The Steelers’ opening night victory brought much celebration in Pittsburgh. Since it was also the opening game of the NFL season, the spectacle was almost as big as the game, and country star Tim McGraw headlined a free concert for Steelers fans before the game. With all the talk about “America’s Favorite Sport” — and the debate over whether it’s baseball or football — I figured I’d give a little history on “America’s Favorite Music.”

According to a radio survey, more than 77 million American adults listen to country music on the radio every week. It is undoubtedly American, a part of the stereotypical American image here at home and overseas, and it has become “as American as apple pie,” despite the fact that the dessert has its origins in Europe. So how did it get this way? We owe a lot to one man: Ralph Peer.

In 1927, in Bristol, Tenn., Peer set up a recording studio in a barn and started running ads in newspapers and flyers looking for artists. Some people who had already recorded with or knew of Peer came first, then more people came as they began to hear about the kind of royalties his artists were getting ($3600 a year). Among the musicians who recorded were the famous Carter Family, the “First Family of Country,” and Jimmie Rodgers, the “Blue Yodeler.” Both acts found huge success, with Rodgers selling over half a million copies of his song “T is for Texas.” While so-called “hillbilly” recordings had sold fairly well earlier in the decade, these latest recordings were something new altogether. Blending secular ballads and gospel music with blues and a hint of jazz, along with a few good-time party and comedy songs, the music took off. The themes resounded even more during the Great Depression, and while most businessmen were out of luck and money on Wall Street, Peer continued to make large amounts of money simply from royalties.

The legacy of the Bristol recording sessions is beyond measure. Besides the debuts of two of the biggest country music stars, they gave country a new sound. Where before what was labeled country was a mixture of hick tunes and old ballads, the recordings gave old folk songs and gospel hymns a cleaner, more refined sound. Country became more successful and began to speak to a wider audience. This paved the way for stars like Hank Williams and Johnny Cash.

So the next time you listen to any kind of country music, whether old or new, you can think back to a little barn in Bristol, Tenn., where it all got started.

-Tyler Alderson

I know I’ve only made it through the first week of classes, but I am already exhausted. Every day by about three o’clock, I am ready to take a nap. For those of you well-acquainted with the all-important ritual of napping, you know that it is a very serious practice, and its success hinges on any number of variables like blanket choice, general atmosphere, and, of course, music.

There have to be a million songs written about sleep (after all, don’t we spend about a third of our life doing this? Can someone please give me an update on this statistic?). In the last week I’ve been rediscovering The Smiths’ song “Asleep.”

I can remember first stumbling on this song in middle school, those formative years of anxiety and woe, characterized by many of us through the mix tapes we listened to, the basements we smoked in, the beat literature we read. But unlike the rest of the nonsense that littered my middle school experience, The Smiths’ still retains its uncanny sadness.

Morrissey himself has a knack for melancholy — even in his most up-tempo, danceable tracks, there is a pervasive gloom about the condition of being alive. The effects of this can be disastrous.

My friend Jen is least immune to Morrissey’s angst and has been known, on more than several occasions, to break down in the middle of doing anything and weep to the croon of Moz’s voice.

Hell, sometimes she would just break down at the thought of him old and sweaty, playing the Celebrity Showcase in Reno, Nev., changing his soggy T-shirts every 30 minutes and riding long black limousines for 200-foot stretches, realizing that no one would ever put up with that kind of shit from her.

No one would put up with that shit from me, either, which might make listening to The Smiths after a laborious first week of class even worse. There seems to be a sort of unfairness at play, but if poor Moz wasn’t always famous, at least he was always sad.

So if you’re feeling a bit worn and torn after a rough first week, I suggest you take comfort, curl up, revisit your old sad songs, and hope that you too will find great success in your wallowing.

-M. Callen

Tonight, I spun the clickwheel of my iPod until “Ride Around Shining” by Clipse came up. Upon its release, the song and the album that housed it sparked a debate among the Internet cognoscenti about its ethics, or lack thereof.

Was Hell Hath No Fury a nuanced treatment of the drug trade’s moral complexities or a raw glorification of crack and the cash that came of it?

I never really took a side in that argument — the ruthlessness of the production transfixed me more than the cold-hearted consumerism of the lyrics.

Returning to the song, nearly two years later, it seems unsettlingly prescient. It’s as if Clipse knew, in the summer of ’07, that the housing bubble was overdue for bursting, and that the economy, a year and a half down the road, would be stumbling and desperate, like a crack addict caught in Virginia Beach traffic (of two kinds). “All I wanna do is ride around shinin’ while I can afford it” — did they know?

Listening to the song today, it’s hard to say if the cloud of detuned piano that hovers over the minimal beat presages collapses or confirms it.

Is that miasma of notes the tremor that says “earthquake,” or the dust of crushed concrete settling after disaster has already come? Are Clipse a pair of fortunetellers or funeral directors?

The song, like its creators, seems caught between violent scenes. Virginia Beach rappers aren’t dirty South and they aren’t New York. They’re coastal, smooth, but never as glib as Snoop and Dre.

They wouldn’t fit in Los Angeles. They rap in suspension, with the devil-may-care edge of a parolee speeding past the police station in a stolen convertible.

A decade that started with a hyped crisis that never materialized (Y2K) is ending with an economic crisis borne of over-hyped material (toxic securities).

For this author, “Ride Around Shining” is the anthem that captures the spirit of those two endpoints, as it cruises on a vaporous chassis, grille gleaming, right between them.

-Split Foster