Twilight of the Gods: A Journey to the End of Classic Rock

by Steven Hyden

Ordering cocktails at an arena show is like requesting beluga caviar at a baseball game. Beer, wine, or get out—that should be the rule.

Neil Young in the eighties was like an even more insane version of Ween.

When a rock star dies, what people are mourning is their own mortality.

I still believe. When I was a kid, classic rock was a fantasyland populated by the impossibly cool and occasionally wise, where revelatory feats of daring and moxie were perpetuated in smoky concert halls and expensive recording studios by damaged geniuses and noble fools. Inside every album lay mystery, danger, sex, laughs, and maybe a good tip or two on how to live. It was a seductive place that I never wanted to leave, even after I grew up. And, I guess, I never did.