I live in Nashville, which is – for me, at least – a particular kind of music heaven.

Gripe all you want about the atrocities of contemporary country radio, but Nashville is a vibrant musical city full of some of the most creative and interesting players, singers and writers on the planet. The Texas music guys can sell as many “Nashville Sucks” coozies as they want, but I can’t for the life of me understand why someone would blame John Prine or Emmylou Harris for Rascal Flatts. In Nashville, Jack White eats at the Margot restaurant a few blocks from my house. Prine shops at the Target. Todd Snider buys beer at the Four-Way stop. Kevin Gordon debuts songs just down the street. I love this town. So did all those Texas guys who moved here: Guy Clark, Nanci Griffith, Townes Van Zandt, Rodney Crowell and the rest. So, I dig Nashville. And if Texas wants to arm-wrestle, I’m betting on the Volunteer state.

That said, I’m from South Carolina. And I recently returned home, bringing a little band with me as I played songs from my own new record (My record, you ask? It’s fantastic. And you can trust me: I’m a professional music critic). We played Spartanburg one night, Columbia the next, and we did an in-store at Horizon on a Saturday afternoon, with enough time before and after the performance to do some browsing at the store. In so doing, I was reminded about what drew me to Horizon, and to South Carolina music, as an 18-year-old student at Wofford College.

South Carolina is not exactly well-known as a place for music. And yet, it should be. Legends sprung from the Palmetto State, including a number of instrumental giants (Dizzy Gillespie, right? And Hank Garland, and Bobby Thompson, and lots of others). The Carolina musicians who caught my attention, though, tended to mix musical sophistication with storytelling, heart-first lyrics. I’m thinking of Walter Hyatt, of Pink Anderson, of Marshall Chapman and of the Rev. Gary Davis, all of whom made albums that I first purchased at Horizon. Those albums were windows into those people’s sensibilities, but also into the culture of a region that is too often assumed to be culturally inconsequential. Hey, put the Tucker Band on at a party and tell me what’s inconsequential.

Through the years, I came to understand Horizon Records’ importance in keeping real music alive in a place and at a time when corporate forces sought to impinge upon anything organic and idiosyncratic. While Budweiser sponsored tours and Wal-Mart featured indistinguishable hat-act country artists, Horizon was (and is) a champion for real music. Horizon owner Gene Berger promoted shows that brought Emmylou Harris, Nanci Griffith, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Joe Henry and other stupendous musicians to the upstate. The morning after those shows, he’d be at the Horizon counter, pointing customers to other gems. When Robert Earl Keen comes to town these days and draws a crowd, at least half of that crowd is there as a direct result of the musical community that Gene poked and prodded into being.

As a music fan, my reaction to that is, “Bravo.” As a record-buyer, my reaction has to be, “So, what’s in the store now?” After all, there are plenty of fine places to buy music online, and I can tell you stories of other proprietors in other towns that have aided their communities. The record-buying dollar does not go to the nicest guy on the block, necesarily. But I was so pleased to see that Horizon has kept its shelves full of music that is notable for its excellence and breadth and intelligence. I saw a Kevin Gordon CD, and some stuff from Tim Carroll. I saw blues man Cootie Stark (Cootie Stark’s Sugar Man CD: Buy it Here), and I saw some J.D. Crowe and some old Emmylou on vinyl. I saw Mike Farris, the howlingest soul singer I’ve heard in years. And I figured something out: Horizon has stayed profitable by bringing in music based on ideas other than profit. Weird, but true. Decades in, people know that there’s a reason something is on these shelves. And they know they can ask a real live person about that reason when they come to the counter. I think when I lived in South Carolina that I assumed there were similar record stores everywhere. I’ve traveled a lot since then, and I can assure you that there’s only one Horizon. My life would be different, and worse, had I not had the combination playground and classroom that Gene and his staff provided for me at a time when I really, really needed it. And, friends, my life is good.

Okay, enough of all that. Here are some other things I want to say:

–Kevin Gordon’s O, Come Look At The Burning and Tommy Womack’s There, I Said It! are the most incredible Americana records that you probably don’t own right now.

–Other than mine, of course.

–Mike Farris is an original, soul-stirring singer. He sings a lot about gospel themes. I heard on the Bob Dylan show on XM the other day, where someone wrote in and said, “Bob, why do you play so many gospel records? I don’t want to hear about something I don’t believe in.” Bob answered that on-air, saying something like, “It’s great music if the person who’s making the music believes what they’re singing: that’s when it’s powerful.” Mike Farris is powerful. He’s a believer, and he creates all manner of beauty when he sings his songs.

–Conflict of interest alert: I produced the album about which I’m writing. But… I’d be remiss in not pointing you to Fayssoux McLean’s Early CD. Fayssoux is from Spartanburg, and she sang harmony vocals on many of Emmylou Harris’ greatest albums. On Early, Emmy returns the favor, and Fayssoux also gets guest shots from David Ball, Ricky Skaggs, The Whites, steel guitar legend Lloyd Green and other nifty folks. It’s a lovely album, from an upstate treasure.

–Fans of Guy Clark and Townes Van Zandt should be listening to albums by David Olney and Eric Taylor. If not, you’re cheating yourselves out of some beautiful stuff.

–Webb Wilder’s new live album is a hoot. In fact, every Webb Wilder album is a hoot.

–If you’re a parent who regrets the all-nighters you pulled while jamming out to Jason and the Scorchers… hey, no regrets. Those were GREAT nights. And that was a GREAT band. But, hey, you should check out the new Farmer Jason stuff, from the (wink, nod) identical cousin of Scorchers’ leader Jason Ringenberg. The Farmer Jason albums are wholly engaging for kids, and they’re good for a lot of laughs and a lot of foot-pats from adults, too.

–Solomon Burke, Solomon Burke, Solomon Burke, Solomon Burke.

Buy Now