Jack Johnson = Giant Goon Head
This is Jack Johnson. He is a giant goon head.
I'm sure he's a very nice person, and I'm sure I'm a wuss for starting my sentence with "I'm sure he's a very nice person". But why does he grate my every last nerve?
I mean - he grew up on the North Shore of Oahu and makes surf movies...one of the many kinds of lives I'd want for myself, but I just can't help thinking about his unconfrontational music being 'Frat Lite'. I can't help but think of the kinds of people I'd rather not hang out with, LOVING this music. Absolutely LOVING it. And I get depressed as hell when I think about it. These are the Norah Jones people.
Here's what I picture when I hear Jack Johnson: A woman named Keersten in line at Starbucks waiting for her half-non-fat-decaf-skim-fat-jack-sprat latte. Her flat ironed hair stayed sleek & flippy in the two seconds she leaped from the car into the Starbucks (which she's totally happy about) and she's promised her husband Kyle that she'll only be a second while he waits in a loading zone out in the Ford Explorer.
Her latte is done and her name is called and she's just about to make the frizz defying leap back into the SUV...but then Jack Johnson comes on. Ohmigod! What is she to do? She PROMISED Kyle that she'd only be a second, but now Jack Johnson in on. Well, he's just going to have to wait. And he does. But when she gets back in the car, he totally understands. And he says: "Maybe we'll get lucky and hear him in Pottery Barn too!"
And then I pop up in the backseat with a knife and say: "Maybe you won't".
I don't like you Jack Johnson. And I will fight your giant goony mellow frat head.