His name is Bobbbbbbbbb! It’s Bob, baby. Bob Ritchie! Huh. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue like “Kid Rock,” does it? Well, get used to it, Nancy. Mr. Ritchie may still be the Kid, but he’s all grown up. Or at least as grown up as a guy who drives the General Lee from Dukes of Hazzard can be. No more “Bawitdaba.” No more funny-looking braids or rapping dwarves (pour out some liquor for Joe C). No more Devil Without a Cause. Nope, just Kid Rock. Cowboy. Patriot. Gentleman. Rocker. Boinker of strippers pretending to be actresses and actresses pretending to be strippers. The trailer-park hero has up and gone all high-falutin’, triple-wide, Southern-rock sophistimicated on us. Singing about single parenthood, relationships and Mississippi and shit. But don’t fret, ye with the “White Trash Princess” tank top, this is a man who likes Grandmaster Flash and Johnny Cash. And, truth be told, he’s never been closer to his roots.