You guys don’t understand Rock music.
That’s OK. You don’t know how you’d fare in prison because you watch Oz, either. You’re a “consumer.” That’s fine.
Well, I was a “producer” of rock music for a while, in a little way, and I worked with lots of other varied “producers” of your rock and roll entertainment, and I’d like to sing the praises of a certain type of guitar hero: The motorhead.
No, not MotorHead. That’s a band. They have an inexplicable umlaut in their name I can’t be bothered to add.
No, I mean motorheads. Watch the Grand Funk Railroad video. Those are motorheads.
You see, rock music wasn’t all sissies like David Bowie and Peter Frampton and so forth. And it wasn’t all pseudointellectuals like Yes and Sting. And it wasn’t all escapees from Broadway or the music hall like the Beatles or Elton John or Queen. It wasn’t all three chord cowboys- all hat no cattle –like the Eagles. It was guys from shop class. It was the motorheads.
They were good at sports but wouldn’t play on teams because they didn’t give a fig. The liked two stroke engines and took apart LED watches and had jobs when they were sixteen bending sheetmetal or doing body work in a garage while you were watching TV. They had mini-bikes and guns for toys when they were little kids while you were playing Clue. They were shaving, or needed shaving was more likely, when you had your mother’s face still. And they had a sunny, easygoing disposition, got Ds in everything in high school, and got all the girls the football players didn’t vacuum up. And a lot of the ones they did, eventually.
Because they were good at math and music, and they were masculine, and they could play rock music.
And their music, whether copied from others or home-made, was raucous and lively and manly and fun and brash and direct and unaffected. And they weren’t sexual as a pose. They weren’t pretending to like pretty girls by the armload.
I’m not paying attention closely any longer. I don’t know if there are people like this around anymore. I can’t think of any. They never whined, so no grunge, thanks. They never committed suicide, because they were happy all the damn time, so no Cobainiacs need apply. They’d never dress up, so that leaves out the Ozzie wannabes.
Oh well. I’m Rock and Roll Darwin, and I’m here to assure you: These dinosaurs once roamed the earth. And they were a blast.
5 Responses
God, I love your blog! That was great. I never know what to expect from you but you never disappoint me. And your blog for boys is incredible.
Thanks!!
You’re very welcome.
Thanks for reading and commenting.
I wouldn’t call Sting a pseudo-intellectual. But then, I wouldn’t call what he plays rock, either.
I have to throw in a good word for the Eagles as well. There’s much to be said for three-chord music, and if they’re “cowboy,” then I absolutely shudder to think what words you have in store for the country music guys who actually do wear the hats, and think they have to to preserve their image, because image is all a lot of them have got.
I still have my original translucent yellow copy of Grand Funk’s “We’re An American Band”. It’s just too cool to get rid of. I finally picked up the CD a couple of years ago. I also have many Motorhead CD’s because Lemmy is “The Man”.
You sing the praises of Grand Funk Railroad. Grand Funk Railroad! I had the mis-pleasure of seeing them live at the Fillmore East in the early 1970s. Actually, I paid to get in to see the debut of the Allman Brothers Band as the first act. Awesome! No, not GFR; they were horrible. I had to sit through a 5 minute drum solo – it was after all the era when every rock drummer wanted to be Keith Moon – which consisted mostly of the drummer eschewing the sticks and banging his head on the drum. Even in a chemically boosted state, that just didn’t make it off the launch pad. The Allman Bros., on the other hand,… unbelievable. Now, MC5 as the example to make your point, OK, but please, NOT GFR.