W HEN YOU VISIT BOB RITCHIE at his home in the jagged hills outside Nashville, the guy who will likely greet you at the door is a tall, well-dressed, exceedingly polite gentleman who goes by “Uncle Tom.” Because of course he does. Ritchie makes his living as Kid Rock , but a big part of being Kid Rock these days involves doing things that are simultaneously provocative, offensive, and, at least to him, funny.

It tracks, then, that a middle-aged white guy who began his career more than three decades ago in thrall of a Black art form, but who has since thrown his lot in with an overwhelmingly white political movement criticized for its racist rhetoric, would have a white butler named after a racial slur aimed at Black people who are overly accommodating to the white establishment. It’s all a little dizzying. Like so much in the world of Kid Rock circa 2024, it leaves you wondering, “Is he serious? Is he fucking with me? Does he himself even know?” At any rate, there I am on a Thursday afternoon in April, being ushered by the aforementioned Uncle Tom into a house that itself feels like a joke devised to test whether its visitors get it.

Modeled to look like the White House, the extravagant, airy mansion is decorated with taxidermied hunting trophies and neon beer signs. The bathroom hand towels are monogrammed with an “R,” and a mirror near the sink has a naked woman in a “Liberty” headband painted on it in pink. Images of Kid Rock’s platinum records adorn th.