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anna

Bye Bye Ms. American Pie (low-fat)

by anna at 08:33 AM on August 26, 2006

Rock n' roll died when Jerry Lee Lewis married his 13 year old cousin. Or it fizzled out when Chuck Berry got entangled in a similar scandal. Or it gasped its last breath when that plane ferrying Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper went down. Or else when they had to knock out Elvis' teeth with a hammer. Or perhaps it was when the Beatles decided to quit touring and go all psychedelic on us in 1966. Or when Ozzie bit off that bat's head. But whichever date you choose, make no mistake: rock n' roll is as dead and docile as skull-fucker Jeffrey Daumer with that shiv between his ribs. Who was going to rush to its rescue, the warden?

Is Britney Spears' insipid "music" rock n' roll? For that matter, when was the last time she even released a CD? How about Christina Aguilera's? Or all those mopey Brits pissing and moaning incessantly about their generalised dissatisfaction with life its ownself?

Rock at its core used to be about anger, specific anger at something. It most certainly was never about some vague angst. And please spare us any lamentation about your freaking "quarter life crisis."

By definition, actual rock was borne of poverty, suffering and blind ambition. Once a musician becomes a "rock star," as featured on MTV's Cribs, it is over. They might as well start writing songs about tax shelter schemes or yacht maintenance. The most absurb thing of all is when millionaire rappers try to pose as ghetto boys dealing crack, swilling Cristal from the bottle while bitch-slapping they hos. These poseurs would never venture within a mile of Harlem or Watts and most likely wouldn't leave the Hamptons or Malibu unless it were aboard their private Lear Jet with the Cristal poured properly into a flute and a starlet wedged hungrily between their thighs.

When asked why he didn't write his own songs, roots-rock pretender George Thorogood observed that it would be pointless since Berry had already wrote them all. And therein lies the inherent problem. Whether you dress it up as emo, psychobilly, rap, electronica or whatnot in the ever-shifting way of sub-genres, rock is simply a variant of basic 12-bar blues. Certain chord progression work within that narrow conceit, as do certain lyrical bents.

Which is why I was so surpised to actually hear an original-sounding song on the radio. The chords sounded different and there was actually a lead part. The bass line hummed along and there was what sounded like a human drummer in the mix. The lyrics were about a guy who gets a call from an ex he still digs. But his current hosebag is in the other room so he has to keep it quiet. The hook is "from the lips of an angel." Nobody rapped in the middle of it. There was none of that weird record on a turntable noise.

Who knows (or cares) what band did the song. Radio stations long ago abandoned the idea of identifying them for those of us unhip enough to not know. Maybe the White Stripes or the Killers or Radiohead, or any number of supposed saviors who were going to revive the restless spirit of rock n roll as embodied by Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones:

Star-struck Girl: What are you guys rebelling against?
Brando as leader of an outlaw biker gang terrorizing her small town: I don't know. Whaddaya got?

Or maybe it was the Hendrix-Morrison-Joplin death trifecta. How pathetic is it that the wildman Morrison passed passively in a Paris... bathtub, all bloated bearded and burned out?

comments (8)

"Who knows (or cares) what band did the song."

Well, you should care, for one. If this band put together an original-sounding song that you actually like, wouldn't you want to seek out more of their material?

by Adam L. at August 28, 2006 10:06 AM


Better the bathtub than the crapper!!

by Long Time Lurker at August 28, 2006 3:25 PM


Rock and Roll is Dead?

Fuck not. I'm going to see the WHO play live at Madison Square Garden Sept 18th!

sucka!

by LOCKHEED at August 28, 2006 3:58 PM


Adam I think I've told the story of the time the Wallflowers' 6th Avenue Heartache burst on the scene and I sang a few bars for the pimply-faced record store punk. Most humiliatiing, when he called me sir.

Agreed as always LTL.

There is no Who, half of them are dead of overdoses. But I do wish I'd rented a limo and ventured from my den to see the Dixie Chicks.

Let's meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.

by anna at August 28, 2006 10:25 PM


Record store punks are almost always going to be hipper-than-thou assholes to anyone regardless of age.

search for the lyrics through Google, you oughta be able to find it that way, and then hit up Amazon or the band's record label (a lot of them sell things direct these days, at least the smaller or more 'independent' ones). You don't even have to leave the house!

by Adam L. at August 29, 2006 9:46 AM


I don't leave the house anymore. All hail DSL!

As a reminder:

Me: Isn't the singer Jacob Dylan, Bob Dylan's son? He even sounds a lot like his dad!
Clerk: I wouldn't know SIR. The band is called the Wallflowers. Under W.

by anna at August 29, 2006 6:19 PM


If you went back today, Dylan (the senior) would be hip again with a new album, a great radio show on XM, and if you mentioned the younger Dylan the record store hipsters wouldn't know who the Wallflowers were.

by mg at August 29, 2006 6:30 PM


Supposedly the new CD Modern Times is very profound. But I can't stand to listen to that cigarettey voice of his. What did become of the Wallflowers anyway?

BTW there are no more record stores in my town. Dowloading and Walmart and Best Buy drove them all out of business.

by anna at August 30, 2006 6:17 PM