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March 23, 2002
A well-meaning but unremarkable solo acoustic guitarist serenades a happy hour crowd of four, counting us and the barkeep. Sings shit like “Lightning Crashes” and “Hotel California.” Nothing to get worked up over one way or the other. After his first set, he’s accosted by a strain of asshole that runs wild in this town: the plowed, confrontational music scholar. This particular asshole compares our entertainment unfavorably to Woody Guthrie and suggests he’s wasting his time. So our entertainment gets the barkeep to play some weepy New Nashville bullshit and milks everyone for sympathy for the rest of the night.