Unleash-The-Fury

Death of the Rockstar

2006-03-31T00:50:00.000+01:00

Something thats been bugging me since I've heard the recent line up for the summer's music events here in Ireland... Where are all the emerging Rock Stars and what the hell has happened to the whole concept over the last ten years? I'm not talking about the old faithfuls here, billed to play this summer's events, still bangin on year after year, playing the same tunes they coined in their teens and early twenties. Breaking up, reforming when the money's runnin low, breaking up, reappearing in various colaborations of already established rock musicans. Now in their fourties, fifties's and even sixties, they sell out concerts in ever bigger numbers generating ever greater wads of cash. They are safe, in every way imaginable. Meanwhile with one or two notable exceptions the stream of new talent, rebellion, basic fuck you attitude and lasting appeal, appears to have frizzled out...and died. I'm blaming Kurt Cobain.

But before we go into that please don't mention the Arctic fuckin Monkeys, Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand, Kings of Leon...The Killers. These pouting, puffy, banal groups all seem to share a few things in common. One or two hits. Massive publicity and hype from contempory music mags. No drug problems, (Cocaine does'nt count dammit) crap fuckin hair and despite what some of these soldiers may declare, no soul. Nothing. This is the type of music that Bertie and the Boyz in Dail Eireann would want you to listen to.

Is this what our generation gets to look nostalgically back upon. I can think of nothing more depressing than the thought of these assholes rehashing and rereleasing new versions of "somebody told me....duka dush duka dush"...twenty years on, stubbornly refusing to let go in a manner similar to Bono and the Three Fools. I'm afraid there is a nasty vacuum in society, an empty niche, left vacant by the Death of the Rockstar.

ROCKSTARS: by definition, and I'll hold up my hand and admit It's only my definition...

Are supposed to be Human Guinea Pigs, the crazy bastards who live life outside society's rules, the ones whose bizzare pathway through existance seems balanced on a knife edge. On one side they can reap the rewards of their wonderful and unique talents, (And they must be talented) women, cash, drugs, fame, adulation and adoration by the masses. On the other lies ruin, decadence, misery and death. Yup...Exciting shit. And that's the point. These strange individuals travel a dangerous road. And in this they serve a social function, they walk the line, so we don't have to. Their short turbulent lives are fascinating to us, because materially, they reflect every thing we would like to achieve, yet for most of us the stakes are way too high and we marvel at these reckless heros of ours, doomed (apparantly) to die young, and beautiful, in doing so achieving a modernday immortality. The 27 club concept in otherwords. At least that's my take on the whole deal. Musicmakers not following this code, are in my opinion, just that. Musicians.

Anyone remember how exciting motor racing seemed after Ayrton Senna died tragically behind the wheel, before an audience of millions, back in 1994. Yup, and then how montonously tedious the whole overpriced spectacle became, since it emerged a just a few years later that eating peanuts is a more dangerous pursuit?...Well, It's kinda the same thing I'm rattlin on about here. We're humans. And we're morbidly curious. Watchin other humans, especially young, pretty ones dice with death is fuckin amazin to us. I dunno what exactly it satisfies, but when the handsome young hero cheats death, Jesus, do we admire him and when tragically he meets his Maker, well we buy tee-shirts and shit like that. Jimi Hendrix coffee mugs. Look at the Romans for Christsake. They had it going on in a big way. If there was a Colluseum down the road, I would be in there every Saturday (after my orgy) cheering those crazy gladiators on, I would revere their unnatural bravery and heroic strength. I would follow my favourite champions till death or success released them. Instead I watch the football.

The point is, this: These days things are becoming incredibly safe. Everything. Rules regulations, insurance, planes, trains, automobiles...uh Happy Meals. This is because we are not stupid and we have learned (by trial n' error) how to make this so. We as a race are afraid of everything. So we spend a lot of energy on making things safer. The downside is (and I hate to quote The Jesus Freaks, but...)the Arc was built by amatures, while the Titanic was thrown together by the pro(d)s. Anyways needless to say every now and then unforseen and undesirable events unfold, that all the preparation and legislation in the world could'nt have prevented, and our Cosy Bubble of Health and Safety - Bursts. The world suddenly seems a little less rosy, a little less fair. The realization that perhaps nothing is fair and when your numbers up, it's simply up, creeps upwards, becoming uncomfortably higher in the public conscience. But does this stop them adding more rules and regulations in the hope of preventing another catastrophe? Course not. SAFETY!!!!!

Back in 1994 when Kurt Cobain punched his own ticket, western culture was saturated with more hard core, hard living, high profile motherfuckers meeting the outlined rockstar criteria, then ya could shake a syringe at. Look at the amount of crazy ass bands from the 80's and early 90's. If you were'nt fucked up on opiates well you just were'nt an artist . If your band had'nt had at least three dead drummers, fuck it you were'nt Spinal Tap. And it was at the time I'm sure, terribly sad to hear of a member from your favourite band, perhaps a guy that you saw playing just a few weeks before, Overdosing on a concoction that would floor an army....but also interesting, really interesting. (See above)

Y'see a drummer, basist or EVEN a guitarist back then was an easily replacable commodity. The show must go on.(Cliff Burton of Metallica's gruesome end served only to increase the band's appeal...well to 14 year old me at any rate) however when the insanely iconic and completely irreplacable Nirvana frontman, decided to call it a day, the aforementioned Safety Bubble went "pop" along with...well you know. All of a sudden, the realization struck home that uh...maybe being a rockstar is'nt quite the barrel of laughs it appeared. Perhaps this life-style could actually end up proving to be hazardous to your health. Maybe it just was'nt safe. I think in the wake of Cobain's sad but hardly surprising demise, the whole Sex, Drugs, yadda, yadda, yadda thing lost some of its glamour (Axl Rose's hotpants did'nt help either)...It's a fair supposition to say that more than a few talented musicians opted to stay on in law school after it started to become clear where option B was likely to lead. (Hep B at best.) A lil' bit o' innocence...Lost. Add a coupla more high profile deaths, films like Trainspotting. Ozzy Ozzbourne's emergence as a semi retarded wreck, Throw in a revitalized trendy clean livin Hollywood lifestyle, and yeah by the mid 1990's the glamour was beginning to lift from the whole spectacle.

So more than ten years pass and we get what we have today. A genre of rock music called Straightedge. Thats NO to drink, NO to drugs...uh..no point. Fred Durst already had the last word on this when he rapped: "I don't even smoke but I like the way it smells" Wooha. We get bands like Cold Play performin at Rock Against Drugs events (may as well be against guitars). And finally we get the old hands of rock, Metallica, Guns n' Roses, Chris Cornell and the rage boys in Audioslave, The Red Hot Chilie Peppers, Greenday, U2, The Foo-fighters, The Who, Pearl Jam,The decrepid Rolling Stones and basically all the survivors of the 1980's and 90's who despite getting clean, sorting out their issues and essentially reaching the point (In their fourties) where they are truely safe, remain the only fucking credible voice out there. (Even though Metallica's St.Anger has been described as the kind of album you can only make when you're happy out.) Their gigs sell out in hours, and although twice or three times the age of their audience, they still constitute the voice of rebellion for this new generation. Cos they've actually been there and their voice is all there is.

Meanwhile, this void, this barren wasteland, this need for another fucked up icon embodying integrity, passion, a meteoric life burning out way too fast before our very eyes, originality. TALENT...grows. Someone is needed to take the drugs so we don't have to, we need someone to tap into the far out reaches of the human mind through that fucked up medium of self abuse....so we can ahem, listen to good music. This vicious appetite continues to grow in the public subconscience. It's only a matter of time before the talent emerges. God help whoever it is, but anyone in any doubt as to the validity of this notion can explain to me; exactly what the fuck it is we know Pete Doherty for.

De de de duhh de duh duh...

2006-03-29T12:58:00.000+01:00

Hidi hi. hidi ho.
I am stuck, in Limbo.
Should I stay,
Should I go?
Leave Galway,
For Big Smoke?

Fuck it. Think I will.
ASAP

Quality Control.

2006-03-28T23:43:00.000+01:00

Also as I'm at it....Besides the express intention of drumming up a bit of good ol' negativity with this blog, which lets face it, makes for better reading than...well I suppose, positivity, I'd like to hear all about whatever it is you're reading currently. Positive or negative (unless its a self help book along the lines of; "Overcome Negativity with Positivity". that would be terrible).

But seriously though, I'm positively sick (I'll stop) to the stomach of wastin my time trawlin through thrash, which I then feel obliged to finish. A prime example being Toby Young's "How to Lose Friends and Alienate People", a title which could've incorporated the word "Reader's" into it. A nasty little book, by a nasty little man, however I was most of the way through the indulgent piece of shit before I realised this. (Did'nt help that the man can actually write well)

Scar Tissue on the otherhand, (yer man Kiedis' autobiography), genuinely looked awful. Like it was going to be a banal 400 page long boast about the girls he fucked, the drugs he ingested...rock'n'roll with a dash of rehab remorse etc. etc. Which is exactly what it was, minus the latter ingredient, the lack of which served to make it far from banal. It's definitely the most compulsive reading I've done recently, I mean I could'nt put the thing down....And then my best friend dies, so I skip his funeral and get high for a coupla weeks, nearly die. Get clean for a few years, suddenly really feel like getting high, so I check into a Motel, and well, nearly die...You could'nt make those stories of his up, and I'm pretty certain he did'nt. The fact that he's not that likeable, soulful or any of the other crap that autobiographies try to convey (Mr. Nice) to their readers, does'nt even come into it. Scar tissue kept me awake at night and gave me fucked up dreams when I slept. I think after finishing it, I was given my first proper insight into what those wretched junkies in the doorways of Vicar St, and Christchurch are really up against. It's a scary description of the hold those drugs can get over a human, and helps me understand how the homeless, toothless 29yr old at the top of Grafton Street could have burned away all his bridges, to the point he's at today.

Good book so, but I would'nt have read it (The book sat on my shelf for over a year) unless I'd been told I simply had to. I would'nt have read Dan Brown if someone had been kind enough to point out that I simply should'nt. And it's books along the likes of Brown's that I need help avoiding, because although reading a book that insults your intelligence (Robert Langdon is Brown's middle finger to anyone with an IQ of more than 25) is akin to listening to an idiot ramble on incessantly, I still find it almost impossible to not finish a book I've started. Prevention is better than cure. Lemme know what ye reckon's worth the while and what's not.

By the way, currently reading Birdsong by Sebastian Faulk. Flowery prose set in the trenches of World War One, with the manditory chunks of flesh and bone lovingly described as they part company with their owners. Grim as hell. Makes me feel happier about living in the Bebo Generation though...probably should'nt count my birdflu victims yet.

Jesus. this blog stuff is bloody addictive.

BeBollox

2006-03-28T22:24:00.000+01:00

Boom! Hello, welcome to my blog...where I intend on continuing my vendetta against that annoying fuckin bebo site, in slightly easier to manage format than Livejournal .com.
This morning for instance, on opening my e-mail account I was hardly surprised to notice that I was the proud recipient of not fewer than 6 messages from people that I barely know, forwarding on corny sob stories about dead retarded kids playing baseball and the like. Equally pleasent are the death curse forwards that threaten anyone foolish enough to break the chain, with bowel cancer. Fuck that, chain letters were an old piece of nastiness when I was 18, but to be on the cusp of 24 readin through waffle like that makes me want to..I dunno, get bowel cancer. (I should probably send that one on...)
Seriously though. Most of the people passin this crap around are University graduates. With degrees. Bebo also happens to be the gayest sounding (I've never yet attempted to spell gayest before, that must be correct?)...yeah, gayest sounding organisation or thing I've ever affiliated myself to, with the possible exception of Rock-Soc..oh and also Planet Hollywood. Amnesty International..Ow.

For those of you....uhh...Barry, who have already heard my call to end the madness and kill the brutal oppressors of my gmail inbox, I say: stand firm. We can make a difference. Post shit on this blog site, and never, let us utter that foul double syllable again. Haza. Haza. Haza.