Kid Rock

Kid Rock

I was drunk — too many Fat Tuesday concoctions in the hot sun of Music Midtown. I was talking to a co-worker who had come down, June was off getting ready to shoot the show, and I was throwin’ down some vile strawberry sludge like nobodies bidness. Somewhere in the back of my head, I realized that the sound coming over the PA was “Sweet Emotion,” and it was getting louder. It faded out, replaced by guitar scratchings and a chorus of voices chanting something like “balldangadangadang” that kept getting louder until I couldn’t hear the people around me shouting anymore. Then there was a large explosion from the stage area, and a speaker-blowing voice screamed:

“MY NAME IS KIDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!”

I have to tell ya, the place went batshit. About 90 guitars started in on some prime Rob Zombie-style riff, louder than death, and the screaming voice started rappin’ about his johnson, and homeys and all that moronic crap in a real sneering, white trash sort of way. I got another drink. They did some song about being a cowboy (I’d pay to see that) and then brought out some midget named Joe C — at least I hope he’s a midget, because if it’s a kid, somebody’s parents need to be bitch-slapped by Family and Child Services. But I digress. The little person, nattily attired in primo gas station robbery gear, laid down a rap about the disproportionate size of his unit compared to his height. I have to take him at his word.

Looking back on the pictures of the show — Kid Rock in his “wifebeater” T-shirt, and listening to his new CD, Devil Without a Cause , brings back memories. Not of his show, really (Fat Tuesday took care of that…), but of other rock shows I’ve been to. Yeah, he tries to be outrageous, and he swears a lot, but so did Johnny Rotten. And like Kid Rock’s crowd, most of the people who watched the Pistols didn’t get the joke either. Mr. Ritchie (Kid Rock, pre “homey” days) is just the next snake-handling, snot-blowing kid to try to cover up his lack of talent with a 125 db three-card Monte game.

But I gotta tell ya, there have been moments since that afternoon, cruising down the road, that I slip the CD into the drive and shout…

“MY NAME IS KIDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!”

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked with *

Cancel reply

Recently on Ink 19...

From the Archives