Friday, July 16, 2004
Preaching to Your Audience.
Last year at Summerfest, Milwaukee's big 11-day music and drunk festival, I was sitting with some friends listening to this opening act for Jonny Lang, I believe. And it was one of these opening act bands in which there is a band, but really it's all built around one guy. Probably called something like The Jim Danfield Band -- real creative.
So we're sitting there waiting for the show, and this guy's going into his last song, but he's talking so much that the song is just never gonna begin. And he keeps going on and on about how this song is for us. This is the song for us to sing when we want to stick it to the bossman. Yes. When the bossman's gettin' me down, this is the song to sing.
Of course what this boob didn't know -- or think to observe -- is that he was singing to a crowd of Mercedes-driving, red wine-drinking bossmen. Sure, there was your random GenX idiot like me in the crowd. But the vast majority of people were making $50,000 or more. And congrats to them. Nothing wrong with a little $50,000 or more a year. He just made a mockery of himself, dancing around up there in his tight jeans, with his raging, curly-mullett, and the token trucker's cap, thinking we were still a blue-collar factory town, everyone paying union dues and getting laid off every other week.
So we're sitting there waiting for the show, and this guy's going into his last song, but he's talking so much that the song is just never gonna begin. And he keeps going on and on about how this song is for us. This is the song for us to sing when we want to stick it to the bossman. Yes. When the bossman's gettin' me down, this is the song to sing.
Of course what this boob didn't know -- or think to observe -- is that he was singing to a crowd of Mercedes-driving, red wine-drinking bossmen. Sure, there was your random GenX idiot like me in the crowd. But the vast majority of people were making $50,000 or more. And congrats to them. Nothing wrong with a little $50,000 or more a year. He just made a mockery of himself, dancing around up there in his tight jeans, with his raging, curly-mullett, and the token trucker's cap, thinking we were still a blue-collar factory town, everyone paying union dues and getting laid off every other week.
