helped me to correct my 38-year disinterest in country music. I’m going to go home and track down my Hank Williams CDs and add Loretta to Spotify.
Who else should we consider?
Karim Shamsi Basha can be contacted at [email protected]Follow him twitter & Instagram. search NJ.com on Facebook