Smug and perturbed, Dave Matthews.

I am impressed by Dave Matthews’ versatility, which surprises me, because on most days, I cannot figure out the phenomenon cult of personality known as Dave Matthews Band. Not only is he a singer [sic], he’s an actor. I’ve always enjoyed his woe-is-me antics on Everybody Loves Raymond. [FACT CHECK: That was Brad Garrett.]

Dave Matthews has released eight studio albums, seventy-seven live albums, and three compilation albums in 23 years: that is eighty more albums than I expected. It just goes to prove, you don’t even have to be that good, but if you can play for more than three hours on stage, you’re going to have a cult following.

Singing, “Hee-haw-hee-haw.”

Permission to speak freely? Thank you. I would much rather hear a herd of donkeys, a barren of mules, and a pace of asses braying for a good hour over hearing one minute of Dave Matthews. I have been pretty fortunate in that I have not had to endure much of his music. I don’t know much about his output, nor do I want to, but I can recognize it enough to put an end to it, by either turning it off, or leaving.

Palatable hee haw.

FUN FACT: Dave Matthews’ bus dumped 800 pounds of poop into the Chicago River in August 2004.

Dave Matthews Band

/dāv/ /math/(y)ooz/ /band/

noun

inexplicable crap

synonyms: 4 Non Blondes, Trump’s hair, Coldplay’s longevity

“During the early development of mankind, the eclipse must have been a Dave Matthews Band experience.”

Different song, same old braying. The gray old mare, she ain’t what she used to be.

“I sat on the toilet to take a twenty-minute dump, which was very Dave Matthews Band since I hadn’t eaten in four to five days.”

#FuckedUp,#MaybeTheLastNailThatDoneKiltJamesBrown