Tag: music

Morning Ramble: Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the Strange Weather of Culture

Morning Ramble: Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the Strange Weather of Culture

Some days, the cultural weather rolls in sideways, and you find yourself watching people online argue about whether Bad Bunny or Kid Rock is the “real” entertainer. This debate misses the core point: what matters isn’t which entertainer is more legitimate, but the type of culture each represents. Comparing them is like comparing a lighthouse to a lawnmower — both make noise, but only one helps you find your way home.

Bad Bunny — Benito — is out there bending sound like light through a prism, turning reggaetón, trap, pop, and whatever else he feels like into something that feels alive. He’s got Grammys, stadiums, and a global fanbase that sings in Spanish with their whole chest, even if they only understand every third word. He’s fluid, political when he wants to be, joyful when he chooses to be, and unbothered by the borders other people try to draw around him.

Kid Rock, meanwhile, is still trying to convince the world he’s the same guy from the “Cowboy” era, even though the world has rotated a few dozen times since then. The swagger hardened into shouting, the rebellion calcified into grievance, and the lyrics… well, let’s just say they don’t exactly age like wine. More like something you’d find in a forgotten cooler behind a shed.

And that’s why—let me be crystal clear—I would choose the Super Bowl halftime show over Kid Rock and TPUSA. Not out of spite or politics, but because the moment feels like a reflection on what culture can grow into, not what it leaves behind. It comes down to the music, the message, the energy—the difference between expanding the world or holding it still.

Bad Bunny writes about identity, heartbreak, joy, pride, and the messy business of being human. Kid Rock writes about… well, sometimes things you wouldn’t want on your search history. One artist is building bridges; the other is burning daylight.

But the funny thing about music is that it’s weather. It shifts. It tells you what season the culture is in. Bad Bunny is a warm front rolling in from the Caribbean, reshaping the atmosphere. Kid Rock is a cold gust from a bar that closed at 1 a.m. and forgot to turn off the neon sign.

Maybe that’s the whole point: choosing between them isn’t really about music — it’s about the kind of world we want to live in. Are we supporting a culture that grows and remixes itself, or one that clings to the past and resists change? This is the real choice at the heart of the argument.

Anyway, that’s what washed up on the harbor today. The tide brings what it brings.

Have a good morning. As the Super Bowl approaches—a time that should be about sports, not politics—I’ll keep exploring the truth about why Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the halftime show matter in this cultural conversation.

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A Radio Christmas Remembered

The holidays always make people feel nostalgic. I know I do, even though I don’t really take part in what feels like holiday madness these days, instead of real joy. I get a kick out of the ads that promise big savings if I just spend twice as much as usual.

New Year’s Day has always been a time for me to reflect, feel grateful, and sometimes regretful. Even when I was young, there was always someone or a moment to remember. As we get older, those memories matter even more.

I haven’t done live radio since 2006, and sometimes I miss it. It’s hard not to miss something you dreamed about as a kid and finally got to do. But when I talk to friends, they remind me that radio isn’t what it used to be. Now it’s all programmed and controlled by corporations, with little room for real personalities. I was lucky to work in radio when it meant something, when underground FM was fun and creative.

I wrote the next story a few years back, but it actually happened more than 40 years ago. I’m sharing it again because it’s real and it means a lot to me. People have told me it’s one of their favorite stories, and it’s one of my favorite Christmas memories, too.

A Radio Christmas Remembered

It was a quietly magical December, around 1982. Snow was blowing outside in the middle of the night—well, 3 a.m. is hardly morning. The kind of snow that sneaks up on you, drifting quietly and getting deeper. It moved across the empty parking lot, turning this lonely spot into something like the Montana or Wyoming prairie. It was the perfect scene as Merle Haggard sang about wanting the Big City to let him go. Even though I wasn’t far from Boston, it was easy to feel cut off from the world, watching the snow shape the night. I probably wouldn’t see another person for at least three more hours. I was the only one on duty from midnight to 6 a.m. I could still see most of my car, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to move it in the morning, even if someone could get to me.

As the keeper of the light, I stayed in touch with others who were awake during the darkest hours—the night people. I’ve always liked night people. There’s a passion in how they move through life—caring, yet often a little lonely, choosing the quiet roads and the small hours. My way of connecting with them was through a country radio station in the basement of a small strip mall in the middle of nowhere. Still, our AM signal reached far and wide, especially at night—traveling over flat land and even across the ocean, carried on the darkness. I was the only show in town, the only one playing music on the AM dial in that forgotten time zone.

About once a week, a cross-country trucker would call me. When he got to Rhode Island and picked up my signal, he’d say, “The California Kid is on the line.” This time, he wished me a Happy Holiday and, as always, asked for a few songs to help him make it to Maine. I was his companion on the road.

I also got calls from Alice. She drove all over the area, servicing ATMs, and would call once or twice a week while she worked. I never met Alice; she was a bit like the coyotes that roamed the parking lot, always staying out of sight. I called her Dallas Alice, after the Little Feat song Willin’, which I played for her every time she called.

On that snowy night, Alice called to wish me a Merry Christmas and told me to wait a few minutes, then look outside. After we hung up, I played Willin’ and walked up the steps to the door. There, already gathering snow, was a small pre-lit Christmas tree and a card that read, “Merry Christmas from Dallas Alice.” I saw her footprints in the snow. She had parked close to the entrance so she could get back to the main road quickly.

I never met Alice, but her kindness lingered long after that night. I never met the California Kid either, yet in the passion of their journeys and the gentle connections forged in the dark, we shared something rare—a caring warmth that glowed quietly in the lonely hours. On that cold, snowy night so many years ago, a woman named Alice—Dallas Alice—and a trucker called the California Kid gave me memories that still make me smile every Christmas.

Every Christmas, I remember the way we reached for each other across the airwaves—passionate, caring, and yes, a little lonely, but never truly alone.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

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