No Thoroughbreds
Reason Number 947 why I still love rock 'n' roll:
No thoroughbreds.
Nobody's spending millions of dollars on sci-tech research and development in the name of building a better rock musician. There's not a team of men and women in white coats somewhere trying to figure out how to fit nutrients and an attention-focusing enzyme into a can of Sparks, or designing a cool-looking black wristband that features weights for increased muscle tone and ergonomic support to combat downpicking fatigue.
Yes, there are labels out there spending time and money "developing" what they think are rock acts; generally, however, that means getting them to sit in a room with a songwriter, and watch the songwriter write a song that sucks slightly less than theirs do while somebody goes to get them new clothes. Yes, there are the pop Svengalis who steal kids from church choirs and county-fair singing contests, like dingoes with quality dental work and an aura of Drakkar Noir. Yes, there are the contemporary-country star mills, and the Show Moms and Dads with their crushing Idol expectations.
But none of that really has anything at all to do with the world of rock 'n' roll.
Sure, there are a few rock 'n' roll Show Moms and Dads, but we never have to worry about them, because their kids' bands never go far. (Listen, I have known some pretty cool "little 's'" show moms and dads who were supportive and not the least overbearing. If a kid shows an interest in music, of course it's important to nurture it. But I've said it before and I will say it again: If your dad or mom is managing your rock band, no matter what his or her intentions, you're already fucked.)
And yeah, I'm pretty positive there are at least a couple of bitter guys out there in their late 30s or early 40s, who never "hit the big time" with Dead Reckoning or Modelfinger or Earl Watts & The Juke Joint Jukers and are totally taking it out on their kids. They shelled out for a vocal coach and bought a little mic stand with tiny bandanas tied to it, and the kid just can't sing. So they put some drumsticks in those little hands, and it turns out the kid's got all the rhythmic sense of a car crash. Now, there's a little bass guitar and a metronome on order for Christmas, when all the poor tyke really wants are a book about dinosaurs and the big box of Crayolas.
We won't ever hear any good, real rock 'n' roll from those kids. Hell, the celebrity-spawn of Rock The Cradle couldn't even fake it; some of 'em had a hard time just looking happy to be there.
They took over tennis. They (well, Tiger) took over golf. They're even taking over skateboarding, the one quote-unquote sport that once seemed impervious to the more sinister sides of athletics and competition.
And the thoroughbreds have certainly come to music. A voice with potential can be trained. A body's muscles can be sculpted to give it stamina and attractiveness, and plastic surgery can correct anything that's wrong with its exterior. Moves can be studied, trends can be forecast, stylists and songwriters and producers can be brought on board.
But again, none of that has anything to do with rock 'n' roll. You can't breed or build or perfect a winner for something so invested in its own image as an asylum for losers. You can't sing about heartbreak if everybody's always loved you. You can't sing about hope if you've never feared its absence. You can't sing about making your own way in the world if the way has always been paved for you.
Well, you can, I guess. People often do. But it's hollow and it's awful and it's obviously not rock 'n' roll, which is - and, I hope, will always be - about being mutts, about being mutants, about being jackasses rather than thoroughbreds, and finding the joy in that.
No thoroughbreds.
Nobody's spending millions of dollars on sci-tech research and development in the name of building a better rock musician. There's not a team of men and women in white coats somewhere trying to figure out how to fit nutrients and an attention-focusing enzyme into a can of Sparks, or designing a cool-looking black wristband that features weights for increased muscle tone and ergonomic support to combat downpicking fatigue.
Yes, there are labels out there spending time and money "developing" what they think are rock acts; generally, however, that means getting them to sit in a room with a songwriter, and watch the songwriter write a song that sucks slightly less than theirs do while somebody goes to get them new clothes. Yes, there are the pop Svengalis who steal kids from church choirs and county-fair singing contests, like dingoes with quality dental work and an aura of Drakkar Noir. Yes, there are the contemporary-country star mills, and the Show Moms and Dads with their crushing Idol expectations.
But none of that really has anything at all to do with the world of rock 'n' roll.
Sure, there are a few rock 'n' roll Show Moms and Dads, but we never have to worry about them, because their kids' bands never go far. (Listen, I have known some pretty cool "little 's'" show moms and dads who were supportive and not the least overbearing. If a kid shows an interest in music, of course it's important to nurture it. But I've said it before and I will say it again: If your dad or mom is managing your rock band, no matter what his or her intentions, you're already fucked.)
And yeah, I'm pretty positive there are at least a couple of bitter guys out there in their late 30s or early 40s, who never "hit the big time" with Dead Reckoning or Modelfinger or Earl Watts & The Juke Joint Jukers and are totally taking it out on their kids. They shelled out for a vocal coach and bought a little mic stand with tiny bandanas tied to it, and the kid just can't sing. So they put some drumsticks in those little hands, and it turns out the kid's got all the rhythmic sense of a car crash. Now, there's a little bass guitar and a metronome on order for Christmas, when all the poor tyke really wants are a book about dinosaurs and the big box of Crayolas.
We won't ever hear any good, real rock 'n' roll from those kids. Hell, the celebrity-spawn of Rock The Cradle couldn't even fake it; some of 'em had a hard time just looking happy to be there.
They took over tennis. They (well, Tiger) took over golf. They're even taking over skateboarding, the one quote-unquote sport that once seemed impervious to the more sinister sides of athletics and competition.
And the thoroughbreds have certainly come to music. A voice with potential can be trained. A body's muscles can be sculpted to give it stamina and attractiveness, and plastic surgery can correct anything that's wrong with its exterior. Moves can be studied, trends can be forecast, stylists and songwriters and producers can be brought on board.
But again, none of that has anything to do with rock 'n' roll. You can't breed or build or perfect a winner for something so invested in its own image as an asylum for losers. You can't sing about heartbreak if everybody's always loved you. You can't sing about hope if you've never feared its absence. You can't sing about making your own way in the world if the way has always been paved for you.
Well, you can, I guess. People often do. But it's hollow and it's awful and it's obviously not rock 'n' roll, which is - and, I hope, will always be - about being mutts, about being mutants, about being jackasses rather than thoroughbreds, and finding the joy in that.
