Do you think Jimmy Buffett ever has sleepless nights ruing the lamentable cottage industry he helped create with his songs about cheeseburgers, sharks and pop-tops? Thanks (make that no thanks) to the Parrotheads’ messiah, paunchy, middle-aged beach bums have been picking up extra cash and free beers croaking “Margaritaville” and “Fins” for a captive audience. But the virus extends far beyond between-song banter and a guy whose tuneless rasp is an insult to the term “singing.” What’s not to hate about beach bar music? On a recent visit to a Madeira Beach watering hole, our ears were assaulted by a fellow who tried to affect Noel Gallagher’s accent for Oasis’ “Champagne Supernova” and John Lennon’s nasally bite in “A Day in the Life.” Please stop and let us drink in peace. And listen to the jukebox. Oh, and please, no more “Brown Eyed Girl.”
This article appears in Sep 10-16, 2008.
