I guess it goes along with the general sense of entitlement that has been sweeping the US in greater and greater waves with each successive generation, but what is it with playing a guitar at a cafe that emboldens the weakest links of society? It just seems to fall in line with the, “I’m here. Listen to me. Fuck you. Listen to me. Only me. Mine. Mine. Mine.” type of thinking that overruns our public spaces. These guitar players are extremely annoying in public parks, but there you can avoid them. But when at a cafe, enjoying your, let’s just say… tea, or if you must, coffee, you can’t avoid the guitarist short of hurting him. And why, why oh dear god for the love of fuck in holy mother of saints almighty from down below must is always, always be No Woman, No Cry?!!
While not a cafe, that’s a classic piece of cinema there. The way the distinctly British dry heaves from William are overlaid with the chords of idiocy coming from the, yes, American’s guitar are nothing short of transcendent genius. I’m sure if Marley could do it all over again, knowing that his song would be played in cafes and in the drunken expat squalor of Barcelona’s Barri Gotic he probably would have said, “Hey Mick, you got one there for the fools to strum man?” Then again, he died of extremely curable skin cancer, so who knows.