Full-Blown Rock Explodo in yo FACE, Mama Cass!
"Rock is the essence of all, and that essence may not be tainted. P.O.E." -a better, more rock-a go-go (KMFDM reference!), albeit non-existent version of "Dr. Strangelove" that Kubrick didn't have the stones to make...
I'm watching this video today*, consisting of this young woman with a very pop-vibe running around, the apparently indispensable hot guy, she's doing a very I-have-no-particular-plan-of-action-or-daily-schedule-so-I-may-need-to-think-about-picking-up-a-palm-pilot-to-fix-that-or-something-type-deal**, all of which I'm watching with passive interest, thinking of better lyrics (yeah yeah, Hell or High water, yeah yeah, I’m Supa-fly, yeah yeah, got Cosmic Crutches... No? Screw you guys, my mom says I rock super-hard-core.) But wait! They's mo! Pulled out of the video director's ass, she suddenly starts whaling this drum set, looking SHO DAMN AWSHUM! Of course, ANYONE whaling drums looks totally shweet, but she actually looked like she knew how to play. Not unlikely in any form, but still, pleasing and confusing at the same time. So far, as stated before, the song, like the girl and the video, in toto, seemed pretty pop-loaded. But now, especially, just listening to the drums, you get this underlying foundation of badass, like the song has a chewy, bubblegum center of frikkin Rock-Yo-Mama! I mean, does the song rock? I can't tell anymore. Maybe I'm thrusting my over-inflated ideal of rock onto this poor, unsuspecting young woman, totally unaware and undeserving of my lecherous rock-thrusting. I feel like a leering, violation-intent Spain in a turn-of-the-century "Maiden Cuba" American political cartoon. Metaphorically, of course. Yeah.
So does it rock or not? As far as I can tell, it's reminiscent of Sheryl Crow, but more rock-imagua, and kind of like Liz Phair now that she's abandoned the somewhat-nameless artistic credibility of screamin-girl-rock for Pop-tarts. What's the deal? At what point does it all simplify, where I can choose sides, and proudly state, "You people, on the other sign of this visible dotted line, over in the other fort, (which is much more solidly built, with much more expensive stuff) but lacking in the true need to kick so much damn ass for what's really on that last nerve right now, even on that poor bag boy, gettin off work at 10 p.m., who has class tomorrow morning, making minimum wage doing things for people who drive minivans and SUVs and damn KIAs who listen to YOUR music, and he just wants to go to bed, we just WHALING ON HIS ASS SO DAMN HARD-CORE LUCHADOR-STYLE and he loves every damn minute of it. That's what WE gots! You got nuthin'! Money? Hah! A household name? HAH! We'll always win, cause we run on diesel n' cold fusion made from, you know, like, the insides of golf balls where they's keepin the frikkin ROCKAKALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIROCKUS in this bizz-o!" And that's what I'd say. Yeah. 'N' stuff.
What is Rock, anyway? Is it that special feeling when you hold hands with your best gal or guy, when you catch a perfect wave, when you cheer for the home team ("hic-a-doo-lah!") Or is it drunken make-out sessions around a fire-pit at the beach with your acquaintances cheering the imminent sexual display? Only Dio truly knows, and in Ronnie James we trust. Amen.
* The song is apparently "Overdrive" by Kate Rose. A sufficiently rock-tastic name for a song, but likewise for the artist?
** Yet another charming matter of my workplace, where the ever-purposive palm-pilot has become so widespread in use, not merely for its use as scheduler and calculator, but also as portable pornographic film viewer.
{Alex doesn't think you're ready to rock this jelly. He's just that damn Bootylicious. Yay Stevie Nicks.}