So the saying goes: "You can't judge a book by its cover." I call B.S. The LoCash Cowboys are douchebags. Look at them (album cover at bottom of article). One guy's got the blu-blocker shades on and lots of bling, a Trent Tomlinson-issue dew rag, a carefully unkempt shirt and tie, ripped jeans, watch chain, manicured facial hair, the pursed lips kissy face and the two-gun salute. The other guy is similarly attired and displays the "yeah!" face with a one gun salute/"what up" sign. So, yeah, it's indisputable. Strike one.
Could we give 'em a pass if the music was good? No. But fear not, it's not. Good that is.
What really pisses me off about the song is that it's not bad by current Nashville standards. I'd hoped to make fun of the production values, because I'd heard a couple of songs from their self-released debut and it was charmingly awful. Not so now, what with Jeffrey Steele at the helm, they sound just like everybody else in Nashvegas. Like a PG-13 Rascal Flatts even. So, they robbed me of that angle for talking trash about them. Strike two.
I'm not going to actually review this song (do I ever?). All you need to know is that it sounds something like the aforementioned Rascal Flatts by way of Big & Rich's "Save a Horse..." and that the 'boys provide you with this handy-dandy checklist to cull potential girlfriends:
[ ] wears Daisy Dukes
[ ] wears cowboy boots
[ ] is cornfed
[ ] is fine as Ellie May
[ ] green as John Deere
[ ] has a hourglass figure
[ ] gets you high as a barn
[ ] can load shotgun
[ ] can fish
[ ] can milk a cow
[ ] is homegrown
[ ] is country fried
If your woman doesn't meet at least five of these criteria, it's time to seriously consider kicking her to the curb.
Or not.
Hey, Cowboys. Strike Three. You suck!