They keep promising to leave, but they never follow through.
The latest is Bruce Springsteen.
“The Boss,” as people with bad taste in music call him, said he’d be “on the next plane” to Australia if Donald Trump is reelected. “I love Australia. Every time, we have nothing but good times down there. It’s always a treat to come. Love the people, love the geography, great place for motorcycle trips, it’s close to our hearts. If Trump is re-elected – which he will not be; I’m predicting right now he’s gonna lose – if by some happenstance he should be, I’ll see you on the next plane,” Springsteen said in a recent interview.
Added bonus: there’s an incredible variety of the world’s deadliest wildlife Down Under, from insects to seamonsters to snakes and beyond. But let’s get right down to the real meat of this thing, shall we?
I don’t believe he’ll actually leave, and I don’t have any feelings about Bruce Springsteen living in the United States one way or the other. I just think it’s about time we, as a country, acknowledge a universal truth: Bruce Springsteen sucks.
He doesn’t suck because of his politics, though that doesn’t help. He sucks because his music sucks. He can’t sing, and even if he could, his songs suck.
Bruce Springsteen has spent his whole career rewriting the same “story” as a song. Here’s every Springsteen song rolled into one:
Becky’s dad doesn’t approve of the guy she’s dating, probably named Johnny, but she’s not going to let that stop their love. The factory has closed or is about to, making life in this small town even tougher than it was before. The young lovers are going to meet somewhere, probably on the outskirts of town, and go off to start their lives together, even though the odds are stacked against them. (Cue the guitar or horns.)
Enough already. Bruce Springsteen is the most overrated musician in history, followed closely by Jon Bon Jovi, who apes Bruce’s style while spending more time on his hair.
Maybe it’s something about New Jersey that makes crappy musicians, I don’t know. But I do know that being lectured, lyrically or otherwise, about how rough it is out there by a multimillionaire with a guitar and a guy on the payroll whose only job is to rip the sleeves off jean jackets to make him seem “edgy” is not talent, it’s a marketing gimmick.
Seconded, every word of it, with great big bells and a cherry on top. So just this one time, just for once: don’t talk, DO. Far as I’m concerned, the quicker that limousine liberal can put himself in the way of a funnel-web spider, a cassowary, or an eastern brown snake, the happier I’ll be.