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Thus the new IMAX NASCAR 3-D movie NASCAR: The IMAX Experience starts at the beginning -- the nefarious birth of the South's only native professional sport. It is widely accepted that NASCAR's roots go back to daredevil rednecks who ran moonshine during Prohibition, and afterward. Supposedly they got so good at super-rigging their cars to outrun the "Law," and had such a damn good time doing it, that once Prohibition ended they just kept on driving, pedal to the metal.
The historical dramatizations of bootleggers, Junior Johnson racing on the beach at Daytona and Richard Petty tearing it up on dirt tracks make for a fun and often visually stunning lesson in NASCAR History 101. (Unfortunately, once the film shifts to present day it becomes what many non-fans think stock car racing really is: repetitive and loud.)
The gleeful bootleggers in the opening shot are played by Jimmie Johnson and Ryan Newman. While they're both genuine NASCAR Nextel Cup drivers, they couldn't be less Southern. Johnson is a well-spoken, clean-cut guy from California while Newman is a Purdue-educated engineer from Idaho -- facts that are less ironic than emblematic.
NASCAR is still perceived, nationally and regionally, to be deeply Southern, but that image now rests less on reality than on increasingly ancient history. In fact, many longtime fans feel that NASCAR isn't Southern enough anymore -- particularly the premiere series, the Nextel Cup (the Winston Cup until this year). For NASCAR itself and many businesses involved in the sport, however, it's apparently still too Southern and they're working to change that. Over the last decade or so, they've been wildly successful. Today the majority of tracks that host Nextel Cup races are outside the South and the overwhelming majority of top drivers -- are you ready for this? -- are not Southern.
Although hardcore fans have complained for years that NASCAR is selling them out for new, high-falutin' fans beyond the Mason-Dixon line, the issue has been brought to a head recently by NASCAR's decision to strip Nextel Cup races from two of the South's most historic tracks. North Carolina Speedway in Rockingham lost one of its two race dates at the beginning of this year and NASCAR announced on May 14 that it would lose its remaining date and the legendary track in Darlington, SC, would lose one of its two dates in the 2005 season. Those race dates have been shipped west of the Mississippi.
From grandstands and infields to chat rooms and radio shows, many Southern fans are speculating on where NASCAR is headed and whether they are being left behind.
Growing Pains
There's no doubt that NASCAR is losing its Southern flavor. Many of the young drivers now dominating the series listen to rock rather than country, play video games instead of hunt, and dress more MTV than CMT. Musical guests at races these days are more likely to be up and coming or has-been bands like the Goo Goo Dolls than country acts, though Nashville types generally do the honors with the national anthem.
"On the one hand, it's great when Yankees recognize that something of ours is worthwhile. On the other hand, it sucks when they take it over -- especially if they water it down," says noted author and Southern culture expert John Shelton Reed.
The problem is, it seems the watering down is coming from within. And it's not pretty.
Just watch Fox's cheesy "Crank it up" montages before and during races. Some awful song like "I Can't Drive 55" plays over clips of drivers and spinning cars. It's all quick edits and jerky camera work a la MTV in the early 90s.
But when Fox lets NASCAR be itself, they shine. Their "Hollywood Hotel" commentators are perfection -- Larry McReynolds, Jeff Hammond, and the thoroughly lovable Darrell Waltrip. Losing them mid-way through the season when NBC takes over coverage is just depressing. As long as Fox doesn't replace them with Ryan Seacrest to attract the lucrative teenage girl market, I guess we'll be OK.
Stock car racing's identity crisis and desire to be urban is nowhere more painfully evidenced than in a show on the Speed Channel called Infield Hot Pass. The wild-and-wacky camera and edit stuff is cranked up to 11. So is the royalty-free generic rock. The female host isn't bad. She's perky and pretty and harmless. But the guy. The guy is unbelievable. You watch wincing, praying that this is some kind of parody, but alas, it isn't. His just-off-the-mark wraparound shades and bleach-tipped hair could be overlooked, but not his incessant, ludicrous rap star posturing. The show is as desperate to be cool as Saved by the Bell and somehow manages to fail more miserably.
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