Jean Backus wrote, “The music you hear when you ride the merry-go-round at the carnival.”
Let’s compare the odd similarity of her impression to
Wright’s “A fancy night in the dirty South” and
Whittington’s “Sweetness up front, then road dust,” and
Harrison’s “Comes on strong, gritty, ends suddenly,” to
Nevland’s reference to meeting a cowboy buried in the dirt.
Is there anything sweeter and grittier than a carnival?
Is there anything that comes on stronger or ends more suddenly?
Can a carnival be described any more eloquently than, “A fancy night in the dirty South?”

I rest my case, ladies and gentlemen. Wine is bottled music.
It is the sound of the soil in which it is grown.
The music may not always be to your liking, but it is music nonetheless.