The headlines about Rolling Stone’s profile and interview of Kid Rock have rightly enough focused on the most outrageous examples of the rightwing performer’s behavior. Writer David Peisner, who refers to his subject throughout as Bob Ritchie, his given name, says Ritchie got drunker and drunker during what was supposed to be a 90-minute interview, and that he eventually waved a pistol around while ranting, spouted the n-word repeatedly, and got all up in Peisner’s face, trying to get in a fight or at least push Peisner into getting angry back at him.
But while that crap is certainly nuts, the overall focus of the article remains Peisner’s attempt to figure out how Bob Ritchie morphed from an avatar of party-on anarchy into just another MAGA asshole spouting culture wars garbage to own the libs. A cynic could maybe argue he just traded one irritating cliché for another, but Peisner notes that while the old Kid Rock persona always seemed to be in on the joke, knowing it was a pose, the MAGA guy doesn’t have even a hint of ironic detachment.
It’s sad, mostly, and worth the read not so much for “here is Kid Rock being horrible” as for Peisner’s reflections on how Bob Ritchie’s disappearance up Trump’s asshole is so depressingly familiar:
In an age when many people have a story about a relative who arrived at Thanksgiving in a red MAGA hat, and shortly thereafter started forwarding BitChute videos and QAnon memes, the idea that a rich white guy would become a die-hard Trump supporter is not exactly shocking.
There are hints that Ritchie is aware on some level that he’s devoted his fame and his ability to draw an audience to something nihilistic and pointless, but then he snaps right back to insisting he’s a force for good, helping Trump save America, as in this vignette:
“I’m part of the problem,” he acknowledges. “I’m one of the polarizing people, no question. Sometimes I bitch about other people, then I look in the mirror and I’m like, ‘Oh, yeah, why don’t you shut the fuck up too?’”
So, is this mostly an impulse-control problem?
“It’s a rich-guy issue,” he says. “No fucks left. I’m not going to get it right every time, but I know my heart’s right. I want the best for this country.”
Or maybe there’s not really much contradiction between outrageous and Trump-affiliated for the money, desperately trying to stay in the public eye as a middle aged former party rap/rocker, and being his most authentic asshole self. He’s no Walt Whitman containing multitudes, but Bob Ritchie is at least half-vast.
There are certainly moments where Rock/Ritchie seems to be auditioning for the part of Ted Nugent telling Barack Obama back in 2007 to “suck on my machine gun,” and then switching it up and offering to rape Hillary Clinton with it instead.
Right, the gun. Which also feels like a cover of a Nugent hit, perhaps this catchy ditty, “Ted Nugent Offers To Fellate Reporter And Rape Producer To Show That Ted Nugent Is A Damn Nice Guy.”
It comes into the discussion pretty quickly after a lot of biographical stuff, and after Mr. Ritchie has 1) completed a live segment on Fox News with Laura Ingraham (he made a big show of calling Trump to ask him to watch, but the Great Man didn’t answer); 2) “exchanged his white wine for Jim Beam and Diet Coke” and then several more. Unlike earlier that day, when Peisner was mostly able to turn him away from shouting MAGA slogans, Ritchie is ready to go full shithead:
He’s sitting in a dark leather chair, shouting at me about something or other, when he reaches behind the seat, pulls out a black handgun, and waves it around to make some sort of point.
“And I got a fucking goddamn gun right here if I need it!” he shouts. “I got them everywhere!”
Then it’s time to unleash the n-words, like, immediately following the gun-waving. Ritchie is explaining that he can’t possibly be on the wrong side of history supporting Trump, because a lot of people don’t know that Abraham Lincoln was a Republican, more or less:
“No. It was the Republicans that freed the fucking slaves!”
“Yes, but the Republicans were the progressive party back then.”
“I know where you’re going with this, and I’ll tell you why I don’t,” Ritchie says. “Because Trick Trick, the hardest-hitting n—-r in Detroit, was like, ‘Dog, you had that shit right. We need Trump.’ I’ll call him right fucking now.” He dials his phone, but Christian Mathis, the pioneering underground Detroit rapper who goes by Trick Trick, doesn’t pick up. Ritchie turns back to me. “I’m telling you. These dogs are calling me like, ‘Yo, n—-r, you had that one right!’” (Mathis didn’t respond to subsequent messages asking for confirmation of his support for Trump.)
Oh, also, in the first paragraph we learn that Ritchie has a white butler / valet / guy named “Uncle Tom” greet Peisner at the door, just one more way that he is a wild guy who doesn’t give a fuck, and all that not-giving-a-fuck almost seems to be a burden for him. Peisner adds,
It’s worth mentioning these are not the only times Ritchie drops the n-word during my visit. It’d be easy to label this as the rantings of a drunk racist, but as with everything that Ritchie does, it’s hard to know how calculated it all is. Is he just trying to get a reaction? Is he begging to be pilloried when this story comes out so he can launch into a very public tirade against “cancel culture”? Is this all just a play for more attention? Would any of that make it less shitty?
Why no, no it does not.
By the end of the piece, and after many more drinks, Ritchie is leaning into performative racism, ranting about “his tax dollars supporting ‘Black women having children they can’t afford.’” Peisner almost sighs from the stupidity at this point:
“Look,” I tell him, “there are people who abuse the system but—”
“We call those Black people. Would you agree?”
“No.”
“So, you don’t like Black people?”
“I don’t think Black people abuse the system.”
“You hate Black people?”
God. It sounds like actually having post-Musk Twitter in the room with you. We think Peisner nails what’s going on when he notes that several people who know Ritchie said that his
right-wing awakening is as much about managing the emotional fallout of a waning career as it is about any deep-seated beliefs. He’s always longed for the spotlight, and now, as a 53-year-old more than a decade removed from his last big hit, he’s doing whatever he can to keep it on him.
As Peisner finally leaves, after repeated attempts to get away from a host who kept asking if he wouldn’t stay over or at least take home some KKK Hot Dish, Ritchie approaches with a request:
“Would you do me a favor?” he asks, practically whispering. “Just write the most horrific article about me. Do it. It helps me.”
I walk toward my car, and just before I get to it, he calls out one more time.
“Will you tell everyone that I was halfway cool?”
What’s that word? Pathetic? Yeah, that’ll do.
UGH and OPEN THREAD.
[Rolling Stone / Billboard / Fox News]
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