Editor’s note: The views expressed in I Am So Popular are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the outlook or beliefs of anyone else in the IST network.

“Well,” I asked Chris, upon the conclusion of the recent Austin City Limits taping of Duffy, “what did you think?”

“I wanted to like her…” he said, trailing off.

Bingo and ditto. Oh how I wanted to like the young Brit with the big pipes and the hit song Mercy. But oh how, during her short performance, did I find my mind drifting to the critical place. Now, there was a time in my life when being critical and sarcastic was high priority. It’s part of my grew-up-in-Jersey legacy—greet everyone with suspicion and resent others for success that you determine is truly undeserved while wondering how your own talents, which are far, far greater, have slipped recognition.

But I’ve worked hard to move away from that stance in recent years. I write theatre reviews on a semi-regular basis and even during bad performances I keep an eye out for strengths, for some something to praise. Sometimes it’s a stretch coming up with points to cheer, reminding me of parents who applaud their kids for everything: You pooped! You’re my little genius! Still, I tell myself, the folks onstage are striving, to the best of their (sometimes limited) abilities to do their very best.

Or are they?

Watching and listening to Duffy in the intimate confines of the ACL studio was like having really, really great sex on a bed of rusty nails. On the one hand, I was in possibly the greatest venue in this city—a tiny room where a small number of fortunate ticket holders pay absolutely nothing to see amazing acts up close. I’ve been lucky enough to see REM, Dolly Parton, Keb’ Mo’, Guided by Voices, Modest Mouse, Ray LaMontagne, and Corinne Bailey Rae in this setting. On the other hand, try as I might, I just could not muster enthusiasm for the performer, and was glad I’d remembered to bring my knitting to work on during the show.

As a writer, it’s damn near impossible for me not to create narratives as I go, assign a story that may or may not be true. So I scrutinized this young woman, singing with lips pulled tight over her teeth, calling to mind a cross between Katharine Hepburn and Kathleen Turner and their stilted elocution. I observed the clownish makeup, the odd dress, the wooden dance moves (which Chris later impersonated perfectly on the drive home, swinging his head left, right, left, right and freeze in the center!). And I tried to imagine—who is this woman? What’s her life like when she’s not on a stage being backed by a bunch of strong-yet-seemingly-apathetic musicians and giving a decidedly vacant performance?

I came up with a Good News/Bad News tale, both relating to what felt like an inauthentic delivery of lyrics. The good news is that when Duffy is singing about heartbreak, it feels like she’s never actually experienced this personally. Hooray, she’s been spared. The bad news is that the lack of experience means we can’t believe her and so we can’t connect with her. Or she can’t connect with us. But do we wish heartbreak on artists just so we can wallow in genuine feeling? I mean, Amy Winehouse sure seems sincere when she sings about not going to rehab but at what cost? A real life crack addiction. Hmmm…

Wait, hold on. Am I actually spending precious time analyzing Fluffy Duffy? How stupid is that? Allow me to rationalize here. We live in a city jam packed with creative types—actors, musicians, painters, performance artists—many of whom have more talent in their nose hair than a whole lot of internationally known performers who nonetheless are plucked from obscurity, marketed to the nth degree, and thrust upon the global stage. And yet a lot of local genius remains underappreciated on the home front, never mind the hope of getting heard by a bigger audience.

I used to find this personally disheartening as I wrote my heart out only to watch my books (I have four out now) flounder in the sales department. Then I took stock and considered how lucky I am, despite not moving a million units, that at least I get to do what I love for a living even if I’m never going to pull in enough dough at it to buy my dogs diamond studded collars. And at least I live in a city that, far more than a lot of places, nurtures and encourages real talent. Whatever bitterness I risked succumbing to when I was younger is gone now, at least regarding personal aspirations. I’ve got my little word perch for which I am grateful.

I begrudgingly acknowledge the fact that vacant and vapid are what the masses seem to most want. The most glaring case in point right now is the governor of Alaska. Let’s set aside Tina Fey’s brilliance and all the other great comedic performances Palin has spawned and really take a close look here, people: an incredibly stupid, Bible thumping fuckwad—a woman ignorant enough to give W a run for the money in the idiot department (did we think this was humanly possible?) is wildly, dangerously close to becoming one little heart attack away from being president. How did this happen? Let’s call it American Idol Syndrome, where any everyman can have a shot at fame by impersonating someone with talent. My buddy Southpaw Jones—genuinely, immensely talented— has this great song about singers like Duffy who can belt out oxymoronic soulless soul despite a total dearth of real life experience, a daily need for naptime, and an affinity for Gummi bears. Barely out of diapers, they’re nabbed by music execs not concerned with authenticity, only with the financial bottom line. They’ve got big mouths and can carry a tune so let’s trot them out there onstage and applaud the hell out of them (yes, we were forced at the end of Duffy to partake in what my hilarious writer friend Ruth Pennebaker refers to as the mandatory Austin standing ovation).

Which is why, instead of totally fucking freaking out in unison, as all Americans should be doing right now, a terrifying percentage of people actually believe the Big Mouth from Wasilla, the one with perfect pitch when it comes to singing out the tune of fear mongering, is worthy of election.

There was a brief time in the nineties when I used to travel to San Francisco all the time. So I’d be either here or there and I got lulled into a false sense of security. I’d hear about conservatives ruining things and I’d think Really, how bad can it be? because personally I lived in a double-safe-bubble of hanging out in two of the most liberal places in the country.

All I needed as a wake up call was one of my cross-country-drives with a brief stopover in backwater Arkansas before going on to Jersey to visit my hardcore pro-life family of origin, helmed by my father—now no longer among the living—who would, I promise you, if he were alive, be the first (but sadly far from the only one) to call Obama a nigger. This was a sad reminder that, you know, collectively this country is not anywhere near where it needs to be on the most basic levels.

Okay, so how did I get from a pop-lite performance to the threat of conservative politics? Maybe all the shit that’s going down right now with the financial crash and the way-too-close-for-comfort political polls has made me crazy. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s time to demand authenticity on all fronts—whether the words are pouring vibrato from a warbling waif or shrilly from the terror tongue of a rightwing nut job. If you’re going to insist of feeding us crap, at least have the courtesy to offer a disclaimer: I’m just singing/saying this so you’ll pick me and buy my shit.

Spike Gillespie hopes you'll take any money you plan to spend on a Duffy CD and send it to the Obama campaign instead . She is blogs regularly at LaunchPad Coworking and www.spikeg.com. She is also head mistress for the Dick Monologues. Email her to reserve seats for the November 12th show: spike@spikeg.com.