Not Her First Rodeo

Beyoncé's country album is a history lesson, a rallying cry, and a missed opportunity.

- CRAIG JENKINS

A TREBLY RADIO flits through stations, sampling Charles Anderson’s “Laughing Yodel,” Son House’s “Grinnin’ in Your Face,” Sister Rosetta Tharpe’s “Down by the Riverside,” Chuck Berry’s “Maybellene,” and Roy Hamilton’s “Don’t Let Go,” finally pausing for the drawl of Willie Nelson, spliff ablaze, reading out, “Welcome to ‘The Smoke Hour’ on KNTRY Radio Texas.” The sixth song on Beyoncé’s eighth studio album is a curt history lesson nestled inside a song cycle with a rallying cry. After performing with the Chicks at the 2016 Country Music Association Awards, Beyoncé experienced backlash from racist traditionalists; “Smoke Hour ★ Willie Nelson” practically screams “We’ve always been here” to those detractors. With Cowboy Carter, the second act of a planned trilogy that first paid homage to Black queer innovators in electronic music on Renaissance, Beyoncé sends a message to Nashville: Country music must make room for everyone.

Black singers and songwriters have never enjoyed a commensurate cut of prosperity in Music City, where “hillbilly music” by freed slaves and mountain folk was seen as a stain on its reputation. Jim Crow’s talons touched every pie: Harmonica virtuoso DeFord Bailey, the first Black performer on the radio institution “Grand Ole Opry,” was let go after more than a decade. It took nearly 30 years for a Black woman to get the same chance; Linda Martell made history while her label, Plantation Records, prioritized Jeannie C. Riley. At the top of Cowboy Carter’s “Spaghettii,” Martell, now 82, enjoys a chuckle about the confining nature of the country-music business.