Dear People Who Think They’re Culturally Superior for Ragging on Billy Joel

You’re not too good for the King of Cheese n’ Roll.

I see you.

Talking about stabbing your ears when “Piano Man” comes on the radio.

Or driving off a cliff upon hearing the first few notes of “Uptown Girl.”

Or setting fire to that any remaining physical copies of “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

You wax poetic about Billy Joel’s music being made of saccharine, cheese and lard.

A real crap smorgasbord Joel’s music is, you casually say to your friends who mutter “amen” in unison. A blight on modern music.

You think you sound real cool — real high brow — right?

You’re wearing your Pixies tee that no longer fits you, and sporting an Elliot Smith hairdo.

Your parents owned a copy of The Stranger and you swore to God you would never, ever give that hound dog-eyed Long Islander who uses gratuitous amounts of sound effects the benefit of the doubt.

Well I’m here to tell you: Billy Joel has more talent in his little cherub pinky than the whole lot of you.

Billy Joel, a Jewish kid born and raised in Long Island, is America’s working class hero. Yeah, I said it.

Lennon is to Britain what Springsteen is to New Jersey what Joel is to Long Island.

As a baby boomer, Joel had a front row seat to the struggles of both WWII and Vietnam vets.

As a Long Islander, he witnessed the lack of opportunity facing his blue collar peers.

As a young person, he understood the fear and disillusionment in a post-Kennedy America.

Much like Springsteen, Joel sang for the common men.

He sang for and to the steel workers and vets in “Allentown,” the soldiers in “Goodnight Saigon,” the suffering fisherman in “Downeastern Alexa,” the starving artist in “Piano Man,” the bored and depressed youth in “Captain Jack.”

His songs painted detailed portraits of the Italians, the Jews, the Polish, the Irish living behind the Nylon Curtain. The ones who got up each day hustling down 52nd Street, who jumped the Turnstiles. The prom queen and king who got married and divorced — as a matter of course; the businessmen who shared a drink called loneliness; the Catholic girls who started much too late.

These are the people he saw every day, and by God, he was going to tell their stories.

Billy Joel is a time and a place; he’s a state of mind. If you’re from the northeast, if you’re from European roots, if you’re born during the midcentury, if you’re struggling to get by — Joel saw you. He was you.

These truths are what endears me to Billy Joel. This essay might make one assume that I’m a fierce fan, but that is not the case. I enjoy Billy Joel’s music — particularly as a working class New Yorker who grew up with European immigrants— but what I appreciate most about him is that he sings for the proletariat.

It’s true his songs might sound like stories your grandfather regales you with as he drifts off to sleep.

It’s true that his lyrics might be as cliche as inspirational posters found in dentist offices.

It’s true he might have relied too heavily on motorcycle and factory sound effects. (Maybe.)

It’s true he might look more like your car mechanic who enjoys one too many Zimas instead of looking like a true rocker, but —

Billy Joel is up there with Dylan and Springsteen and Simon as one of America’s greatest musical storytellers.

And I’m here to tell you:

You are not too good for Joel.

NONE OF US ARE.