When my coworker told me she was going to a Kid Rock concert, I rolled my eyes. I returned with a homemade bingo game for the concert: Kid Rock was the free space, surrounded squares containing halter tops, bleached manes of hair, cans of PBR, leather-tanned forty-year-olds and gold Detroit Red Wings pendants. She took it, laughing and nodding.

I don’t like Kid Rock. Specifically, I don’t like how he recently infiltrated my radio station with that bloody awful remix of Sweet Home Alabama, and how the stations seemed to think it was the new national anthem. This was actually a tortuous example of my entire problem with Kid Rock: his pernicious delving into Americana via any available artery, most notably vociferous patriotism, not-quite-country music and throwback riffs of beloved classic rock tunes. So the way he’s revered with a sort of cult following in Michigan was baffling to me.

The local artist thing acts strangely on a person. In the same way Bon Jovi belongs to New Jersey, Ted Nugent, Kid Rock, and Eminem belong to us. Even if you hate their music, never met them, never heard them, something about knowing they came from the mitten sparks a tiny glowing ember of mama bear pride—in some cases, totally against our will. When the Wings lose the Stanley Cup, we’ll still stand up and throw a fork at the TV even if we know nothing about hockey. That’s a deeply human thing: we want our team to win.

And hoo boy, does Kid Rock want you to know he’s on your team. His stage is decked out in American flags and his July performances were punctuated by fireworks. Depending on how cynical you are, the choice to play Comerica Park could be another instance of ostentatious patriotism, or simply a result of his affinity for the Tigers. Either way, you photoshop some camou on him and he’s the New Nuge.

Personally, I could give a crap about the flag waving—what shocked me is how rooted he is into the Michigan economy. He grew up in Romeo, where his father owns a car dealership, and formed his band Twisted Brown Trucker in Sterling Heights with fellow Michiganders.* For his hometown concert the weekend of July 18, he commissioned a shirt from local designer Joe Faris, notably seen on the most recent season of Project Runway. Even his own beer, though named in the most redneck-pandering way possible, is bottled locally. I may hate that damn “Picture” song, but I do love me some local responsibility.

My coworker backs this up. Kid Rock apparently sang a not-yet-released tune about the Michigan economy in the vein of John Rich’s “Shuttin Detroit Down.” All in all, the show was spectacular. And what about the bingo cards?

“They just… didn’t fit,” she shakes her head.

The audience ranged from 12-year-olds to the middle-aged, but most were dressed in shorts or work clothes. Nobody sparked up in the audience, was drunk before the show, or was dressed a sneeze away from a wardrobe malfunction—and they were almost embarrassingly polite. She celebrity-spotted Chris Chelios and Cuba Gooding, Jr. Not the sort of crowd you’d expect from a man bottling American Badass Beer.

This is because the people rocking out to “All Summer Long” aren’t kids: they’re people my own age, living in middle America, having kids and making car payments—and that’s not tragic. It appeals to a part of us that our parents’ John Cougar and Bon Jovi tapes used to fill, but left a truck-shaped hole shortly after our own kids were born. Few artists can capture that feeling of growing up in the Midwest—especially after the greats became grandparents. We’re not country fans, and while we like classic rock, we’re too young to really belong to it. And in that space is where Kid Rock moved in and built a mansion.

Photo: Kid Rock in concert in 2006 (Wikipedia Commons).

* I hate the term ‘Michiganders,’ and move in favor of a shorter and less gooselike moniker. Handers? Mittens? Fingers? Well, maybe not ‘fingers.’ Weigh in below.