Kid Rock

Visually, the Kid Rock live experience might actually be worth seeing -- maybe he'll bring along a giant phallus, like the Beastie Boys used to. There'll be pyrotechnics. There'll be suggestively gyrating "topless dancers." There'll be a moving tribute to Joe C., his beloved diminutive sidekick, who recently passed away. And perhaps this garish spectacle will help the crowd forget that, in the modern pantheon of corporate rock stars -- the boy bands, the Britney/Aguilera sex dolls, the cookie-cutter pop-punk wankers -- Kid Rock's actual musical talent scrapes the bottom of the barrel. "Cowboy"? "Bawitdaba"? Dare I even mention "Balls in Your Mouth"? Come on. Rock's blend of lame raps over outdated aggro-rock doesn't even qualify as a guilty pleasure anymore. Has Limp Bizkit taught us nothing? And then there's Rock's power ballad "Only God Knows Why," a touchy-feely turkey large enough to feed all the topless dancers in Detroit. Aside from stealing that "electronically treated vocals" shtick from Cher (!), Rock inexplicably turns his D-grade countrified crossover moment into a pity party: "I ain't seen mine," he wails. "No, I ain't seen mine." Fantastic. One more opportunistic role model to remind the pampered Caucasian suburban renegades that they are the true underprivileged bastards of the world. Take a hike. Or better yet: Take it back to Detroit.