Why do people continue to encourage this wraith? He can't sing, his lyrics are so much refried hair, and his melodies are so much useless fat, like those jiggly flaps of flab that hang from the arms of really fat women (you know the flaps we're talking about). Bob, please. You're a gnarly relic and belong in a glass case on a bed of red velvet somewhere, not in the studio boring folks silly and forcing brainwashed critics to bend over buttways in search of new ways to whitewash the latest turd to emerge from your musical poopchute.
The Bobbity One hass hisself a song on the new album that goes:
I picked you up from the gutter and this is the thanks I get/I picked you up from the gutter and this is the thanks I get
The only way to redeem--a big word with Bobby--a stale as a 2,000-year-old knot of snot like this would be to shut it down with something totally and unexpectedly stupid. Something like:
You give fleas to my Yeti and peed on my damn boy's head.
But Old Shattervoice don't croak anything of the sort. He's become the kind of frizzled fizzle and barely animated bog mummy, capable of uttering only the next silly banality that enters his noggin, his younger self used to wave lightbulbs at.
Then again, who cares? Nobody. People allow Eric Clapton to walk around on his hind legs, you know anything goes. Goes wherever it want, apparently. Wherever it damn well wants.