I know that my parents would put it down to all of Gramma's tapes, with titles like "Blood On The Saddle." For them, it was corny music Mom's folks liked, from goofy grinning white dudes with fake ten-gallon hats.
But I love it. I love the loping beat, the plaintive yodel, the cheesy innuendo—everything that Western Swing 78s serves up. I can't pretend to be anything more than a slick dilettante, but I've been loving the Maddox Bros. and Prairie Ramblers. It's the perfect music to fry eggs to, so I've been waking up to it every day this week.