Our 2023-24 cohort application is now live! Click here to apply.
Illustration by Yuwen Wong

Rediscovering Blackness in the Aesthetics of Country Music

When I ask people in my age range—around 18 to 25—to describe their music taste, there is one answer that I’m usually unsurprised to hear: “I’ll listen to any genre but country.” The specific exclusion of country music has become routine in my circles—not necessarily because the music is bad, but because it has never really had any importance in our lives. For many of us growing up, it was never played in the house, in the car, or at family gatherings. This complete lack of exposure made it almost irrelevant in this way. It made it seem like the genre simply does not belong to us. 

For several decades now, country music has fallen out of favor as a genre of the Black American musical pantheon. Few Black folks that I know personally would proudly identify as lovers of the genre, and even fewer would name it as their favorite genre of music. Like many of us, I grew up under the impression that country music is synonymous with Black invisibility, rife with the humiliating feeling that I don’t belong in that musical space, and that my presence is not only unwanted, but adamantly denied. In the grand sphere of American culture, there are countless sites that Black people, aware that we are not welcomed, decide not to enter. It is almost intuitive, essential for our survival in a nation that thrives on leveraging space as an accessory of white supremacy. But even from a young age, I learned that country music was completely antithetical to my cultural heritage. I, too, left it alone, believing it was never made for me in the first place. 

Illustration by Yuwen Wong

It took some time for me to reconsider. At the advice of my older family members, I began to listen to more country music, especially turning to the inceptive hillbilly-era of the 1930s and 40s. Immediately, I was able to draw the connection between the sounds of traditional country and the sounds that Black musicians have long played with. The Black stylistic influence on country music was clear, and it was present in every way—instrumentally, vocally, performatively. This was a revelation, and it motivated me to dig deeper and get to the core of a trend that is clear as day: the debt of gratitude that the country genre owes to Black musicians has never been paid. We have been largely erased from the picture. 

Country music stands alone in American culture as one-of-a-kind. It was never wildly popular in the American mainstream, even after the explosion of marketing and rebranding of the genre. It was never the life of the party like jazz, nor was it ever the darling of middle-class Black culture like soul. This was never a part of its mission; in its prime era, country music was the prized possession of Southern folk culture. It is the amalgam of several styles of American folk music—blues, bluegrass, gospel, and traditional Irish sounds all greatly influenced the genre. Its artistic merit has always rested in the hands of people who knew music as a social contract that was communal and binding, united under the authority of honest self-expression. Filled with romantic ballads about home and nostalgia, these people created a sound that truly belonged to them. Black participation was not only common during these early years—it was essential in forging the identity of what would become one of the nation’s most celebrated genres of music. 

Today, country music is overwhelmingly associated with and credited to the poor white South. Through the whitewashing of its history, record labels and artists alike have been able to brand the genre as exceptionally non-Black, a singular invention of white Southern genius. Over the years, this historical rewriting along with constant racial coding has resulted in lost appeal among Black audiences. The de facto racial divide is a tragedy of modern music that is rarely ever questioned, upheld as a status quo of American music. As a result, the racial diversity of the genre has suffered greatly. 

From the outside looking in, it can be hard to restore Black stories back into collective memory. Sometimes I think of my paternal great-grandfather, a man now memorialized in my family’s lore. Born in 1910 in rural Louisiana, he moved north as a young man for better employment opportunities, and to escape the existential danger of being Black in the Jim Crow South. He brought one possession with him: a self-fashioned banjo, a dear instrument he held onto for the rest of his life. Every night before he went to sleep and every morning before he began his labors, he would pluck a country ditty on his banjo, gently humming the melody of a familiar song, almost as some form of meditative prayer. For him, music was more than mere entertainment. The son of poor fieldhands and the grandson of slaves, he always remembered the hymns of his early life, sung to relieve the emotional strain of everyday life. Resounding from callused hands and makeshift guitars, music was a way to glean a lasting sense of self-worth, the essential proof that life holds meaning even amid great suffering. His music was his pride, and pride was a form of undying resistance against a society designed to strip him of basic dignity. Through the tradition of country music, he had the sacred power to preserve his upbringing, his customs, his memory—all working towards reaffirming of his identity. As long as he performed this work, he knew that his identity could never be swamped or stripped away by the outside. 

When we preserve the value of music over time, we also eternalize its makers, opening the door for their contributions to reach their full impact. 

One thing is certain: there will always be large disconnects in the passing down of Black culture from generation to generation. Much of this is owed to the fact that the Black American struggle transforms over time, though its history is calcified within the ongoing project of survival. Generations after my great-grandfather, I can’t say I have any particular connection to 20th-century Black Southern culture aside from what has been passed down to me. With the meteoric rise of younger genres—namely rock and hip hop—and with a growing detachment from the pastoral lifestyle, it makes sense that the Black country ethos would slowly fade over time. These cultural shifts are unstoppable, but they do pose some major problems: choosing to remember music history isn’t just something we do for our own good. It’s an essential part of our duty to those who came before us. The remembrance of music can be our guide to remembering people, and the many conditions that sowed their lives with both uniqueness and unity. When we preserve the value of music over time, we also eternalize its makers, opening the door for their contributions to reach their full impact. 

There are fundamental struggles we have to face. How can we maintain Black ancestral memory, even while trapped in spaces of erasure? How can we ensure that their passions constitute a legacy that will not be soon forgotten? I think it begins with learning to love what they loved, learning to see what made them feel seen. I can’t help but think of old country music as a sacred heirloom from a not-so-distant past, one that connects me with the likes of my great-grandfather and all of his family. And through my memory of him, my deep reverence for the soundscape he grew up with, I am filled with the same faith he stowed away in his music. The Black legacies of country music deserve stewards of a new generation who are willing to tap into this faith and marvel at the sight of its possibilities. So often, the pride of Black Americans fades in the thickets of time, hidden behind the veil of revised histories. But through memory, the constant process of revisiting and reclaiming our rightful place in history, I know our stories will survive all time—like the lyrics of one unforgettable song.