Resident #3: The Ozark Mountain Daredevils

“Daredevil” is no longer a widely-used term, if it ever was. Guys who flew airplanes back when they were called aeroplanes were definitely daredevils (read Faulkner’s Pylon for a nice literary treatment of those crazy badasses). Evel Knievel could perhaps be called a daredevil, but his heyday in the 70s is nothing more than a fond, hokey memory. By the way, everyone should watch his movie Viva Knievel!, if for nothing else than Gene Kelly’s turn as a washed-up alcoholic motorcycle mechanic. (And why are washed-up characters always alcoholics? For once it would be nice to see someone who got out of the biz simply because they always wanted to travel and see the Great Wall of China and their hectic schedule never allowed them any free time instead of because they had substance abuse issues. But I digress.) My grandmother used the term often to describe my brother and I, although I began to suspect she was exaggerating a bit for effect when she accused us of having a death wish every time our little Honda minibike went over 5 miles an hour.

I’m not entirely sure where the “Daredevil” part of the Ozark Mountain Daredevils came from. Was daredevil a more acceptable lifestyle choice in the 70s? Or maybe the Ozark Mountain Daredevil is something akin to the Tasmanian Devil. Are they easily fooled into eating sticks of dynamite? Let’s just agree that the daredevil part is baffling at best and go from there.

At any rate, listening to their biggest hit, Jackie Blue, the “Ozark Mountain” stuff certainly rings true. There’s a sense of loss there, a melancholia, that anyone who’s spent time in the Ozarks can identify with. Beyond Branson and Andy Williams, there’s a lot of poverty and small-town nastiness in them thar hills. In the past few decades, it seems that the success stories have all involved musicians moving away from their small-town roots; they go to LA or Nashville and get purtied up and make bland beige rock that no one really likes but that all the white people agree to pretend to like because at least it’s not that uppity Kanye West. And what gets lost when that happens is a sense of place; my small town becomes “Small-Town America” as interpreted by people who’ve been trying all their lives to be anything but small town, and the individuality and unique characteristics of towns and regions get glossed over in a desperate appeal to sell some records.

But listen to the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. They came from somewhere. It's right there in the band name. They're a group with a sense of place, an identity that's both specific and approachable. When did this become a bad thing? Who is listening to this song and wishing it were less specific, that it was about some nameless girl who may have had a problem with something but let's not get too deep into it right now? The best music is like the best wine; knowing where it comes from doesn't necessarily determine its potential, but it certainly does allow us to experience it on an elevated level. And if there are some naturally occurring sulfites that go along with it, I'll have a catastrophic headache in the morning and wish I could stab out my eyeballs but it will always be worth it.