This will be the first in what may prove to be a continuous stream of pure bile, fingers crossed.
#1: Seasick Steve
This gormless bastard son of George Thorogood and Daisy Duke, this hapless redneck from the shallow end of the gene pool, has managed to somehow convince many people, some of whom I know and like.
You are in a bar or at an opening, depending on the social micro-strata that you inhabit, bellowing into some poor woman’s ear over the “funky house”, and you ask that deathless question: “So what music are you into?”
She says, “I really like the blues.”
Your heart leaps. The possibility of pungent sex to the strains of Howlin’ Wolf describing in some detail how he’s built for comfort and not for speed, swims before your eyes. You ask, “anyone in particular?”
She says, “Seasick Steve.”
Not so much crestfallen as eviscerated. Just as you attempt to reconstruct the heady, scented atmosphere of a mere ten seconds ago, she continues “I saw him at Glastonbury two years ago and he was really good.”
HE’S CRAP. He is just hopeless. Theme Park Americana writ pathetically small.
You shake your head disractedly, and ask why.
“He’s only got three strings! And he’s really good!” she yelps. He’s only got three strings. A circus act.