20 Opening Lyrics For Your Indie Country-Rock Band

With rare exception, modern indie singer/songwriter types with country affectations just remind me how many Warren Zevon albums I haven't heard. But they sure seem to be thrilling critics and getting gigs, so I'd like everyone to know my lyrical skills are available if you have eight friends who can clumsily recreate 20th century Nashville factory arrangements, but you're not capable of coming up with the kind of sub-David Berman poetic irony that gives you even odds for an 8.0 rating. I Bernie Taupin for cheap, and here's 20 proofs of concept.

My little shortcomings grew big and long. I’d have to turn alt-right to be more wrong.

My loneliness seems to have a lot of friends. I’m not quite sure, but it depends.

Looked in my pocket for a concrete noun. Smirked at the business card that I found.

I saw your text as we stopped for gas before the meet and greets. I don't need this shit, not when I'm at a Sheetz.

Are flutes ironic? Hell, if I know. But they're paid by the session, so here we go.

I learned how to drawl at 22. Best New Music should sound older than you.

Backstage at the fest, not sure when I’m on. Another Dylan imitator at Budokan.

Townes Van Zandt meets Lee Hazlewood with some Waylon and Merle, but nowhere as good.

It takes over five minutes to say what’s wrong with me. “By The Time I Get To Phoenix” needs less than three.

You hated judgment, so don’t judge us. Do you think your dad was wowed by Steve Malkmus?

Don’t ask me to sweat authenticity. Will Oldham played hillbillies on TV.

Music websites keep their eyes peeled for disheveled white kids standing in a field.

I'm alive, somehow, despite the meds. The social malaise and the futon beds.

A steel guitar will always sound good. My voice won't, not even sure if it could.

In a time of chimpanzees, there was a monkey. Don't worry, kids, my album won't get funky.

Mamma and Daddy fucked to Toby Keith, so why do I sound like Loretta Lynn's queef?

We met in college, and we all got loans. Except the violinist who keeps us stoned. His granddad's name would have a hyperlink. Yes, he's set, but not as much as you think.

If you don't like me, I don't give a damn. If the song's not bad, then please Shazam.

Since CDs stopped being sold at Starbucks, things ain't been the same. Some say life since 2012 is just a game.

I was 13 when I saw Father John Misty on Letterman. Remind me why the middle-aged should give a shit about us again?

If you need some of this gold for your personal use, or just want to ask who the hell I think I am, the proper way to reach me is anthonyisright at gmail dot com. Apologies to the bands pictured above, whether or not they're innocent.