Mountain Range

Ten years later, Curley became a born-again Christian. His pastor spent the first dollar that the Mountain Music Shoppe earned; the two then prayed over it and attached it to the wall. Various Bible verses line the counter, but they're facing the Curleys rather than the customers. That's typical of the family's approach, which involves keeping religion in mind at all times without, as Curley says, "shoving it down people's throats."

The Curleys pray each morning, petitioning for the strength to resist becoming corporate and competitive. Almost every day, Jim receives offers from chain stores that either want to purchase the Shoppe or lure him away from it. He smiles, recalling how, when he started the store, representatives from many of the same outlets laughed at him for selling only what was their slowest-moving stock. He declines such proposals categorically.

Four words pasted behind the counter -- spiritual, traditional, historical and educational -- guide the Curleys' approach. Three of the components are self-explanatory, but the spiritual aspect seems to evade easy explanation. Jim interprets it in simple secular terms: It means never ripping anyone off. To fulfill this part of his mission, he'll replace and repair instruments beyond the expected call of duty.

"I don't care what the manufacturer's warranty says," he'll tell a customer. "You bought that here." This policy also extends to fair assessments of pawned instruments, even from clueless sellers who have no idea they're asking $500 for a $40,000 antique. "That happens all the time," Jim says.

Jim even buys from sellers he suspects are pushing hot equipment, though in this case he's creating a trail of evidence. He stalls with his usual cheerful chit-chat until he's recorded vital serial numbers and captured the con on the store's camera, then he reports directly to the authorities. "We ship them up the river," Jim says proudly about his policy of dealing with those who break the eighth commandment.

Jim Curley, a devout Ned Flanders in hippie-Homer disguise, certainly doesn't exude the rebellious charisma of, say, Johnny Cash, with whom he shares membership in the Old-Time Country Music Hall of Fame in Avoca, Iowa. And even given the still-simmering O Brother craze, the Mountain Music Shoppe isn't trendy by any stretch of the imagination. That's what makes it so important. There's something to be said for artists who push societal and musical boundaries, but there's also room for folks who aim to preserve small-town civility and anachronistic acoustic sounds. As Betty says, summarizing the Shoppe's appeal, "We're so corny we're cool."