Review Summary: I'd say mainstream country has lost the plot, but there's not much of a plot to lose anymore.
At what point do we wave the white flag and admit that when it comes to mainstream country music, the Overton window has shifted too far beyond reach to warrant attempting to bring it back? It's been roughly a decade since the 'bro-country' movement started to really wind down and the genre is
still struggling to gain back all that lost ground. The gulf in quality between what we're seeing today and what ruled radio in the aughts only continues to grow, and the artists who dominated back then that were on the receiving end of many a critics' jaundiced eye—Kenny Chesney, Keith Urban and, my personal faves as y'all know, Rascal Flatts—are owed a
big apology in my estimation. That's not to say there weren't clunkers and stink bombs back then, but pretty much all the hits from that era (even the less impactful ones) sound like they were written by poets laureate in comparison to what we've seen in modern times. Gary LeVox (Rascal Flatts lead singer) might get a little melodramatic at times, but the man is objectively a phenomenal singer. Chesney may have made planting his butt in the sand his entire personality as his career has progressed, but again, he's got enough vocal chops and personality to make the affair worthwile. He may not quite reach the stratum of a LeVox or someone from the genre's yesteryear like (e.g.) Clint Black, but he's a perfectly serviceable vocalist.
The last thing I'll say as I attempt to wrap up my preamble is that I singled out Chesney specifically, because his nautical sun-soaked take on country pop has proven fairly influential over time. It seems like there's always an album or single being churned out that tries to record everything directly from the beach chair the way Chesney seemingly does. Tucker Wetmore has dedicated his new EP
Sunburn Mixtape to exactly this kind of aesthetic. Rustic sounding guitars and summery imagery abound on this six-song offering. There's just one teensy-tiny problem: this sh*t f*ckin' sucks ass.
When you hear so many songs that you know will eventually spend a lifetime blaring through Walmart loudspeakers, or as information-gathering devices at Guantánamo Bay, you become desensitized and calling said song(s) the 'worst' thing you've ever heard becomes a bit futile and hyperbolic after a while. But holy sh*t, this new EP from Tucker Wetmore might actually be it, at least as far as mainstream country music goes. This guy can't sing for sh*t. He sounds like Peter Griffin using a sardonically fake Southern accent while trying to eat a pack of extreme Warheads. What's more is that the only things that seem to be running through his otherwise hollow noggin are his creepy and misogynistic fixations on his nameless romantic companion, who seemingly has no agency or identity, and exists solely to be a prop in his preferred sexual escapades.
I try to be fair, because some of the instrumentals here aren't atrocious by any means. "Yours" boasts of a quaint guitar solo on the bridge that is a considerable improvement from the nauseatingly boring and tepid soundscapes that comprise the rest of the track, paired accordingly with Wetmore's vacant, fiberglass delivery of lyrics about how he doesn't wish to write a song about his partner's hometown or her "pretty brown eyes" or really anything that might make this a story that feels authentic or worth investing in or might give some humanity to either character in the narrative. What's even funnier is that he specifically bemoans the notion that he isn't a romantic on "Who Told You That." Here, he takes aim at naysayers who warn his companion that he's not a suitable partner for her, but that can't be because he's going to write her name in the sand and bring her a Mimosa to drink for breakfast. What a gentleman. Again, the woman depicted has absolutely no name or face, and serves no purpose besides being a vessel of gratification for the wholly detestable protagonist that Wetmore is too stupid and narcissistic to not realize he's portraying.
Ultimately, this batch of songs is just the next in a
loooooong line of quarter-assed pop country fodder that can only ever be seriously enjoyed by listeners who have no cynical eye whatsoever. Those who absentmindedly consume whatever slop mainstream country radio will spoon-feed them are not going to blink or step back when they hear this. As much as I still consider myself a fan of, and an apologist for, country music, I do so with the intent of highlighting what the genre was, can be, should be, and so forth. Concurrently, that means acutely recognizing, and then squarely condemning, the abhorrent dross that comes out and gives the genre a bad name. Sadly, I don't know how much longer I can keep going to bat for my cause. We might have to call a time of death soon. I'll hold off and maintain hope, but that first requires me to take this six-track EP and catapult it into orbit after setting it on fire.
Sunburn Mixtape by Tucker Wetmore is f*cking
awful.
