On Robert Ross’s latest single “People Like Me,” the familiar clang of barroom guitars and the comfort of a cold drink converge in a song that’s not merely a celebration of small-town revelry, but a thoughtful, subtly political hymn to authenticity. At first glance, the track might seem like another addition to the ever-growing catalog of drinking songs that populate mainstream country radio. But dig deeper, and you’ll find Ross carving out a more grounded, human message—one that isn’t about escapism, but about identity, pride, and belonging.
Lyrical Truth in the Everyday
From the opening line—“People like you and people like me, we like to drink”—Ross introduces us to a world not of caricature, but of communion. The repetition in that phrase, cycling back at the end of each verse, acts like a town square bell ringing at closing time: it’s an invocation to all who’ve been overlooked, typecast, or underestimated. These aren’t just people who enjoy beer or whiskey. These are the welders, farmers, truckers, and service members who measure worth by work, loyalty, and resilience.
Ross isn’t being coy about his mission. He sings, “I may not know a lot, never gonna be something that I’m not,” a line that, in lesser hands, might come off as cliché. But in the mouth of Ross—who delivers it with just the right tinge of pride and defensiveness—it becomes a declaration of artistic and personal autonomy. His writing doesn’t pander. It tells the truth, even when the truth wears steel-toed boots and clocks in at 5 a.m.
Verses that Build a Community
One of the more compelling turns in the song arrives in the third verse, where the narrative widens to acknowledge those who wear a different kind of uniform. “Like that soldier on patrol, the one that might not grow old / We raise our glasses to the ones that save our ass.” Here, the drinking isn’t just a pastime—it’s a ritual of recognition. Ross elevates the act of raising a glass to something sacred, weaving gratitude into what could’ve been a simple honky-tonk jam.
He’s not glorifying alcohol; he’s glorifying solidarity. The “drinking” here is metaphorical as much as it is literal—standing in for every after-shift porch sit, every fire pit confession, every shared moment of truth between working people who have earned their right to unwind.
A Working-Class Manifesto
Ross’s lyrical construction is simple, but never shallow. He uses plain language to craft poetic imagery rooted in sweat and sacrifice. “The proof is in the calluses on my hands,” he offers, pushing against a culture that too often celebrates polish over grit. In doing so, Ross aligns himself not just with the outlaw country ethos, but with the long tradition of folk singers and poets who understand that truth rarely arrives in metaphor—it walks in the door dusty, tired, and wearing Carhartt.
“People Like Me” may not reinvent the country wheel, but it doesn’t try to. Instead, it sharpens its spokes—refining a well-worn theme until it glints with sincerity. In a genre where image often overshadows message, Ross reminds us that songs still matter when they say something real.
This isn’t just a soundtrack for summer tailgates. It’s a lyrical tribute to those who live honestly, work hard, and find joy in the simple act of raising a glass—not to forget, but to remember who they are.
–Anne Powter
