Miley Who?

Emergency blog!! Rock n’ roll super mom is mad!! I was among the many who, for lack of anything better on TV to watch, mindlessly and unfortunately tuned into the VMAs last night. Not only was it an insipid dedication to almost all that is mundane and decidedly not rock with the music industry, but it’s only salvageable moments may have been looking at Jared Leto (though not hearing him…really dude, Kanye West is a rock star?) and seeing Lady Gaga perform.

I am not a huge Lady Gaga fan, more of a rocker myself, but I definitely admire her talent and originality.
What pisses me off, is that I just read an article saying how Miley Cyrus pulled off a performance that was more shocking than Gaga’s. The article may have touched on some valid points, hinting that Gaga was out of ideas reusing the schtick of starting out in a milk carton (had she done this before? I didn’t know) and then entertaining us with wig changes and smearing makeup which, I guess the writer felt was not terribly original. Finally, the singer turned around to show us her thong. (And by the way, were those butt implants? I don’t remember her posterior being quite so formidable?)
Like I said, these may be valid points but I was still impressed by Gaga’s beautiful voice and capability to pull of an entertaining and artistic performance.
Miley, on the other hand, showed no originality. Showing herself to be the spoiled brat that she is, who is still desperately trying to escape her Disney persona she childishly held a foam finger between her legs and stuck out her tongue (which by the way is impressively long, but, all the same I am getting sick of seeing it.) And by the way, the foam finger was also unoriginal to begin with, never mind the fact that Miley thought it was so clever that she saw fit to perform the move ad nauseum.
My point being, if not already clear, is that Lady Gaga is a talented woman, who gives, first and foremost, an artistic performance, which may happen to be shocking, while Miley Cyrus’ performance is no more than a desperate cry for attention with no talent or originality to back it up and is just about as shocking as a high school kid putting up her middle finger. She might as well have flashed the audience and gone home, and, quite frankly, I wish she did,

I’m Breaking Up With You Because

Recently, I was inspired by a blog written by favorite new blogger The Office In Betweener. (If you haven’t read his blog you really should). He said he was trying to follow a blog written by a woman who was trying to go on 30 dates by the time she was 30 and blogging about them.

This does seem like an interesting premise for a blog and it made me reflect on the many, many dates I went on when I was younger. However, being on the rock n’ roll dating scene, they weren’t so much dates as a series of glorified booty calls. Still, my experiences prepared me a virtual pupu platter of men which I sampled without the complications of a full on relationship.

The problem, or maybe not the problem, but one of the desired outcomes, is that these relationships often fizzle out rather than coming to an ugly ending in which you tell each other how you really feel.  However, sometimes I wish I could tell them what idiots (cute idiots, but idiots nonetheless) they appeared to be at various times. So here I go, vicariously making fools of all of them in open Dear John letters. I will change the names to protect the innocent.

Dear Eddie,

Because you have a mommy complex, because it is not cute to put the adjective ‘Little’ before your name when we all know you are about 5 years older than most of the people in the club, and because 5’2 is definitely too short for a man.

Dear Jamie,

Because I really can’t be with a guy who can’t tear himself away from a mirror, who takes longer to get ready in the morning then I do, who may be gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and if not missed a really good opportunity, and, oh yeah, who has a very obvious nose job.

Dear Marc,

Because you really need to get a car. I simply can’t be driving you home every time after we hook up. Also, the glam heavy metal thing is kind of getting old. I suggest you update your look and seriously look into a day job. You’re really getting a bit long in the tooth for all this.

Dear Tracy,

Because you didn’t take your shirt off when we…you know, but I could still see that your quite overweight. Because you made funny noises when you…you know, and just because you had somewhat of a career back in the 90s, your really not all that.

Dear  Kurt,

Because the 90s are calling and they want their dread locks back. Because you blasted rap music at top volume in the car when we were driving home (and not even cool, rock type rap). Because you live way out in the valley and think it’s cool. Because I don’t like the fact that your huge dog sleeps in the bed. And, oh yeah, because you’re a stupid idiot!!

Thanks. I feel much better now!!

Crazy Little Sister

This is a song that my son performed at his School of Rock Acoustic Tuesday performance. He was called up last minute when one of the other kids didn’t show up but despite him not quite being prepared, I still think he managed to shine through. Re my post ‘Calling All Rock Stars’, I am looking to my son to save the future of rock n’ roll…one kid at a time!

Calling All Rock Stars

1984 was a great year for music. I don’t know if George Orwell’s predictions of a dystopia had anything to do with it, but 1984, to me, stands out as a year when every heavy metal band would reach it’s pinnacle in creating the optimum LPs all captured on glorious vinyl. This year would be a climax of two decades or so, of previous hard rock and heavy metal glory.

Yes, I’m talking about the Led Zeppelin, Kiss, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Metallica, and even you Motley Crue. The glorious rock stars of yesteryear.


Now let’s take a step forward and look at the state of music today. Where are all those heavy metal gods, the true rock stars.  Where are the larger than life bulges in the pants, the boys that look like girls and girls that look like boys? Sure I understand that all of this belongs to an error that has since died out. But what have we replaced it with? Sappy banjo playing preppies, mediocre PC nerds, pseudo disco hipsters, ultra sensitive emo kids with weird hair, or, if we’re lucky, bratty second rate punk bands. It’s no wonder that our children are still wearing our rock shirts and listening to our records, now so smartly available in CD format and apparently all over the internet.


Now back to the past. The year is 1985. Tipper Gore leads the PMRC, a committee of repressed housewives, dedicated to taking all the fun out of rock n’ roll. At the time, I did not see the PMRC as a huge threat, but rather an opportunity for rockers to unite and show how intelligent they truly were, while simultaneously proving the stupidity of said bored housewives who’s biggest victory seemed to be putting an easily ignorable label on albums warning of explicit lyrics and, ultimately, wanting us to buy the album EVEN MORE!!


But now, looking back on things, did Tipper Gore win? Surely more raunchy rock stars emerged since then, producing bawdy lyrics and hip grinds. But it seems it was all with a neatly packaged, glossy sheen, that has since disappeared completely to be replaced by a piece of metal, shrink rapped and presented, as if to say, “Here, buy me. This is what you should be listening to. You don’t need to think about anything at all.”

Indeed I feel sorry for young girls whose best wet dreams will prominently feature a Jonas Brother. And while Radiohead is hardly the worst band in the world, and while I understand the feelings of social inadequacy, probably better than anyone else, nobody is more of a creepy weirdo than Alice Cooper. And it’s highly unlikely that “Symptom of the Universe” had anything remotely to do with recycling.


So I conclude with an urgent plea to rockers of the world to put down your coffee cups, unite and rise with a thundering voice. To paraphrase Nora Roberts, “Rock n’ roll is restless, rude, defiant and daring. Once in a while, someone comes along who truly understands, who has the gift to transfer all those needs and emotions into music.”  Where is this person?  Banished to a bar band career because the record company is too afraid to unleash the raw emotions that constitute a rock star? Who will be our savior to deliver us from the corporate grindstone that rock n’ roll has now become?