Thoughts on Rock and Roll
We used to know where to go to find rock and roll. Well, maybe we didn’t, but our parents did. It used to be easy. If they wanted to find it they would simply buy two tickets for Dylan or Zeppelin or pick-up the newest release from The Kinks or The Rolling Stones. Wait. Perhaps we should start over. Since there are those fans among us who believe rock and roll still is that easy to find, maybe we should define “rock and roll.” Better yet, perhaps I should define rock and roll.
The reason I’m stepping in here is because many still believe rock and roll to be a particular sound: I don’t. My parents definitely did. I have friends that do. And, it is true; there was a time when it was a sound but only by coincidence. It was never the sound itself. The sound just helped to pinpoint something else—something bigger. We needed the theatrics of Hendrix, the histrionics of the Stooges, the antics of the Who to help us isolate something nearly intangible. A couple generations ago the sound found that right moment. The two coexisted. Because of this, the moment was amplified, God saw that it was good and we called it “rock ’n roll.” So say we all.
Now because the moment and the sound were both there at the same time and place, in some minds, the label got stuck to the sound because they thought that the sound caused the moment. Let’s call these people rock and roll “fans.” Now, at the same time, others assumed that “rock ’n’ roll” was that moment itself. We’ll call these people rock and roll “lovers.” And this is where we split, father against son, brother against brother, animal against other animal ad infinitum. This is the difference between rock and roll fans and rock and roll lovers.
Now because the moment and the sound were both there at the same time and place, in some minds, the label got stuck to the sound because they thought that the sound caused the moment. Let’s call these people rock and roll “fans.” Now, at the same time, others assumed that “rock ’n’ roll” was that moment itself. We’ll call these people rock and roll “lovers.” And this is where we split, father against son, brother against brother, animal against other animal ad infinitum. This is the difference between rock and roll fans and rock and roll lovers.
On one side you have the fans that think rock and roll is a sound and they love all things boisterous and rhythmic. These are the happy ones, the satisfied ones, the ones that can in good conscience attend every concert from Maroon 5 to My Morning Jacket—buy every album from Scott Stapp to Radiohead and attend a local show by the band with three drummers and a bass player who stomps an effects board to eek out Pink Floyd covers and enjoy it all equally never thinking themselves walking contradictions, or as the rock and roll lovers like to think of them, hypocrites.
On the other side, you have the rock and roll lovers who indulge in those simple, elusive moments when the spirit of rock and roll shows itself. It may be at a show or on an album or on the radio, but it’s definitely not every show, the whole album, or everything on the radio. And it definitely has nothing to do with Maroon 5. Sorry. It has everything to do with those moments that get you out of your skin—those moments that leave you feeling lighter and more alive. The more you know about rock and roll, the more you’ve honed your ear, the more sensitive you are to those truly great, preternatural moments, the less you find them. Maybe the fans are the lucky ones—the ones that can still listen to pop radio and feel it. They don’t have to look as far. They can always retreat to the sound. But for the lovers, after we’ve poured over the taped recordings of Daniel Johnston and scrounged around used record stores for Seam albums (if we could just find one more My Bloody Valentine track) we begin to feel despondent, as though we’ve exhausted the worlds supply of rock and roll moments.
The truth is there are still a lot of great moments out there waiting to be discovered—waiting to be created. But it is also true that in the crowded market of internet distribution and friendly, Flash, recording apps, they are less commonplace. We’ve acquired an appetite for the obscure—for the inventive—the new. We lovers want new music to build upon what went before, not merely recycle it. We are the hardest to please.
So to the ones that play shows that no one attends, the ones that put out records that no one buys, the ones that get buried for not being marketable enough, for those that care more about what there songs mean than how they sound, keep playing. Because even though we don’t always know where to find it, we’re always listening.
