Pull My Chain

Friendly Ghost of a Mullet
Toby Keith's Pull My Chain

by Don Allred
May 24th, 2002 7:45 PM Issue 22

Toby Keith
Pull My Chain
DreamWorks

Funk upon a time, when the hairy Feminazi darkness spread across the land, it
became necessary for a clown prince to assume the position, a wise fool who
could justify or sugarpie the base ballin' ways of batman to wombman. Thus,
from Jughead's Archie to Meathead's, from Ozzie and Harriet's paranoid Ozzie to
Paranoid's (and The Osbournes') Ozzy: As the wig is bent, it came to be, from
sea to shining sea.
Except in the country which is just called Country, 'cause y'all know where
to find us. We had such a---premisable prince, at least—Garth Brooks —butt after
a while he was hardly ever home. So it was that, from the ranks of
stud-puppets, one must step up to the plate (others gradually
to be sacrificed for the evilcological balance of the herd). One son who would
never stray, just conveniently go 'way (for your beauty rest), and then come
back with grapes peeled like you never saw!

Or so you'd be ready to tell him, this Toby Keith, this Oklahoma! Citybilly,
this formerly oil-refinin', pro (well, USFL) footballa, with eyes, brains, and
pipes under his Jimmie-no-crack-corn (prophylactic) hat. Ready or not, he
comes chuggin' 'round the cloudbank, with his high voice (zero faux-Mexicali
Marty Robbins hair-tonic trills), and his low vibrato (free of Waylonic soft-soap
opry). Nothing forced. He's too busy to belabor a point, much less a note.

Such chuggin', from a John Waite "Missing You"/Puff Daddy "I'll Be Missing
You" (but not Stones "Miss You," not yet) template on his dogtag, also would go
good with fiddles, if he bothered. No banjos either, and there's only one of
him (sob), and he's Homecoming Court-bait like his old tourmate
Shania—therefore he's not quite the Dixie Chicks, but if he were a gal, he'd be called
spunky, and that's close enough. 'Specially since the actual D.C.s are busy in
non-Homecoming court, and anyhow, it just wouldn't work if we didn't hear a big ol'
guy's guy ode-ing up to the joys of submission, for instance on the (burns
like a paper sun and candy rain) title track of his current doghouse penthouse prayer, Pull My Chain.
So of course it's "Pull my chain, Toby Keith!" on his message board now.
Netgals also hijack "I wanna talk about mememememe," from "I Wanna Talk About Me,"
in which a Good Listener just gets taken for granted, as Toby discovers then
erupts over, in a David Puddy way that slays 'em in the whenhouse. He also flows more
rapneck genius than was even dreamt of by Fred Durst (Fred: "B-b-but it was written
by Bobby 'He Stopped Loving Her Today' Braddock! No fair!" True).

When "You Leave Me Weak" (goood depletion) gets followed and swallowed by
"Tryin' to Matter" (bad depletion), and identifying with the artist gets cold,
the ladies have gender lines to scurry back across, if they want 'em. I could
use an escape hatch myself, from recognizing the persistent hopefulness (rather
than the expected Country Western self-pity, served up jest ratt) that makes
"Tryin' " so painful (as I'm sure Tobe knows) (bitch). Hope might also be the
wild hair that makes the faithful married man roar, struttin' about not being
one to "Pick Em Up and Lay Em Down" ("down, down, down," he mutters at one
point). And hope prods the twisting sheets of "Forever Hasn't Got Here Yet" (the
verdict just in: "makeup sex," but not Seinfeld's).

The previous album, How Ya Like . . . ('scuse me, Kool Mo Dee) How Do You
Like Me Now, was a chug-to-glide-to-hover-to-Hova-to-ova (title track, anyway,
livin' inside your radio) airshow of lifelines. This one rocks harder, dreams
paler, rarely in black-and-white; this ain't Pleasantville, it's Burbtown. (In
late Spring, we're green and gray, OK?).