Yap that fool!

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[6.88]

Anthony Easton: I have been thinking about the supposed radicalism of the Annies’ position recently, especially considering the nature of country’s recent conservatism. The critical opinion seems to be that they are breaking apart the post-Garth soft rock politeness. But country has not been very polite. The pendulum has swung — critics ignore what happened in the work of John Rich and his eventual descendants. The great thing (and I think the underrated thing) about this age of Rich is that it’s pretty gender-neutral. From Gretchen Wilson onward, women have had the fun as much as men. The Annies’ position on pleasure is not radically new. What is radically new is their use of pleasure as a disruptive strategy against a slew of targets that seem to be obvious but haven’t really been addressed before. In “Hush Hush,” we can list family (especially the silence of the front pew), alcoholism (rehab, vodka being snuck, eggnog instead of beer), performative piety (the spectacular line “well, Daddy’s reading propaganda/and he’s talking about the end of days”), and even a mention of grass so casual it might as well come from ’70s outlaws. What becomes new is a different kind of integrative either/or. This is not partying on Saturday and church on Sunday, but a recognition of the tense negotiations between the South as a libertine’s playhouse and the South as a sanctified space. The tension is that though both of those exist at the same time, the Annies suggesting that not only  hypocrisy but silence is foundational, is what is really left unsaid. That to expect the South to exist without the “hush hush” is to expect the South to exist not at all. (It’s actually what makes the Annies great — but it sells, and it ends up on CMT, and it wins awards, and people sing along, so it’s not subversive. One wonders what that means — if everyone knows what’s going on, and everyone is speaking it aloud, does it become a steam valve where the real work doesn’t need to be done? We talk about drugs and sex and Jesus and pot, but we don’t write songs about how granddaddy fucked the maid, or that the one-drop law is still an ongoing concern, or that Billy can’t take his husband to Sunday dinner, or why all of those foreclosures, or the real history of slavery or what exactly happened at the Tallahatchie Bridge.) The personal is political: this is a political song. But its politics will only go as far as the market will allow. As a song — the brilliant chorus, the harmonics, the guitar work, how well the whole thing hangs together — it’s a [10], but the Annies always make me a bit nervous.
[9]

Alfred Soto: This “Coal Miner’s Daughter” variant set on Thanksgiving will stir memories, although I doubt eggnog is as universal as Miranda Lambert thinks. Another winner from the most fecund trio in modern music, relaxed and confident despite big riffs and unexpected three-part harmonies and surprising chorus. To top it off, Ashley Monroe proves she’s a rocker not a wallower. 
[7]

Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: What makes “Hush Hush” so much fun is how cathartic it is airing out dirty laundry. The clown, the recovering fuckup, the vodka-swigging matriarch, the ranting patriarch — any of these characters could have starred in their own song, but the Pistol Annies cast their net wider, turning loose the tension from over-diplomatic family gatherings into acid little vignettes. They don’t forget to sell it either, with the gritted-teeth threats of “be quiet” and “don’t you DARE say a word!” sealing the joke. You can either laugh at the gnarled branches of the family tree or curl up under the bubbling angst: Lambert Monroe & Presley say laugh, dammit.
[8]

Ramzi Awn: These drums have some boom to ’em and it’s a good thing. Mama and Papa are the ones hushing us, I think, and the Annies just wanna get along. I just spent some time with my family so I understand, but the hoax is a bit of a joke. Don’t get me wrong, I’d drink a beer, sit on a haystack and sing “Hush Hush” ’til the cows come home, but the June Carter-gone-pop approach is sadly short on production savvy. 
[5]

Brad Shoup: This is some Jeannie C. Riley territory, and boy, I never could latch onto Ms. Riley.
[3]

Katherine St Asaph: It’s Thanksgiving! Dad’s a fundie, mom’s an alkie, brother’s back from wilderness camp, sister’s baked singing from Baby’s First Hymnal, everyone’s drinking eggnog before Black Friday, and instead of making Sunday service they’re huddled by the closet playing whack-a-skeleton. What fun! You probably need to have been at that table to really appreciate this song, or at least get dispatches from someone who’s been there (this week’s latest: “I’ve got enough bullets for a war with someone”), but lacking that, the music is rollicking enough to suffice. That intro is almost “Material Girl.”
[8]

Sabina Tang: As a non-Christian Chinese person who’s spent nearly all her life in the West, I’m a lifelong veteran of other people’s family Christmases (and Thanksgivings, and Easters); so when I say that Pistol Annies express a mood as universal to the season as delight in fresh snow and good will to all men, I feel I’m drawing from a broad sample base. Why didn’t they release this as a Christmas single? It’s cheerful enough for a ’nog-sozzled line dance. 
[8]

Jonathan Bogart: Pop music is not generally an effective delivery vehicle for satire, because pop’s instinct is towards generalization and universality, and satire requires such a specificity of culture and common reference that it can die on the vine before it travels a hundred miles. Country music, with its quasi-politicized assumption of shared values and experience, is one of the few pop scenes where such satire can dig its heels in, and between “Mama’s Broken Heart” and this, Miranda Lambert and  her cohort are becoming country’s foremost satirists, blasting cheerfully away at the hypocrisy of keeping up a respectable front when none of the things that were supposed to go right do. The concealed venom of “Hush Hush” is somewhat undercut by a mushy chorus that rollicks where it ought to bite, but it’s a good first sign. Eagerly awaiting the new record.
[7]