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How Not To… Be Rock

Marty Mc.B



Now, as a self-confessed lover of all things West Coast Gangster Rap, R.I.P Tupac and Eazy E, I’m hardly an expert on rock. I own a few rock albums, a pair of skinny black taper jeans that my muffins hang out of, and once had a crush on Dave Grohl – but that’s about it. However, even I, a relative rock virgin, can notice a disturbing bastardization of the genre going on at the moment.
About five minutes ago I was sitting eating my fish salad (the onset of spring always makes me think of bikinis and scares me into healthy submission for all of about, mmm, a week) when I noticed a personal low-point in my on-and-off observation of the world of rock. This was when a random Australian bow-wow on Rock Star Supernova dedicated his song to Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter. All I can say to this is the immortal term, crikey. Now I have nothing against the croc hunter, and I have something against most people, but that just isn’t rock’n’roll.
I thought rock stars were supposed to be the epitome of rebellion? Oh hold up, stop the tape, I just heard another Rock Star Supernova atrocity. A blonde, orange fake tanned, midriff showing, glitter wearing girl just dedicated her rendition of ‘Wish you Were Here’ to her mom. What the fuck? When did all rock stars become a bunch of saps? Sure, Hanson had long hair but it’s not their lead you should all be following, guys, it’s those bat-eating, foul-mouthed bad-boys, you should take after.
Actually I take that back, as even the bat eaters have seen better days. I mean Ozzy Osbourne, what the fuck? (You may notice an excess of expletives in this column – I apologise to my more sensitive readers, although I’m sure you will have mostly been put off by now, unless I’m like a car crash to you. You hate me, but just can’t stop looking.) I don’t want to see the depressing aftermath of rock and roll; it’s all about shortterm goals. Get drunk, take drugs, have sex, get tattoos, and eat rodents of the sky.
I don’t want to see a vapid, impotent, probably incontinent man shuffling round the house resembling Morticia Adams and Mohammed Ali’s (post-Parkinson’s) love child, donning a house robe 24/7. I don’t want to see his bratty, fat American children all over the place – desperately scrambling to get a career, squeezing themselves into the fashions du jour, when they really should be in plus size Walmart garb. Nor do I want to see his reformed fat wife traipsing about the house teetering on committing bestiality with her weird Chihuahua type dog. To me, The Osbournes represent the death of many elements of rock and roll.
Speaking of depressing, let’s do the inevitable Emo bash. I know, I know, it’s too easy – but I’m not up for a challenge tonight, all I’ve had today is muesli, sushi, a salad and only one chocolate biscuit, so I’m mighty h-angry. Who is the Emo you may ask? Well, they are the muchabhorred floppy angst ridden teen. There’s one in every era, and they’ve always been irrationally annoying. Much like flies buzzing around a room and first years clogging corridors, the emo is the apathetic adolescent of today.
They come with a sideswept haircut, that to qualify as emo must in some way obstruct their vision, they don skinny jeans and fingerless gloves, possibly a smattering of makeup on both sexes, but most importantly, they very seldomly don a smile. Woe is upon them at all times, the whole world hates them, they write poetry about slitting their wrists and locking themselves away from the world into the abyss of their lonely existence, that kindof stuff. Sometimes I wish they’d stop just threatening about it and get on with it. Actually I take that back, in no way do I want to be seen to endorse wrist-slashing (mainly because I don’t want to encourage another moral panic letter writing campaign to Salient), I will however endorse a haircut or three.
Nickelback, Creed, Britney Spears’ rendition of ‘I Love Rock and Roll’, Good Charlotte (the emo kids all emo kids claim aren’t emo, look at them guys, there’s no denying it), these are a few of my least favourite things. Rock has in many ways gone to shit, and I’m not arguing that it’s the only genre that has. Chingy, Nelly’s tune ‘Air Force Ones’, The Fast Crew, etc, all signal a downturn in the genre of what people consider hip-hop – but that’s another entire column. I’m tired, I’ve thought about rock too much in the past 45 mins, so as therapy I’m going to go away and listen to some Snoop and Kurrupt – because if Kurrupt gave a fuck about a bitch, he’d always be broke, he’d never have no mother-fucking indoor to smoke.
Disclaimer: I use the term ‘rock’ in the broadest of terms. Basically I just needed a title to encompass this random rant, and rock came to mind. So if you identify your self as a ‘rocker’ or ‘rockette’ or whatever, and you take issue with the groups I have put under your holier-than-thou-rockumbrella, build a bridge, I’m still hungry, and therefore over you too.
Post-script: just had a revelation, I get emo when I’m hungry. Fuck the bikinis, pass me the Tim Tams.