The fact that — among Y2K-era rockers the likes of Fred Durst and Scott Stapp — Kid Rock is the cock-rockin' pop-culture cockroach to persist as a viable musical entity all the way into 2011 is proof positive that the state of education in these United States is in dire straits. And also proof that some folks will cheer on anything — even the slaughter of kittens and puppy dogs — so long as it’s set to the licks of “Sweet Home Alabama.” Rock — who, at 40, can probably stand to drop the “Kid” part of his moniker — has gone from his bewildering beginnings as a shabby white rapper, shackled by Vanilla Ice’s frozen shadow, to his Bawita-breakthrough as a wife-beater-clad, faux-white-trash steward of rock’s (and rap’s, for that matter) hands-down worst-ever sub-genre (rap-rock), only to arrive as the contemporary clodhopper's Poet Laureate with his musical and aesthetic impression of how Bob Seger would sound, write and perform if he were to have the frontal lobe of his brain removed — and then started taking cues from Kenny Chesney. While it’s easy to marginalize Rock for the mounting banality of his catalogue, his asinine embrace of mediocrity and his boundless love affair with the lowest common denominator, you can’t deny he’s a master in league with Anheuser-Busch when it comes to the art of American branding — and like that company’s product, his output, too, kills brain cells. In other words, don't count on encountering too many dickish rock snobs at tonight's Rock show. Party on, Waynes!