The Sound of Freedom (Pre-Recorded)
Kid Rock, an alternate halftime show, and the sacred American art of pretending very loudly
Pull up a cushion. Light the incense. We need to talk about what happens when rebellion forgets to move its lips.
While the official Super Bowl halftime show unfolded with actual rhythm, breath, and global cultural gravity, an “alternate” halftime experience emerged from the ideological parking lot. It arrived waving a flag, clutching nostalgia, and promising authenticity at maximum volume.
Enter Kid Rock, patron saint of denim patriotism, headlining the Turning Point USA counter-spectacle. The vibe was defiant. The branding was loud. The audio, however, appeared to be doing its own thing entirely.
And then the internet noticed.
Because here is the trouble with preaching “realness” for a living: eventually someone checks whether your mouth is actually connected to the sound coming out of the speakers.
Clips began circulating. The backing track boomed. The lyrics marched on with military precision. Meanwhile, Kid Rock’s lips drifted in and out of alignment like a soul unsure whether it wanted to reincarnate as karaoke. The performance had all the intensity of a man shadowboxing his own greatest hits.
Was it lip-syncing? According to the defense, absolutely not. It was “pre-recorded but performed live,” which is the kind of phrase you invent when the spiritual advisor quits and the PR team takes over. Apparently, the issue was “syncing,” not authenticity. A technical glitch. A camera problem. Reality, once again, refusing to cooperate.
Here’s the monk’s note from the back row: when your entire identity is built on being “unfiltered,” “raw,” and “not like those fake elites,” a pre-recorded rebellion hits a little different.
This wasn’t just a musical moment. It was performance art. Accidental, exquisite performance art.
Because nothing reveals the shape of a movement faster than watching it recreate the very thing it claims to despise. Carefully curated outrage. Manufactured spontaneity. Authenticity delivered via backing track.
Contrast sharpens the lesson. On one stage, culture breathed. On the other, culture was mimed.
And that’s the koan here: if freedom must be pre-recorded to sound right, what exactly is being protected?
No hatred required. No outrage necessary. Just observation.
The universe teaches softly sometimes. Other times it teaches through a man yelling about rebellion while forgetting to open his mouth at the right time.
May we all be spared the fate of shouting our truths so loudly that we forget to embody them.
Blessed are those who keep time with their own voice.
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Kid No Cock looks like a pussy in those shorts. Also if this 'concert' was for Amerikkka why were they asking for donations...ah, grifters gotta grift. All those rich fucks should donate their own fucking money...fuck them and what they stand for!!!
We went a few weeks ago to see Carmina Burana performed by the NC Symphony Orchestra and Master Chorale. It's sung in Latin and German and I don't know more than a few dozen words in either language. It didn't matter.
Later this week we'll go to see an Irish American folk band named Solas (Gaelic for "Light") who perform mostly in English but also som Gaelic songs which I speak not a word of. I doesn't mater. We've seen them 4 times and have their complete catalog and they are -- in my humble opinion -- criminally under appreciated.
The day after Solas we got to see Dropkick Murphys. Boston Irish punk with bagpipes. I can't always make out their lyrics, but if you haven't seen the video for their newest single "Who'll Stand With Us?" you should remedy that as soon as possible.
Next month we get to see Santana -- a band I grew up with but somehow have never seen live and *gasp* they sing a lot of their songs in Spanish. I know slightly ore Spanish than I do Latin, but not enough to be considered remotely fluent. Will I still rock out to Oye Como Va? You better believe I will.
Then at the end of the month we'll see local favorite Rhiannon Giddens, in an abbreviated one-night version of her "Biscuits and Banjos" festival from a year ago. We didn't make it to the inaugural festival because my partner had just started her chemotherapy and couldn't really handle activities like multi-day music festivals, but obviously she's better now. She'll be playing with several other noted folk and blues artists, including Mavis Staples, which means we can be almost assured they will team up on Freedom Highway, which is one of my favorites from the Civil Rights Movement era, and Giddens covered it on her album of the same name. No foreign language involved here but a vastly difference in lived experience.
From probably the dawn of human existence music has been with us. It's practically imprinted on our DNA. It's been the language of love, of strength, of anger, and of prayerfulness. It transcends every boundary we would put in its way. It inspires us, invigorates us, and puts color in a monochrome world. It crosses every boundary -- race, age, nationality and language and reaches something elemental in us that most inputs can't.
It's also the language of protest, of righteous fury and determined purpose. Bruce Springsteen's "Streets of Minneapolis" debuted at #1 on the Billboard all-platform download charts despite only being available for 2 of the 7 days of that reporting week. It was the first time Bruce had a song debut at #1 on that chart. It speaks to the pain, the sorrow and the anger of the city and its people and to their unity and determination. The people of Minneapolis are showing us how it's done, and The Boss is providing the soundtrack.