So… there’s situations in which it’s unsuitable to wear a stetson? Seriously?…
Michaelangelo Matos: I wasn’t paying attention to the playlist either of the first two times this came on, so the chorus caught me short the first and made me laugh out loud in surprise the second. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a song before in which someone so blatantly sets up a line–not as a lyricist or singer, but as a character in a situation, fishing for someone to ask, “Gee, that sure was an intriguing trail-off at the end of that coy, half-revealing sentence you just said. Where are you from, anyway?” so that you can say, “I’M FROM ALA-FREAKIN’-BAMA!” I think some night when I’m bored I’m going to go to a bar and start talking with someone and get them to be all, “Where are you from?” and I’ll just lay it on ’em: “I’M FROM ALA-FREAKIN’-BAMA!” And then I’ll leave, and they’ll be so fucking stunned, dude.
Erick Bieritz: The freakin’ big chorus gets the job done, but Trace’s picture of the Yellowhammer State seems questionable. Why boots by Timberland, a Boston-founded company with a broad national identity and, as far as I can tell, no special connection to Alabama? He can muscle his way through the chorus, but the verses need to be about the details.
Chuck Eddy: Rivalries being what they are, country stations here in Longhorn country definitely don’t play this — matter of fact, one Austin station has been hosting a promotional contest where you print out “Flat Bama” from their website and send in photos of him “in compromising situations.” So Central Texans clearly don’t know how freakin’ much big bam boom they’re missing. Trace is one butt-rockin’ dude, as he’s often demonstrated, and he puts more badonkadonk on it here than he ever has before. Also, he clearly has no qualms about his career balancing gravity with novelty. Probably the best song with Juicy Fruit in it since Biggie — maybe even since Mtume. He calls Alabama the Crimson Tide. Call him Deacon Blues.
Ian Mathers: I’m a Canadian. We find this kind of thing terribly vulgar. Also, why do they keep repeating “no Tae Bo” at the end?
Anthony Easton: I love this song. I love every ounce of the cocksure peacock strutting, and I want to have drunken, sloppy, cheap motel room sex with Trace Adkins, and a bevy of Talladega tanned beauties.
Martin Skidmore: Like most country attempts to rock these days, it rather lumbers at times, but Trace has a strong and bluesy enough voice to make it more or less work, and the yelled backing vocals on the chorus appeal, and the guitar solo has some energy, so overall it’s one of the best of its kind I’ve heard in a while.
Edward Okulicz: I’ve heard that riff somewhere before but never so propulsively, and while the set-up is clumsy, the pay-off (in the shape of that ENORMOUS chorus, even better when sung by the crowd) is worth it.
Alfred Soto: Look, I’m a sucker for “Bang a Gong” rips and shouted backing vocals, but the Singles Jukebox crew could cobble together a string of rhymes better than what Adkins comes up here. If I didn’t know better I’d swear the liberal elite planted him in a red state for Manchurian candidate purposes.
Doug Robertson: Well, if nothing else at least it makes a change from songs about New bloody York.