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I would often sit in my Meemaw’s kitchen as she smoked a Virginia Slim and paced the floor, talking to her sister on the phone. Like most great Meemaws, mine never minced her words. It provided me captivating entertainment as a child, which would eventually turn into colorful life lessons. Yet nothing was as memorable as the “Trina Rule:” no one was ever to utter the name Trina—except my Meemaw.
The story of Trina was entrenched in the folklore of our family, though the exact facts were hazy. Apparently, the height of this rivalry involved my Meemaw throwing an axe through the back window of my Grandad’s beat-up DeVille—all because he was allegedly out with the infamous woman. That image alone eventually forced my teenage mind to ask the forbidden question. “Well, boy, first off—it was a hammer, not an axe,” she casually exclaimed with a sneer, before launching into the rest of the story.
“Trina” wasn’t even her real name, but a stand-in, because my Meemaw couldn’t bring herself to say the actual name of her former best friend. They had once been inseparable, until my Meemaw fell in love with my Grandad—and their friendship slowly dissolved into enmity. Even Meemaw couldn’t recall when it reached the point of no return—but looking into her eyes at that moment, it was clear: the feud still burned just as hot as it had decades ago. It would certainly demonstrate generational growth if I had learned from my elders in ways that led to more forgiveness and less pain. But I am, after all, my Meemaw’s boy—for better or worse. So it begs the question: If feuds cause such turmoil, why do we do it?
In his 2021 book Why We Fight, Dr. Mike Martin explores the history of social development and how political dynamics can lead people to battle—driven by our subconscious need for status and belonging within our respective communities. Martin explains that we inherently rely on moral codes, religions and other beliefs to justify our actions, because those frameworks drive us from within. Certainly, Martin’s exposé on the reasoning behind major wars and large-scale conflict speaks to global entities and not fully small town antics, but isn’t the same drive that motivates world leaders also present in the actions of my Meemaw and Trina? My Meemaw, acting on a kind of Loretta Lynn, keep-your-mitts-off-my-man moral code and Trina, likely navigating the loss of a friend while trying to find some semblance of belonging.
Though Martin's commentary on status and belonging applies easily to my own backwoods melodrama, it also echoes under the burning neon lights—and behind the fights—of the country music industry, especially given the genre’s heightened exposure in mainstream media over the past decade.
The same notion arises every decade or so; the idea that country music
Since the very beginning, country artists have debated not only what is and is not country music, but more vitally, who belongs—and who doesn’t—within the space. These debates have sparked visceral discussions around race, gender and artistic value, inviting waves of public discourse. At times, the fallouts have started and ended careers, burned collaborative bridges and often politicized nearly every step of an artist’s journey.
On the beloved podcast Cocaine and Rhinestones, host and creator Tyler Mahan Coe brings to vivid life the lesser-known stories behind the history of the genre, a fan favorite being “The Nashville Shootout” episode. This particular story tells the sordid tale of the feud between country artist Ernest Tubb and music producer Jim Denny, sparked by the scheduling of rival music festivals. One was meant to honor Tubb’s hero, Jimmie Rodgers; the other, organized by Denny, was viewed by Tubb as little more than a business opportunity. The infamous ending? A drunken Tubb showed up at Denny’s workplace early one morning after a heated phone exchange, wearing a gun belt and his house slippers. While shots were indeed fired, no one was hurt—except for a remorseful Tubb once he sobered up.
While certainly not glorifying violence, the story paints a picture of Tubb as a man emboldened by principle: determined to preserve the memory of a pioneer he revered, and deeply offended by what he saw as Denny’s commercial disrespect. Taken a step further, the exchange is clearly rooted in issues of status and belonging: Tubb as a symbol of the old guard, and Denny positioned as part of the emerging new order.
This duality can be found in a variety of other famed feuds within the genre. Take, for example, when Porter Wagoner sued Dolly Parton for breach of contract after she sought greater independence in her artistic career. With his own star fading, Wagoner aimed to solidify his status by trying to control Parton’s exit. Similarly, Charlie Rich literally burned John Denver’s award envelope at the 1975 CMA Awards after Denver won Entertainer of the Year to cement his belonging. Rich, a staunch traditionalist, had been vocal about his dislike of the genre’s pop-leaning trends—and to him, Denver was the epitome of that shift.
In recent decades, these ideological divides have extended into patriotism and political party affiliation within the industry itself. The feud between Toby Keith and The Chicks in the early 2000s began with Keith’s song ‘Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue (The Angry American)’ and Natalie Maines’ public criticism of its message. The controversy escalated beyond Keith’s involvement, though, when Maines later spoke out against President Bush’s handling of the Iraq War. The result was intense backlash that severely impacted The Chicks’ career trajectory and led to a sharp decline in their presence on country radio, as their stance was perceived as anti-American.
Making more recent headlines, in 2022, a feud erupted between country singer Maren Morris and Brittany Aldean—wife of Jason Aldean—over Aldean's comments about transgender youth, a hot-button issue in American politics. The dispute escalated on social media, revealing a sharp divide within the country music community amid the growing influence of the MAGA movement that led Morris to explore her artistry outside of the confines of the genre.
While this is only a small sample of the many feuds in country music history, one thing is clear: each party involved operates from a clearly understood set of principles that guides their actions. At a broader level, each conflict represents a struggle to define what country music should represent—and what it shouldn’t; how it should be created, and who should be creating it; and ultimately, what the legacy of the genre should be. Whether you sided with Keith or The Chicks makes little difference—both spoke out from a well-defined viewpoint, grounded in a deep reverence for the genre itself.
However, in recent years, it seems that feuds in the country music industry are less rooted in principle and more in haphazard attempts to mimic the behavior of the past—driven not by conviction, but by a desire for dominance in the age of clickbait. The pressure for artists to stay relevant on platforms like Instagram and TikTok has often diluted the work itself, especially for those who attempt to manufacture infamy as a shortcut to notoriety.
The meteoric rise of Morgan Wallen—a singular talent in his own right—has been plagued by controversy. From the circulation of a video in which he used a racial slur, sparking rightful outrage from many in the country music community, to a drunken altercation involving a chair on a balcony overlooking Broadway in Nashville, these regrettable incidents have often overshadowed the critical appreciation of his artistry.
Neither conflict reflected respect for the genre or for those who built it, and his subsequent responses—both in the media and to fellow artists who challenged his behavior—offered little in the way of reflection or insight into the principles of the man behind the global name. To borrow the time-honored question: “Are you sure Hank done it this way?” The answer, most assuredly, is no, though Wallen has the talent, fame and power to do and be better.
In a similar vein, Zach Bryan, after years of chart dominance and amassing a sizable publishing fortune, has turned to feuding with everyone from fourteen-year-old fans to beloved folk artists like John Moreland. Moreland, who notably collaborated with Bryan on 2024’s ‘Memphis; the Blues,’ publicly criticized his increasingly erratic behavior online. In response, Bryan swiftly removed Moreland’s heralded contribution from streaming services and replaced him with another artist—an impulsive move that suggested a reaction driven less by reason and more by entitled access.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t an isolated incident, but part of a growing pattern. Just weeks ago, Bryan was seen scaling a barbed wire fence in an attempt to fight rising artist Gavin Adcock—for no clear reason beyond drunken spectacle and unchecked aggression. It should be noted, however, that Adcock is no innocent angel—he’s sparked drama with everyone from Beyoncé to Charley Crockett and even Nickelback’s sound technician, though each flame fizzled before it could forge any steel-bending vitriol.
With dimestore roses and ill-conceived digs, Adcock seems to launch a new baseless feud each week, hoping to keep his 2025 album, Own Worst Enemy, on the charts. An aptly titled project for Adcock—but not for the aspirational “outlaw” image he so desperately wants to claim. At face value, Adock reverberates the cosplay vibe of a Dukes of Hazzard villain that only receives a two episode arc. And yet, if he took a moment to listen back to his own accomplished third studio album, he might realize that cultivating his evident talent would serve him far better than chasing meaningless clickbait fodder or attempting to dress the part he believes he needs to play for the masses.
On my Meemaw’s deathbed, I had the blessed opportunity to speak with her openly about her life and finally hear some of the untold stories she held so dear. What became immediately clear was that she had no regrets. She loved fully and lived fiercely, always guided by her own stern principles. There was a reason for every action, and every action had its reason—even when her heart broke, like it did with Trina, hammer and all.
Documentarian Ken Burns once stated, “Country music isn’t just about the South. It’s about America. It’s about who we are.” And who we are—at our best—is a complicated mix of passion, pride, heartbreak and principle. Feuds, when rooted in something real, tell us more than just who fought whom—they reveal what matters, what’s worth defending and who we become in the process. They provoke thought. They spark change. My Meemaw knew that. Ernest Tubb lived to protect it. Dolly Parton blazed trails because of it. The Chicks risked everything to speak it.
And maybe—just maybe—the genre still does, too, if only the newest stars helping to define its next era could stop chasing empty headlines, define their own principles and remember its stories, its history and the heart that made it matter in the first place.
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