I think it’s authentic, and that will always be enough.
It’s the 1950s, and you’re desperately trying to break into the music business. You know you have the talent, but success hasn’t knocked on your door, and you lay in bed at night wondering if it ever will.
One day, while traveling, you meet Johnny Cash. He’s already a bonafide star—your hero, everything you’ve ever dreamed of being. He listens to you perform, which you consider an honor above all others. At the end of your set, he pulls you aside. Your skin is on fire with excitement. “What will he say?” you wonder.
He looks you dead in the eye and confidently asserts, ”If you lower your voice and change your name, you might make it.”
With that, the Man in Black is gone.
Flash forward. It’s years later. To say the least, your career is on fire. At one point, you’re informed that you’ve sold more records than any other artist in the history of mankind. You’re emulated by many, adored by many more. It’s your name on all of the billboards. It’s your high-pitched voice on all of the radios. And you smile, because your hero’s advice simply couldn’t have been worse.
I blame Matt, unless it’s my fault in the end, in which case it was unavoidable.