Back in my Day...............

I am concerned a bout my daughters future. I am concerned that she will have nothing but pussy rock. I am afraid that she will only have rock made by people pretending to be “glamorous” or produced by corporations to sell coke and sneakers.

They will have albums called “Nabisco’s Cereal Lineup” featuring songs like Special K is great although the Special K will not have the cool drug reference that you may think it has, it will actually mean the cereal.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want my daughter any where near any kind of drugs and have made up my mind to strip search any boy that ever comes to my house for my daughter. It won’t be gentle. It will almost be a felony that any father on any jury would forgive me for. Dad’s got to watch out for each other.

But I am a little sad that she won’t have some of that little rebellion that maybe I had. Yes, I am going to be the guy that says “Back in my day……”

Do you know why? Because back in my day Rock was hard, it was out there. It spoke for the generation. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Sound Garden—they all rocked. They knew how to take prepubescent pent up sexual frustration and turn it on the world of our fathers. We weren’t about money or the corporate sponsorships. We were about monster guitar solos, heavy drums and groupies that might give you a little if you lied and said you were with the band. We called them Lisa and they were all good.

They were about the music for music’s sake. They were about telling the “man” that were not going to take it, no we’re not going to take it, whatever “it” may have been.

It was about not caring about how you looked. It was about taking more time to figure out how our father’s screwed up the world and how we could fix it with a torn flannel shirt that we wore in Texas. It was about combing your hair just right until it looked unkempt. It was about a generation that wanted things harder, faster and better than the one before.

It was rock that said “Hey, we know about your secret sock that you have stashed under your bed. Don’t worry about it, we all have that thing. Listen to our music because we understand.” That’s what it was. It made the jizz sock ok for teenage boys that only had the jizz sock.

You went to the concert not to buy anything. You went to mosh. You went to slam up against people that you didn’t know to get out all that pent up anger and frustration. You went to see a 110 chick throw an elbow into the gaping maw of a big fat man. It was all love.

You went to the show guaranteed that sometime, somewhere, there would be an empty stage, a guy with a guitar and a spotlight. That’s it. You knew that shit was coming and you couldn’t wait for it. And also for the chants for the chick in the 5th row, balcony, to take her shirt off and flash her tits.

Now? Now? Now what do you got?

You go to a concert and you have assigned seating. Seriously, assigned seating? You go and see dance teams performing the Cirque de Soleil while someone with a microphone strapped to the ear sings about humps. Good lord.

You see Vegas in a traveling road show. You see whole families going together. What the hell is this unity, that is not what rock is about. You get streamers and encores. Back in my day, you were lucky if they didn’t spit on you.

I have been tivoing the top twenty countdown on VHI for the last six months or so. Every time it’s the same thing. It’s the same girl, barely 18, signing about love song’s and how you don’t deserve one. Or it’s some guy who’s smooth, with his cute little throwback 1950’s fedora hat singing about how you are beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true.

Out of a 2 hour show it takes me roughly 7 minutes to watch the whole thing and that’s because my Tivo only moves at 300X. I just don’t get it, I swear to you. And I’m sad that my daughter won’t know how rock is supposed to be. She’ll think it’s all bout midriffs and glitter, not about an identity, not the voice of a generation.

I try to raise her right, I throw in some Metallica when I’m cooking. I rock some AC/DC when the time permits. I have introduced her to G and R. But now she’s starting to pass all that by. She used to love it but now she just wants Twinkle, Twinkle and songs about god damn spiders. If the spider has some ear piercings and the Little Star wore a chain wallet, maybe it would be better.

Today’s rock just plain sucks. Today’s rock’s best bets are Amy Winehouse. And everyone is shocked that she is on heroin. Shocked? Really? First off, have you seen her? I look at her and think, yup, that’s a heroin addict. It’s a no brainer. Back in my day we were shocked that they were not on heroin. We knew the only reason they went to rehab was to beat jail time. That’s rock.

But not today’s rock. Today’s rock is about all love. It’s about everyone singing the same song. Mom, Dad, both kids, all singing together like the Partridge family in a big hippie bus. That’s not supposed to happen?! It supposed to create strife. Mom is supposed to shriek when she hears rock and then run to Jesus. Little brother is supposed to fight with big sister about who rocks harder. And Dad is supposed to tell them that today’s rock sucks and back in my day when they knew how to rock……………


Sweet Jesus I think I just passed a threshold. I think, maybe, I have become my father. I think I am an old man. It’s ok everyone, no one panic. I may be mistaken. Let’s take a quiz to find out:

Do I finally know what my mom was talking about when she mentioned how awesome the Beatles were. Answer: Yes.

Do I listen to talk radio regardless of who’s in the car. Answer: Yes.

Is it mostly news talk radio. Answer: Yes

Can I tell rain’s a’comin by my trick knee? Answer: Yes

Do I often think that young people should get a hair cut and a job? Answer: yes

Do I think Hawaiian shirts and black socks with sandals are ok for a dinner party yet still useful enough to mow my lawn in. Answer: An undoubtable yes.

Ok, ok, everyone go home. Pay no attention to this rant. I am apparently my father and thus hate today’s rock. And therefore, that must mean that today’s rock is right where it needs to be.

If anyone needs me I’ll be reading my paper and writing letters to the editor.

1 comment:

  1. WHAT?!! YOU are asking what happened to rock? You think it died in 2008? Wrong Wrong Wrong! It died in 1972. It was born in 1964. It experienced a short but great life.

    You did not invent sex that was invented in the '60s ala Make Love not War. Getting a messy hairstyle was rebellious? Try growing it past your shoulders and then we will talk rebellion.

    When it comes to parental mourning all that was great and sold out to crass commericialism you are simply a novice. The 60s generation has been mouring for 30 years....but its nice to know you are finally listening to the news...it it by change NPR?