THE INAPPROPRIATE AGE OF ROCK N ROLL
Rock n roll has been given a fan appointed expiration date. It’s as if any given listener’s born on date doesn’t come before the creation of any given record, that listener is shunned from ever becoming a fan in the true sense of the word. Only to be intimidated by his older, self-proclaimed “wiser” predecessor, the new kid may give up on being a fan before he was ever given the chance.
Born in 1980, I was 10 years old when the Seattle grunge scene hit, and did it ever hit hard. While I was wearing Soundgarden t-shirts and becoming exposed to Metallica’s Black album for the first time at a very early age, I didn’t like what was going on around me. Having already started playing drums a few years prior I wasn’t just a fan, I was an apprentice. While others were simply latching on to what was on the radio in order to have something to discuss at the lunch room tables as it became popular, I was playing along to the records educating myself at what was to become the very last era of rock n roll.
I wasn’t satisfied. Pearl Jam and Nirvana just didn’t do it for me. They had electric guitars but even at a very early age I knew something was missing. I began doing research on Pearl Jam. Becoming what is known as a true “fan.” The more of a fan I became, the less interested I was. It quickly became apparent that Pearl Jam was not only taking inspiration from the Sonic Youth and Melvins generation before them, but also taking it from the deep well of yet an even older generation of Neil Youngs and the not quite as old Guns n Roses. I quickly became disheartened. I didn’t want a regurgitated version of this newfound love of mine; I wanted the real thing. While I continued to buy every record put on the shelves in the Rock section in the now defunct CD stores of the 90’s, I also ventured into the sections where I didn’t belong. The categories less populated. Although very tall for a 10 year old, I found myself trying to squeeze into the AC/DC tab and put Back n Black into my cart because, although it was made when I was 7 months old, I read somewhere that it was a great record. Intimidated by the full grown men next to me who wouldn’t be caught dead buying the Weezer records the kids my age were supposed to be listening to, I quickly learned that I was in their territory and that I’d better maintain a level of respect if I was at all interested in joining this fraternity of heavy metal rock n rollers.
Back n Black was the record that did it for me. I knew that this shit was far better, and frankly far more important than anything else going on in the modern world. I wanted more. I did more research.
With the invention of the dial up Internet connected to my parent’s very heavy, very expensive home computer, I was able to dig deep and find the meaning of all that is rock n roll. I subscribed to magazines; I joined Columbia House with multiple fake names and had CD’s shipped to my house by the dozens (which I never paid for). I built my own CD racks out of leftover wood in my fathers workshop and painted them black because I thought that’s what AC/DC would have done. I discovered my fathers record collection in the hall closet and spent afternoons listening to Black Sabbath Black Sabbath. Scared that someone might catch me and send me to my room for listening to something that didn’t belong to me in more ways than one. All the while playing along to these records that were made by guys far older than my old father. Plugging in my headphones to my 5-disc changer and turning up the volume all the way. Picking up a second paper route to justify my expensive rock n roll habit. I spent all of my hard earned money on what my parents considered a phase.
Some 20 years later I’m still faced with the same dilemma. I make my living in rock n roll in a time and place when it is nearly impossible to make a living in such a lifestyle unless you’re hanging on to something amazing you created before the invention of the Internet; at which point the entire free world seemingly gave up on discovery and creation and just all around bad-assery. I live, breath, eat, piss, shit, and drink rock n roll, yet I still find myself trying to squeeze in between the bigger, older guys in the rock n roll section of life. (And believe me, they’re not getting any smaller). It’s as if I had to do more research and collect more records than guys nearly twice my age just to prove to them that even though I wasn’t there when it was actually happening, it in no way means that I don’t love it just as much as they do. In fact, if anything I’m jealous that I didn’t get to live through the concerts and the sex and the drugs.
Take a band like KISS for instance. A band that remains timeless and still makes regular late night television appearances and maintains relevance in the eye of the public who might otherwise only know Def Leppard as the band with the one-armed-drummer. Any given member of KISS, whether original or not, are nearly as recognizable world wide as McDonald’s golden arches. Yet by the time I was born they’d already taken their make-up off and replaced their first member. By the time I was old enough to know how to turn on a radio they’d already suffered through the death of a member. All the while, the fans that actually lived through the movement of KISS would never expect a 12-year-old kid to understand what they’d gone through as a fan an entire generation before me. Witnessing the band with all original members as 27 year olds hanging out with groupies and taking over the world. My question is, wouldn’t it make it easier to be a real fan having lived through all of those instances instead of having to live vicariously though space and time of a moment that once had been? It made me appreciate those moments even more due to the fact that I didn’t actually get to witness them as they were happening. I may not have been born yet but I’ve memorized the set list from Live at Cobo Hall 1977, and that, if you ask me my dear friend, is a hell of a lot more rock n roll than trying to score free tickets off the radio station because you thought you had a chance to get laid that Saturday night in Detroit Rock City.
While the generation that was luckily enough to actually live through rock n roll looks at me like they can’t figure out why I have long hair, I look at them and can’t figure out why they cut theirs, and I wish I was able to sit down and have a few beers with the hair they once had.
