He did it. Guilty as charged.

Had I not been asked to write this, I may never again have thought about Dave Matthews. The omnipresence of his music has long since passed, and was never in my rotation to begin with. From every indication, he is probably a pretty all right guy. Family man. Bernie Sanders supporter. He's probably seen all of “The Wire.” Honestly, I wish him well.

Oh, wait. There is the fucking music. Picking through the scar tissue that keeps the '90s from oozing its grossness all over the place, I forced myself to confront the era of puka shell necklaces and Birkenstocks on OU hippies who subbed in DMB for real hippie music, as if the Dead and Phish were way too much of a commitment to a lifestyle that ends at graduation.

No, instead it was Dave Matthews and Blues Traveler, Hootie and the Blowfish and Counting Crows. Stupid, vapid, easy listening for stupid, vapid college kids, which now has become the soundtrack to the only point in their lives they weren't fully under the jackboot of upper-middle-class Upper Arlington expectations. For four years, you were alive, man, and you blew it on the Dave Matthews Band. My bad, Dave. It wasn't you. It was your fans. (Fans Only)