This past weekend my wife and I attended a Kristofferson concert.
Yeah, he’s a lefty, but he’s also an amazing poet. His songs capture much. Sunday Morning Coming Down, Bobby McGee, Help Me Make it Through the Night.
The crowd was as suspected – Older Boomers and a few on either side of the generation who grew-up listening to Janis Joplin, Kristofferson and others who covered his songs. (WIllie Nelson does the best of which I am aware.)
But he couldn’t sing. His delivery had zero energy. Past his prime he ended lines on a downward minor chord rather than the higher notes they need, and to which we have become accustomed, but which he evidently no longer can sing. He is too old for concerts. Time to retire and relax. Go while we still remember the vigor.
But he also couldn’t JUST sing. He was unable to get himself through a song without a political comment against America, its leaders – including Democrat Bill Clinton. Quoting Laura Ingraham, he couldn’t just “Shut up and Sing.”
In order to appreciate his often incomparable lyrics, the feeling which enthused his work, we had to be presented with images in our minds of “Bush and Dick Cheney in the shower together,” and war for oil and other silly liberal tropes.
His audience? Successful or moderately successful adults from our free-market economy. People who have worked and achieved some level of success in the society he could not help but deride. People who have, over the decades, bought his albums and attended his concerts. People who chose to spend their money and their time to listen to Kristofferson sing his songs. Money they could afford because of our free-market economy, the opportunity of the market.
People from a lifestyle affording them the money necessary to pay for his tickets so he can grow rich on the backs of we working people as we pay our hard-earned dollars for his tickets… so he can trash our ideals, our goals, our work, our nation. And put our money into his bank-account, all the while deriding capitalism.
He’s a parasite. Perhaps too dumb, but perhaps not too dumb to realize it. He has been, after all, an insightful man, very good at looking into people and writing excellent songs showing us ourselves. Perhaps, when he is deep into a bottle he realizes his parasitical nature and that he requires us to be everything he speaks against, or he’d be broke and in the gutter in his ‘cleanest dirty shirt.’
My wife and I were not the only couple that called it a night at intermission and followed each others’ cars out of the parking lot, onto the freeways of Los Angeles, and home.