The South is to the music of America what late 18th century Vienna was to the classical-music era of Europe—the source. In fact, anyone who ponders the long Southern legacy—from jazz to blues, from gospel to bluegrass, and, more lately, truckers' songs—might just begin imagining that the Mississippi has been flowing North all this time. Southern music rose from the common man, but there is nothing common about its variety or the range of lives it touches and consoles. These days "country " is the handiest title to cover a multitude of sounds. At hundreds of festivals across the land, blue-grass picks and twangs its way along pretty much as it has for the past 40 years. The city of Nashville still produces its vanilla-shake love ballads with comforting monotony. Down in Austin, Texas, the country-rock cantatas of Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings are as popular as ever. No single style or performance can typify all of country music. But one strain of country is something old and new called honkytonk. It is both a style and a place, and of the place it used to be said that "honky-tonks were where a white man could get killed by his own kind while listening to country music." To keep track of both style and setting, TIME Correspondent David DeVoss went to Florida to talk with the current king of honkytonk, Gary Stewart. DeVoss's report:
Anyone else would have left for the gig 20 minutes ago. Not Gary Stewart, who, at 32, has suddenly become a star of the rowdiest brand of country rock —honky-tonk. Were he in a larger town, promoters and agents would be nervously pinching their digitals. But this is a languid evening in Fort Pierce, Fla., Stewart's home town, and the squeak of a front-porch rocker is music enough for now. Besides, one must rest after a supper of pork chops and okra. Digestion is a ritual, a time for introspective belching. "It stays nice and slow here," Stewart sighs. "Everybody's family. It's the South, and I'll never leave."
Stewart could leave any time he wants. He has a contract with RCA Records up in New York. All three of his albums have been gushed over by critics. He has had three No. 1 country hit singles—one of which offers a shot of sheer country angst: My heart is breakin' like the tiny bubbles./ She's actin' single, I'm drinkin' doubles. The success of songs like that makes Fort Pierce mighty proud, especially the 31 Stewarts listed in the phone book, all of whom are related to Gary some way or other.
Preceded by two headlights, a funnel of dust announces the arrival of Bill Eldridge, a former Fort Pierce cop who helped write Stewart's first album, You 're Not the Woman You Used to Be. Eldridge has come to escort his friend, now somewhat lulled by the grease and beer, to the evening's performance. It is a Tuesday night, normally a slow evening, but the Flying Bridge Lounge is packed with a country crowd ready to greet the local boy with rebel yells. Men cradle sweating bottles of Pabst against their paunches and admire the sun-streaked blondes who prance about in cloven dittos and T shirts. The Flying Bridge is without pretension, the kind of lowdown joint Stewart loves to play.