A chronicle of the city’s country music history, highlighting the ’90s scene that mixed punk ethics with honky-tonk traditions.

“I shoulda moved to New York city but I never was that cool
I just languished in the Midwest like some old romantic fool”
— Freakwater, “My Old Drunk Friend”

Even those who watched grunge die have a hard time pinpointing the time of death. The exact date when the grim reaper placed its bony finger on the first disaffected, flannel-shirt-wearing stereotype remains lost to a cold stew of opinions and a confluence of corporate maneuvers. Here lies grunge: Interred in a crypt engraved both with Kurt Cobain’s opening line of In Utero, and a sketch of Korn playing Lollapalooza in 1997.