When I worked as a pump jockey and grease monkey at Happy Jack's Natco some 40 years ago (now), one of the first guys I had any seniority over (in age or service time) was this long long frizzy-haired Deadhead-hippie type named Butch. Butch looked very much like Weird Al would a decade later, but his hair was longer -- down the middle of his back. Butch also wore nothing else than farmers overalls. Ever.
Okay. Anyway, Butch was a rock snob. A real rock snob. He listened to GOOD rock music, he assured us. ONLY good rock music. Beatles (only after 1967!, everything before that was 'teenybopper crap'), Stones, Who. Pink Floyd. NOT LED ZEPPELIN!! Not Fleetwood Mac. Bruce Springsteen was a "greaser guido." (This was just about the time 'Darkness on the Edge Of Town' came out.)
He had a whole checklist of songs he would or wouldn't allow on the radio. He'd walk in the showroom and switch the radio off mid-song.
For whatever reason, he loved the hell out of Eddie Money. Just ****ing loved him. (This was when he'd only had one or two hits.) When I'd say, "ahh, he's OK," he'd launch into a 20-minute soliloquy on why Eddie Money kicked total ass and anybody who doubted it was flat out ignorant.
As was perfectly normal in the gas station biz, Butch came and went within about six months, and I've never seen him again. (Although maybe I have; if he cut his hair short and wore a suit, I'd never know him.)
So Butch, wherever you are, hold on to your two tickets to paradise.