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<\/p>\nDave Marsh on \u201cSpeaking Freely<\/a>,\u201d at the Newseum, July 2002. (Screen capture.)<\/p>\n<\/div>\n They were titans to us, Midwestern kids enthralled by rock music, mythic Greek figures who communicated truths about, directly to the rock stars we loved. Unlike the self-congratulatory DJs, the rock critics told us who they were, who the bands were, what they meant, why the songs and albums mattered.<\/p>\n Growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, a city that declared bankruptcy, saw its lake die and river catch on fire as the \u201870s reduced by hometown to toxic rubble, rock & roll was the\u00a0only<\/em>\u00a0thing that seemed to matter. Our football team sucked. The baseball team was no better. Don\u2019t even consider the hockey or basketball organizations. It was bad. But, there was always the furious spirit of rock music, tilting against the norms and exploding with a rage \u2013 or euphoria \u2013 that captured you.<\/p>\n No brothers or sisters, only babysitters and reprobate golf pros, I got sucked into music young. But where that often felt like personal taste (and some was really good personal taste), Jane Scott at the\u00a0Plain Dealer<\/em>\u00a0offered authority without being condescending. Looking like somebody\u2019s spinster aunt, the musicians loved her wide-open approach and love for what they were doing. Reading her made me curious.<\/p>\n CREEM,\u00a0<\/em>a snarky magazine from Detroit that felt like it was typed with dirty fingernails, had a real thrust that matched the music. Snide, passionate, at times unhinged, writers\u2019 names like Lester Bangs, Jaan Uhelszki (who turned out to be a girl) and Dave Marsh jumped off the page; all were visceral writers who threw down with a sense of urgency that matched the music.<\/p>\n Rolling Stone<\/em>, which the reprobate golf pro who lived with us the summer before 7th or 8th grade, was very smart, very \u201cin the moment.\u201d But\u00a0CREEM<\/em>, which I found on the magazine rack in the back of a bookstore a block from where Mom got her hair done, was funny, wrote about bands that were more than merely pristine or selling hard.<\/p>\n One day, I saw Dave Marsh\u2019s name in\u00a0Rolling Stone<\/em>. Hmmmm, writers can move? And from Detroit (Rock City!) and snotty bludgeoning to something more measured. Pay attention, I thought, and read on.<\/p>\n I never thought I\u2019d be a music critic, just a kid who loved music, who wanted to understand where Jackson Browne found that bruised introspection, Rod Stewart and the Stones that bottomless sex, Lou Reed the darkness and Bruce Springsteen that blue-collar need to outrun the fates that yoke you. It was fascinating seeing Marsh hold \u201chomeboy\u201d Bob Seger to a standard that slagged\u00a0Against The Wind<\/em>\u00a0as basically feckless, betraying his Motor City bona fides\u2026<\/p>\n Damn.<\/p>\n College came, freelancing followed. It beat answering phones all night in a hotel that paid well because drug deals were done there on the regular, and not local commerce, but the big deals between America and Colombia, Peru and places below the border.<\/p>\n Once publishing, I wanted more.\u00a0In Record Timez, Black Miami Weekly, Grapevine in the Grove<\/em>\u00a0and concert business trade\u00a0Performance<\/em>\u00a0led to the\u00a0Miami Herald, Trouser Press, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Rock & Soul, Country Song Round-Up<\/em>. The bigger the publication, I came to learn, the better the access.<\/p>\n Watching fellow\u00a0Herald<\/em>\u00a0freelancer \u00a0(and touring sax player)Tom Moon crack\u00a0Musician<\/em>\u00a0\u2013 with Joni Mitchell, no less \u2013 my lust for bigger publications blazed. Letters were sent to\u00a0Tower Pulse, Rockbill,\u00a0<\/em>and two start-ups:\u00a0SPIN<\/em>\u00a0and a\u00a0Rolling Stone<\/em>\u00a0spin-off called\u00a0The Record<\/em>. If\u00a0SPIN<\/em>\u00a0was the spawn of\u00a0Penthouse\u00a0<\/em>publisher Bob Guccione,\u00a0The Record\u00a0<\/em>had Dave Marsh on its masthead.<\/p>\n Letters and physical clips were sent \u2013 back when that was how it was done.\u00a0Pulse\u00a0<\/em>and\u00a0Rockbill<\/em>\u00a0responded with assignments;\u00a0SPIN<\/em> was back-and-forth conversations that delivered \u2013 eventually \u2013 assignments ranging from Merle Haggard to Lita Ford.<\/p>\n But the one I wanted was Dave Marsh. I said as much in my letters, pitching away and flattering enough to suggest I knew the vigor in his words \u2013 typed, it seemed, with a slashing sense of swagger that meant he meant it. Every manilla envelope soared into a staggering void, a silence that never echoed.<\/p>\n My father used to tell me \u201cNo, NO!\u201d meant \u201cNot now.\u201d He\u2019d laugh, say, \u201cAdd a couple consonants and get over it\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Still the lack of response, the indifference.<\/p>\n One day, the phone rang \u2013 back when you\u2019d also put your number several times in your queries \u2013 and a man\u2019s voice I didn\u2019t know asked for me. The vowels were a little flat. The cadence tilted forward, suggesting they meant business more than the cocaine-fueled urgency of Miami in the \u201880s.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, this is she.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHuh\u2026\u201d said the man on the other end of the line.<\/p>\n \u201cCan I help you?\u201d I said, wondering if it was a creep from the Hotel Mutiny, who\u2019d found my number.<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t think you\u2019d sound so young,\u201d came the honest response.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m 21,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s not young.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDepends on how you look at it\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMay I ask who\u2019s calling?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDave Marsh.\u201d<\/p>\n Holy crap! Dave Marsh. THE Dave Marsh, who\u2019d written about the Messiah of the Midwest long before he became a genuine superstar \u2013 and delivered a sense of Bruce Springsteen\u2019s ability to hold the hunger of blue-collar factory people in a way that fired not just dignity, but a sense of power.<\/p>\n \u201cWow\u2026\u201d Not my most compelling response. Regaining composure, I swung big \u2013 and hopeful. \u201cDo you have an assignment?\u201d<\/p>\n Laughter. \u201cNo. No, I don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHuh,\u201d I grunted, disoriented by the surreality of it all. If there wasn\u2019t work, why would he bother.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, no assignment,\u201d he reaffirmed. But before I needed to say anything, he threw me a line. \u201cI figured you were the person in Florida who\u2019d been sending the packages, and I wanted to tell you\u2026\u201d \u201cOh, sorry, uh, you wanted to tell me\u2026\u201d I\u2019d zoned out in panic and awe. I needed him to repeat.<\/p>\n \u201cI saw your Steve Earle story in Tower Records magazine. It was good.\u201d<\/p>\n Damn<\/em>. Damndamndamn.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, it piqued my interest. They sent me the album. It\u2019s good.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think\u00a0Guitar Town<\/em>\u00a0is great,\u201d I blurted, maybe a little too young and enthused.<\/p>\n \u201cReally?\u201d His tone was amused.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I kind of do,\u201d I tried not being so rah rah.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Holly, either it\u00a0is<\/em>\u00a0great, or it isn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n He was going to make me own my real estate.<\/p>\n \u201cIt is,\u201d I said, brow furrowed as I cowboy\u2019ed up and owned my position. \u201cI don\u2019t know how much time you spend in the South or Southwest. But I think not only did Steve capture how the blue-collar working people who\u2019re as redneck as they are Rust Belt live in a world that doesn\u2019t see them, but he also brought that same rush of the music that Bruce has with the way he leans into rock. You know, the rock that\u2019s the heartland.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs that so?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, yeah,\u201d I responded, a little uncertain, but thinking it was important to hold my line.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you\u2019re from Cleveland\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d I affirmed.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, then your opinion holds.\u201d<\/p>\n I broke out in a cold sweat. Also, being brash and young, I wanted to crack the\u00a0Rolling Stone<\/em>\u00a0perimeter. \u201cAnd really\u2026 no assignment?\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed, an oak laugh that was solid, firm. \u201cNo, no assignment. But you\u2019ve sent me so many packages, when I saw your name, I thought I\u2019d give you a call. You\u2019re a good writer. Keep writing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI will,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t really have any choice.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSometimes that\u2019s the best way,\u201d he said. \u201cWrite. It\u2019s important. Especially if you care.\u201d<\/p>\n And then he was gone. There wasn\u2019t anything else to say, but it was a moment. Worst part was I didn\u2019t know who to tell. Most people in my world didn\u2019t read the rock press, wouldn\u2019t know, wouldn\u2019t care. But that was okay. I knew.<\/p>\n Being real life, we didn\u2019t become besties. I kept sending pitches, not hearing back. Most of the stuff you do at a daily paper is tour-related, or special interest-driven. Country music wasn\u2019t\u00a0The Record<\/em>\u2019s thing, and they had better, more local people to do Black music.<\/p>\n There was one more call. Towards the end of my senior year, Neil Young released\u00a0Old Ways<\/em>, a porous hippie-country record. He only wanted to talk to \u201creal country writers.\u201d I, along with the\u00a0Chicago Tribune<\/em>\u2019s Jack Hurst and the\u00a0Houston Post<\/em>\u2019s Bob Claypool, were among the four, five, six journalists chosen. Between Tower Pulse, MIX\u00a0<\/em>and\u00a0Country Song Round-Up<\/em>, even without the cover,\u00a0\u00a0<\/em>plus the\u00a0Miami Herald\u00a0<\/em>and Jacksonville\u2019s\u00a0Times Union<\/em>\u00a0for tour press, I made the cut \u2013 and flew to Cleveland to experience a band that included blind Country Music Hall of Famer Hargus \u201cPig\u201d Robbins on piano, wunderkind multi-instrumentalist Anthony Crawford, Louisiana fiddler Rufus Thibodeaux, \u00a0and steel player Ben Keith.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019d you do it?\u201d came the voice down the line. No hello, no identification. Matter of fact, to the point and filled with respect.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry\u2026\u201d I said, laughing.<\/p>\n \u201cNeil Young. How\u2019d you make that happen?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo I know you?\u201d I asked. There\u2019d been some petty back-stabbing, even from friends. I just wanted to establish what this conversation was.<\/p>\n \u201cHolly, it\u2019s Dave Marsh,\u201d laughing now as well. \u201cI read your\u00a0Pulse<\/em>\u00a0piece. It was good. I really enjoyed it. And I was impressed you got that interview, knowing how many people wanted to talk to him.\u201d \u201cThey didn\u2019t, though. Did they?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you kidding? I wasn\u2019t giving that interview up. I have to talk to Mickey Gilley and Lee Greenwood, that guy didn\u2019t\u2026 So who\u2019s the \u2018country writer\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed harder. \u201cGuess it\u2019s a bad idea to pick a fight with you\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCome on. If he wants a country writer, the person slogging through TG Sheppard and Sylvia\u2019s the one.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, but it\u2019s funny. And you know what?\u201d \u201cYou nailed it. You got the authenticity he obviously wanted, but you also leaned into that part of him that comes from rock. You brought them together without making anything feel forced. That\u2019s a good thing.\u201d<\/p>\n I let the words settle. Praise. From someone I read, no, revered.<\/p>\n \u201cThank you.\u201d My Dad said it makes the embarrassment stop. Acknowledged the compliment, the other person moves on.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd that\u2019s not an easy thing to do, either.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t think so?\u201d I knew he knew much more than I did. I knew how hard I worked on my stories. But I was still a kid, never mind one with a God-given gift that was far larger than actual experience.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, to make it seamless like you did, that\u2019s a big deal. It never felt like you were propping one thing or the other up. And you really do know the country stuff, that was clear.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDamn,\u201d It escaped before I realized.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you have good editors?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSome think I\u2019m a kid, or a girl\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou are a girl,\u201d he echoed, not sure what I was trying to say.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, but like a girl who\u2019s not as good as a boy would be.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI see.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoes that make sense?\u201d I asked. Sexism was so baked in, people didn\u2019t always notice.<\/p>\n \u201cLook, you\u2019re a rock writer. Period. Your gender isn\u2019t part of it, your heart is. That\u2019s what matters. Just don\u2019t sell your heart out. Don\u2019t fall for garbage. Don\u2019t write someone else\u2019s agenda.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGot it.\u201d I said, sensing the spot for punctuation.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t have an assignment for you,\u201d he said. \u201cBut here\u2019s my number. If you need anything, call.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLike what?\u201d My inside voice had escaped again.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. Even to talk about getting inside a story and not being able to get out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGot it,\u201d I lied. I had no idea. But I sure wasn\u2019t calling to tell him I didn\u2019t know how to finish a story.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re better than you know,\u201d he said. \u201cKeep writing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks.\u201d Heart-racing, I wanted to get off the phone before I said something stupid.<\/p>\n \u201cI mean it,\u201d he said, probably sensing my awe, or doubt, or youth.<\/p>\n \u201cGot it,\u201d I replied, wanting to make it stop.<\/p>\n \u201cGood. Who knows where this goes? But find out.\u201d<\/p>\n Dave Marsh during the Creem years. (Screen capture from video posted to X.)<\/p>\n<\/div>\n I didn\u2019t send stuff as often. He knew who I was. I didn\u2019t want to be annoying. When Rock & Roll Confidential<\/em> started \u2013 as a folded newsletter to keep the activism piece of rock & roll collected in one place, an almost fanzine of doing the right thing, racial awareness, bad deals \u2013 it was Dave Marsh leading the charge. It was a nominal fee \u2013 maybe $5 \u2013 as I remember, but it was like joining the club.<\/p>\n \u201cSun City,\u201d the Little Steven Van Zandt-driven all-star protest record that brought rock, pop, jazz and rap stars together to speak out against apartheid, Marsh was there as chief writer and witness. His book\u00a0Sun City: Artists United Against Apartheid<\/em>\u2013\u00a0The Struggle for Freedom in South Africa: The Making of the Record<\/em> was published by Penguin; its proceeds, like those from the song and the documentary, went directly to the Africa Fund, which helped the people in prison, their families and raised awareness of what apartheid was.<\/p>\n But unlike the global food crisis pop culture moments, \u201cWe Are The World,\u201d which felt glossy, and Live Aid, held as massive stadium concerts on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, this was gritty, diverse. Afrika Bambaataa, Lou Reed, Pat Benatar, Miles Davis, Joey Ramone, Jackson Browne, George Clinton, Jimmy Cliff, Hall & Oates, Gil Scott-Heron, Bono, Bonnie Raitt, Run DMC, Pete Townsend, Peter Gabriel, Ruben Blades, Stanley Jordan, Springsteen and so many more \u2013 captured on the fly, singing, rapping, blowing their horn on a bold declaratory fist punch designed to make America\u2019s youth aware of a shell game being played that took South Afrucan segregation to asphyxiating levels, misled the world and drew performers under false pretenses. Today, Nelson Mandela is an icon. Then he was a prisoner, mostly buried so the symbol of what he represented couldn\u2019t throw light on injustice. \u201cSun City,\u201d with its forceful, euphoric chorus, did just that.<\/p>\n It was 1985, as Springsteen was truly ascending to his own stadium-sized uniquity, no one really knew.<\/p>\n Dave Marsh, who\u2019d hit the\u00a0New York Times\u00a0<\/em>best-seller list with 1979\u2019s glorious\u00a0Born To Run<\/em>, which chronicled Springsteen\u2019s early years and ascendance, recognized what mattered. He rolled up his sleeves, dug in and started raising consciousness, using his own media credentials to leverage and legitimize what Van Zandt was doing.<\/p>\n Suddenly \u2013 and thanks to MTV and BET: Black Entertainment Television, both the hottest thing in music programming \u2013 \u201cSun City\u201d had meaningful forward motion. Roy Thomas Baker, who co-produced the track, knew how to create \u201chits.\u201d Even if radio didn\u2019t take it Top 10, the swerve in the grooves made it a song you heard coming out of windows, cars, breakrooms and floating as a topic people were discussing in bars, school and anywhere they got together.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t get the assignment for the\u00a0Herald<\/em>, but I had that number. I left a message, and Dave Marsh actually called me back. It was a brief conversation; I spoke of the Dazz Band, some Black music things I was doing beyond country music. He laughed, said, \u201cTake it anywhere, everywhere. You know, Holly, Gram Parsons left the Byrds after\u00a0Sweetheart of the Rodeo<\/em> because they were supposed to play South Africa \u2013 and Keith Richards told him what that was all about.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI thought it was because they just got too high and wanted to party.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cProbably, but it was Keith who explained apartheid to Gram, who being a Southerner from Georgia and Florida, he got it. Gram wouldn\u2019t get on the plane, tried to talk the other guys out of it, they say\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDamn\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n What you don\u2019t know, right? Dave Marsh was such an agent of that. Pull back the carpet, draw the curtain, see what\u2019s behind what you\u2019re shown.<\/p>\n \u201cSome of those country people might be good allies, or not. Just talk about it where you can, okay?\u201d That was our relationship. Quick hits, landmine truth, maybe a laugh. It was glorious.<\/p>\n When I was booked to do the Critics Panel at the New Music Seminar in 1990 \u2013 a summit of the coolest music acts, cutting edge execs, writers, producers, and people who loved all that \u2013 it was a behemoth grouping. Greg Sandow, the original music editor at\u00a0Entertainment Weekly<\/em>, JD Considine from\u00a0The Baltimore Sun,\u00a0<\/strong><\/em>also known for his hilarious \u201cQuick Hits\u201d in\u00a0Musician<\/em>, Nelson George, the pre-eminent Black music critic in North America and editor for\u00a0Billboard<\/em>, Anthony DeCurtis, Rolling Stone<\/em>editor and primary writer, Robert Christgau, the\u00a0Village Voice<\/em>\u2019s legendary Dean of Rock Critics, Milo Miles, the music editor of the\u00a0Boston Phoenix<\/em>, myself and Marsh were set to discuss the state of criticism, shifts that were happening, the impact of video, what mattered to us.<\/p>\n Looking at the names, I knew: I was a token. By 1990, I was in\u00a0Rolling Stone<\/em>\u00a0every issue, the\u00a0Los Angeles Times<\/em>\u00a0multiple pieces some weeks, features editing at\u00a0HITS,<\/em>\u00a0Harpers Bazaar, Saturday Evening Post,<\/em>\u00a0even\u00a0CREEM\u00a0<\/em>and so many more. That wasn\u2019t the point, women critics hadn\u2019t moved from the margins \u2013 next wave Ann Powers, Evelyn McDonnell, Karen Schoemer, Gina Arnold and Joy Press hadn\u2019t powered through \u2013 and I was one of the few.<\/p>\n I called Dave, who listened.<\/p>\n \u201cBut you\u2019re going to do it?\u201d he said as I whined.<\/p>\n \u201cOf course,\u201d I said. \u201cIf I don\u2019t, there are no women.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s the problem?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to go up there and have to talk about \u2018being a woman critic\u2019 like that\u2019s my deal\u2026 I don\u2019t want to be sitting there because I throw \u2018good for a girl.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI see\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, you don\u2019t wanna talk about how being a woman influences what you do, or say that you get jobs because you\u2019re a girl, because of how that looks.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I replied gratefully. He understood.<\/p>\n \u201cThen don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHuh?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLook, I love the way you write. I\u2019d never write like that, your voice is so your own \u2013 but I love your voice and your perspective. You show me things no one else does, make me feel the music\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay\u2026,\u201d I offered, not sure what he was saying.<\/p>\n \u201cIs it because you\u2019re a woman? I don\u2019t know. You\u2019re pretty tough to me. But I do think you go places, especially with songwriter artists, most guys wouldn\u2019t \u2013 and I think you care about the story without it having to be all about who you are in the telling, why your life is what the litmus should be.\u201d<\/p>\n He stopped talking. We sat there for a beat.<\/p>\n \u201cHolly, is it because you\u2019re a girl? Because you\u2019re a writer? Because you love music for everybody, and what it does to people? I don\u2019t know\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know that I\u2019ve ever thought about it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, there\u2019s nobody who writes about music the way you do, or brings what you bring. To me, that\u2019s your value. And, if you are the token girl\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d I said, blushing and chastened.<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe there\u2019s something in that you need to address.\u201d<\/p>\n Damn.<\/p>\n Looking around the holding room at the Times Square Marriott, the assembled critics were so classically unassuming, it would be hard to understand the power they wielded. Back when music magazines\u00a0could<\/em>\u00a0change the trajectory of a band\u2019s career, when a few positive reviews changed an overlooked band\u2019s fate or added gravitas and meaning to a pop star\u2019s shine, these were the people doing it.<\/p>\n And me.<\/p>\n Marsh walked up with his dead-end kid\/leprechaun grin, stuck out his hand and said, \u201cYou must be Holly\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n We both laughed as I riffed on the obvious, \u201cHow\u2019d you know?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou think about what we talked about?\u201d he asked, seriously.<\/p>\n \u201cI did,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI just hate having to talk about being a woman in rock\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I get that.\u201d<\/p>\n
My jaw was slack. He had seen them, connected them and remembered. My clips weren\u2019t lost in the void.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh,\u201d I said, getting the lay of the land. \u201cYeah, Neil wanted to talk to \u2018real country writers,\u2019 or so they said. It was crazy. One of the\u00a0Herald<\/em>\u00a0writers tried to pull it out from under me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.counterpunch.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-23-at-6.35.16-AM-680x549.png\")
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\u201cYes, sir\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.counterpunch.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/gleasonbook.jpeg\")
<\/a>music is seen, I\u2019d made the point there isn\u2019t just one way to love or embrace music, that different kinds of music speak to different people, invoking country as a perfect counter example, and that in that truth, why wouldn\u2019t any kind of music also speak in different ways to people who aren\u2019t like you can embrace it.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.counterpunch.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/daverockbottomremainders-680x463.png\")
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