Audio By Carbonatix
A virus is currently spreading among today’s young people. If left
unchecked, it could have the far-reaching effect of rendering an
entire generation between ages 20 and 40 culturally stagnant.
It can’t be prevented with a face mask—although earplugs would
be a step in the right direction—but what’s most tragic is that
the young are enthusiastically welcoming it into their homes, cars and
iPods. Even, after a few shots, into their karaoke parties.
This infestation is called classic rock. And it needs to be
stopped.
Back when your folks were young, do you think they were listening to
their dad’s Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller records? Hell no.
They were forging their individualism through Janis Joplin and The
Beatles, Bob Dylan and The Rolling Stones.
Their music fit the times; it was fun to smoke weed and drop acid
to, and it bled into their politics, art and literature. Yeah, it could
be reductive and corny, but it was theirs.
Then they grew up and got into cocaine and facial hair, but still
liked to party. They picked up AC/DC and Rush LPs, maybe a little
Electric Light Orchestra now and then. These new jams may not have been
saving the world, but they were expanding consciousness, and again, it
was theirs.
Yet somehow, all these years later, hippie, prog and arena rock
still dominate the guitar-based non-country airwaves. According to
recent figures from New Hampshire-based trade publication Inside
Radio, there are 485 classic-rock stations in the U.S., compared to
171 modern-rock stations (Slipknot, Linkin Park), 369 adult-alternative
rock stations (Death Cab for Cutie, David Byrne) and 312 rock stations
(Metallica, Van Halen). Meanwhile, moldy old-timers like Bruce
Springsteen, The Eagles and Neil Diamond dominated the list of
top-grossing 2008 concert acts.
Young people who subsist on classic rock are traitors to their
contemporaries. The flower children had their time in the sun, and it’s
frankly rather sick that we’re still worshipping their musical icons.
And we can’t go blaming Clear Channel for people’s shitty taste,
either, as so many stoned media-studies majors are wont to do.
“If only the corporate radio suits would stray from the formula,”
they cry, American Spirit cigarettes ashing onto their ironic beards,
“the American cultural landscape would radically
transform—overnight!—into a diverse mecca of sounds and
styles.”
Rather, the fault lies with the lazy listeners. As our baby-boomer
parents head into retirement, we’re taking over as the dominant
consumers of media and listening to the same crap they did—and
do. According to Cathy Devine, vice president of research for Inside
Radio, our age group is an essential slice of classic-rock radio’s
target demographic. She adds, anecdotally, that we appear to constitute
a significant percentage of its concert attendees as well.
Don’t get me wrong, anyone without a working knowledge of Blonde
on Blonde and Rumours is missing out. But the 1,500th listen
to “Start Me Up” really should involve grown men crying. Our generation
has no lack of quality artists, but the vast majority of us are too
lazy to seek them out.
Think of it this way: Probably every other person sharing your WiFi
connection at the coffee shop right now knows the lyrics to “You Shook
Me All Night Long,” but how many of them can sing along with a single
song by My Morning Jacket, TV on the Radio, Joanna Newsom, Of Montreal
or any of the other best rock artists of our era?
There are plenty of places to find cutting-edge music, often
for free. Besides left-of-the-dial radio stations, there are Web-based
and satellite radio, MP3 sites and plenty of others. Members of the
so-called Internet age have no excuse for listening to classic rock
other than sheer brainwashing from our parents.
This is generational warfare, and we’re losing. So let’s fight back.
Turn off the Jethro Tull. Walk out of dinner parties where the host
puts Heart on the stereo. Bolt at the mere mention of foxy ladies.
Huey Lewis be damned, let’s drive a stake through the heart of
classic rock and roll until it is no longer beating. Stop kickin’ down
the cobblestones and, for God’s sake, stop feeling groovy.
