By Ginger | February 17, 2000
Rock is here, and I won’t say I told you so.
Well it happened, and is happening, after all this time. It’s coming home. It’s back big time. It’s gonna be big. It’s gonna be wild. And it’s gonna be loud.
When I was a kid me and my mates thought nothing of buying a ticket for a band we didn’t know much about, because you were guaranteed a massive show with bombs, volume and rock stars. For far too long kids have been buying tickets to see bands dressed just like them, looking for all intents and purposes like they’re bored and a bit lost on a big stage.
Where have all the performers been? Well, they’ve been hiding out until they can show off their goods to an appreciative crowd. A few years ago they would have been laughed at and seen as being old-fashioned.
Who am I talking about? The ROCK STARS, that’s who: the people that live the lifestyle you want to live; the people that make you want to get yourself in a band because real life is just too depressing. Showing off is this year’s misery. On they shall come. Marching to the tune of a thousand hand-claps like a baying rally of hungry animals, frothing at the mouth and ready for some mayhem, the likes of which have not been seen since the Romans started wearing trousers. The army of the living.
Saturday night will never be the same again. On every block around Great Britain there will be bands playing that hire in extra PA and lights. They’ll do it because if they don’t they’ll look puny next to the band who did just that the night before. The hair will be long and the solos will be short. Good times are around the corner, and the only difference between the rock of old and the rock of new will be that the rock of new will be better, louder, wilder and much, much more exciting.
We have suffered from personal complexes ever since Kurt Cobain hit the shops. Nothing against old Kurt there, but come on… he’s dead and we are alive. We don’t want to hear how fucked up musicians are. We’ve heard it before – from the likes of The Wildhearts, amongst many others – and it was OK as a distraction. It was better to hear about real rock ‘n’ roll casualties than sit listening to some grunge sob story. But the furthest anyone can go on the ‘fucked-up-ometer’ is blowing their head off with a shotgun. Kurt Cobain was much cooler when he was alive. Now we have to put up with rubbish like <insert band of choice here> because it’s OK to suck a little. He’s got a lot to answer for, that boy.
People are still fascinated by Richey Manic’s disappearance. Richey was a great guy, but wouldn’t he be of more use here making some entertainment? The art of being willfully absent as a form of entertainment must surely be dead. Unless someone starts putting the ‘boom’ into ‘a wop bop a lula a wop bam boom’ then we are going to Hell in a Ford Fiesta. And that, my little savage rock demons, is a bad thing. Punishable for eternity as a memory. Memories suck compared to the real thing. The past sucks. The only good thing about the past is that it’s a gauge by which to make things better. But it’s gone, and good riddance.
We are here now, and doesn’t it feel fucking electric?
Clothing stores like Top Shop are turning onto the new rock thing. And if someone doesn’t get their lazy rock arses in to some tight-fitting leather jeans they are gonna leave us behind and we will become followers. Followers of our own creation.
Britpop / Britrock is dead. If you own a guitar and are into breathing as more than a chore, you owe it to your country to Rock. Rock mighty. Rock proud. If you do not heed this message you will miss the best time of your life. The bus is leaving. There will be passengers and there will be drivers, but the bus will most definitely be leaving. All aboard who’s coming aboard. Destination? You decide. We’ve got a full tank of petrol and we’re wearing sunglasses. It’s the year 2000 and it’s gonna rock like a motherfucker. Is that not cool? Does that not ROCK?
It’s a glorious time. We are very lucky. And we deserve it for listening to so much crap for so long. Our ears are offended and in need of refreshment. Go out. Form a band. If you’re good I’ll get you a deal. That’s all you have to do… NOT SUCK. Let’s sort out the suckers from the fuckers. No prisoners, only glory. That is the future.
ROCK OR DIE.