extremely interesting....
i highly suggest reading this in its entirety....i know it's long...but come on
THE DEATH OF THE ROCK STAR
An Essay on the Extinction of the Species
By Sean Foran
Shamefully watching an “Osbournes” rerun the other day, I wondered if The Prince of Darkness, nodding off on a massive bed in a mansion that could shelter a third world country, ever pondered what happened to his decadent days of biting off bat heads, snorting ants, and barking at the moon. His former band, Black Sabbath, will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year alongside The Sex Pistols, who briefly employed a legendary hellion of their own named Sid Vicious. The bassist could barely play his instrument, channeling his energies instead into shooting smack, carving his chest with rusty razor blades and staggering into infamy as the moronic yet iconic face of punk.
THOSE WERE THE DAYS.
In the new millennium, rock stars are far from the legendary rogues of years past. Bono was just named Time magazine’s “Co-Person of the Year” for campaigning to erase the debt of developing nations. Chris Martin lends his celebrity to lobby fair trade. And environmental activists have even baited Thom Yorke out of the recording studio- the Radiohead frontman was recently asked by the Friends Of The Earth Campaign to meet with British Prime Minister Tony Blair about global warning. (The only thing Ozzy was warming in his heyday was the Alamo…was his urine.) Musicians are even taking better car of their own bodies. Backstage tour riders loo0k like Whole Foods gracery lists and Sheryl Crow’s in better shape than her fiancé. The pagans all turned vegan, trading pills for Pilates and strong weed for good deeds. But before you sell your signed Hammer of the Gods hardcover on eBay or tear down that Iggy Pop poster (props to you if it’s the one with him rubbing peanut butter on his nipples), sober up and realize the extinction of the mythical rock star didn’t happen overnight. It’s been a slow creep rooted in introspection, modernization, and survival of the species.
AIN’T FAME A BITCH
Throughout the ‘90s, the grunge movement chipped away at the rock star myth. Serving as the soundtrack to Generation X, bands turned their backs on the flamboyant, misogynistic world of hair metal, striving instead for a deeper connection with their fan base. These newly anointed idols were apostles of despair, making self-loathing vogue and giving rise to the anti-star persona. The disenchantment and skepticism of their growing fame forged strong ties with an audience that viewed the new brand of rock star as more accessible and socially relevant. Arrogant showmanship and groupie conquests became taboo, with Kurt Cobain sporting the occasional sundress onstage to blur gender lines ans starkly contrast the “cock-rock” image of his predecessors. Yet the Grunge Gods were obviously no choirboys. Heroin cut short the lives of Cobain, Layne Staley (Alice in Chains), Kristen Pffaf (Hole) and countless others. Their habits, however, were never worn as badges of bravado, but rather elixirs to quell the pain and alienation they claimed to deeply harbor. In an era that brought mass awareness to the tolls of drug addiction, grunge exposed the tragic downside to the world of chemical excess that The Stones and Lou Reed were canonized for.
Grunge also cast a spotlight on bands that were previously under the mainstream radar. Bestowed with critical blessings from their flannel-clad brethren, alrternative bands such as Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. were able to carve out a niche for modest success without the aid of heavy radio play. Genres and generations to follow still maintain this personal relationship with their core audience. Although millions of fans worship an artist like Conor Oberst, he openly cringes at the rock star label. Instead, the singer uses his Saddle Creek label to unionize a talent pool of regional musicians, promoting and collaborating on records that have put a little city like Omaha on the musical map. Canada’s rise to indie-rock royalty has taken his model of community to the next level. Fans of Toronto-based Broken Social Scene know the group spreads its talent thinner than a coked-up supermodel, swapping bands and democratizing their talent for art’s sake, not for fame. With this many master chefs in the kitchen, who needs a fucked up rock star to ruin a band’s collective dynamic?
TUNE IN, LOG ON, AND FIND OUT
Another important factor in the death of the rock star is the tech boom and modern splintered media environment. Rolling Stone and Spin no longer monopolize music journalism as more narrowly-focused indie music magazines have proliferated, and print communication in general has taken a backseat to the web for accessing material on your favorite bands, MTV’s foray into reality telebision has also devalued the need to invest heavily in your visual image. Epic rock videos like “September Rain” where Axl and crew acted out a lame “Dynasty” episode have become passé. Independent stations Fuse and current not allow artists to economically reach a segmented audience without relying on big bucks from record companies to compete for airtime on major outlets. In addition, we have individual band web sites with e mail access and bulletin board postings, community band sites like MySpace.com, DVD documentaries, blogs and plenty of bandwith to immerse ourselves in whatever highly specific music environment we choose. This allows us to “know” our favorite bands better than we ever have, bringing them down from their mysterious pedestal and exposing their core humanity.
Rewind to 1977 when Kiss fans rabidly awaited the television airing of the movie Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park. Unless you had the privilege of seeing Kiss live, this was the first chance most fans had to enjoy an extended view of the biggest rock stars on the planet. The buildup carried enough excitement to rival the first moonwalk (Neil’s, not Michael’s). Today, we can download pictures, videos, and mp3s for most major artists, creating a sense of ubiquity that broadens our access but lessens a band’s mystique. Consider this flashback: Doors fans still debate what happened at the now infamous 1970 Dinner Key Auditorium concert in Miami. To this day it remains unclear if a wasted Jim Morrison exposed himself to the crowd, ultimately resulting in his arrest. In out modern, digitally equipped society, every cell phone camera close to the stage would have captured Morrison’s member. Doors fans around the world would have known the truth within hours, watching it on the net and debating via chat rooms whether the singer’s lizard was king-size or just a salamander. There’s simply nothing about performers that can’t be unearthed immediately on the information superhighway…including their dirty laundry.
BRAVE NEW WORLD
Tom Petty once said in an interview that Guns and Roses frightened him on tour, calling them “the last dangerous band in rock and roll.” He’s probably right and maybe the statement signifies that it’s time for music fans to evolve with their idols and leave the tabloid fodder to the US Weekly crowd. Does it really matter if Bowie and Jagger has a Brokeback Mountain moment or if keith Richard really did swap out his toxic blood in Switzerland for a fresh supply? There’s a lot of scary shit going on in the world, and if musicians want to use their clout to help, I’m in full support. Can we just balance it out with a little naughtiness now and then? I’m not asking anyone to asphyxiate themselves on their own vomit or carve pentagrams into small farm animals. Just give me a couple of news stories to use when warning my kids about the evils of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. On that fatefull night in Miami before the Reverent Jim, excuse the cliche, “partied like a rock star” and blacked out in front of a stadium full on onlookers, he delivered a call to arms, slurring, “I’m not talking about a revolution and I’m not talking about a demonstration, I’m talking about having a good time. Are you ready?” I’m ready, Jim- as long as I’m home by 10 o’clock for “The O’Reily Factor.” I heard Bono’s on tonight.
THE DEATH OF THE ROCK STAR
An Essay on the Extinction of the Species
By Sean Foran
Shamefully watching an “Osbournes” rerun the other day, I wondered if The Prince of Darkness, nodding off on a massive bed in a mansion that could shelter a third world country, ever pondered what happened to his decadent days of biting off bat heads, snorting ants, and barking at the moon. His former band, Black Sabbath, will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year alongside The Sex Pistols, who briefly employed a legendary hellion of their own named Sid Vicious. The bassist could barely play his instrument, channeling his energies instead into shooting smack, carving his chest with rusty razor blades and staggering into infamy as the moronic yet iconic face of punk.
THOSE WERE THE DAYS.
In the new millennium, rock stars are far from the legendary rogues of years past. Bono was just named Time magazine’s “Co-Person of the Year” for campaigning to erase the debt of developing nations. Chris Martin lends his celebrity to lobby fair trade. And environmental activists have even baited Thom Yorke out of the recording studio- the Radiohead frontman was recently asked by the Friends Of The Earth Campaign to meet with British Prime Minister Tony Blair about global warning. (The only thing Ozzy was warming in his heyday was the Alamo…was his urine.) Musicians are even taking better car of their own bodies. Backstage tour riders loo0k like Whole Foods gracery lists and Sheryl Crow’s in better shape than her fiancé. The pagans all turned vegan, trading pills for Pilates and strong weed for good deeds. But before you sell your signed Hammer of the Gods hardcover on eBay or tear down that Iggy Pop poster (props to you if it’s the one with him rubbing peanut butter on his nipples), sober up and realize the extinction of the mythical rock star didn’t happen overnight. It’s been a slow creep rooted in introspection, modernization, and survival of the species.
AIN’T FAME A BITCH
Throughout the ‘90s, the grunge movement chipped away at the rock star myth. Serving as the soundtrack to Generation X, bands turned their backs on the flamboyant, misogynistic world of hair metal, striving instead for a deeper connection with their fan base. These newly anointed idols were apostles of despair, making self-loathing vogue and giving rise to the anti-star persona. The disenchantment and skepticism of their growing fame forged strong ties with an audience that viewed the new brand of rock star as more accessible and socially relevant. Arrogant showmanship and groupie conquests became taboo, with Kurt Cobain sporting the occasional sundress onstage to blur gender lines ans starkly contrast the “cock-rock” image of his predecessors. Yet the Grunge Gods were obviously no choirboys. Heroin cut short the lives of Cobain, Layne Staley (Alice in Chains), Kristen Pffaf (Hole) and countless others. Their habits, however, were never worn as badges of bravado, but rather elixirs to quell the pain and alienation they claimed to deeply harbor. In an era that brought mass awareness to the tolls of drug addiction, grunge exposed the tragic downside to the world of chemical excess that The Stones and Lou Reed were canonized for.
Grunge also cast a spotlight on bands that were previously under the mainstream radar. Bestowed with critical blessings from their flannel-clad brethren, alrternative bands such as Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. were able to carve out a niche for modest success without the aid of heavy radio play. Genres and generations to follow still maintain this personal relationship with their core audience. Although millions of fans worship an artist like Conor Oberst, he openly cringes at the rock star label. Instead, the singer uses his Saddle Creek label to unionize a talent pool of regional musicians, promoting and collaborating on records that have put a little city like Omaha on the musical map. Canada’s rise to indie-rock royalty has taken his model of community to the next level. Fans of Toronto-based Broken Social Scene know the group spreads its talent thinner than a coked-up supermodel, swapping bands and democratizing their talent for art’s sake, not for fame. With this many master chefs in the kitchen, who needs a fucked up rock star to ruin a band’s collective dynamic?
TUNE IN, LOG ON, AND FIND OUT
Another important factor in the death of the rock star is the tech boom and modern splintered media environment. Rolling Stone and Spin no longer monopolize music journalism as more narrowly-focused indie music magazines have proliferated, and print communication in general has taken a backseat to the web for accessing material on your favorite bands, MTV’s foray into reality telebision has also devalued the need to invest heavily in your visual image. Epic rock videos like “September Rain” where Axl and crew acted out a lame “Dynasty” episode have become passé. Independent stations Fuse and current not allow artists to economically reach a segmented audience without relying on big bucks from record companies to compete for airtime on major outlets. In addition, we have individual band web sites with e mail access and bulletin board postings, community band sites like MySpace.com, DVD documentaries, blogs and plenty of bandwith to immerse ourselves in whatever highly specific music environment we choose. This allows us to “know” our favorite bands better than we ever have, bringing them down from their mysterious pedestal and exposing their core humanity.
Rewind to 1977 when Kiss fans rabidly awaited the television airing of the movie Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park. Unless you had the privilege of seeing Kiss live, this was the first chance most fans had to enjoy an extended view of the biggest rock stars on the planet. The buildup carried enough excitement to rival the first moonwalk (Neil’s, not Michael’s). Today, we can download pictures, videos, and mp3s for most major artists, creating a sense of ubiquity that broadens our access but lessens a band’s mystique. Consider this flashback: Doors fans still debate what happened at the now infamous 1970 Dinner Key Auditorium concert in Miami. To this day it remains unclear if a wasted Jim Morrison exposed himself to the crowd, ultimately resulting in his arrest. In out modern, digitally equipped society, every cell phone camera close to the stage would have captured Morrison’s member. Doors fans around the world would have known the truth within hours, watching it on the net and debating via chat rooms whether the singer’s lizard was king-size or just a salamander. There’s simply nothing about performers that can’t be unearthed immediately on the information superhighway…including their dirty laundry.
BRAVE NEW WORLD
Tom Petty once said in an interview that Guns and Roses frightened him on tour, calling them “the last dangerous band in rock and roll.” He’s probably right and maybe the statement signifies that it’s time for music fans to evolve with their idols and leave the tabloid fodder to the US Weekly crowd. Does it really matter if Bowie and Jagger has a Brokeback Mountain moment or if keith Richard really did swap out his toxic blood in Switzerland for a fresh supply? There’s a lot of scary shit going on in the world, and if musicians want to use their clout to help, I’m in full support. Can we just balance it out with a little naughtiness now and then? I’m not asking anyone to asphyxiate themselves on their own vomit or carve pentagrams into small farm animals. Just give me a couple of news stories to use when warning my kids about the evils of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. On that fatefull night in Miami before the Reverent Jim, excuse the cliche, “partied like a rock star” and blacked out in front of a stadium full on onlookers, he delivered a call to arms, slurring, “I’m not talking about a revolution and I’m not talking about a demonstration, I’m talking about having a good time. Are you ready?” I’m ready, Jim- as long as I’m home by 10 o’clock for “The O’Reily Factor.” I heard Bono’s on tonight.