The Night We Saved Rock N’ Roll… Almost – An Xperience Story
Written by Staff on October 10, 2024
The Night We Saved Rock N’ Roll… Almost – An Xperience Story – by Rob Skane.
Three friends, none of us known for our decision-making skills, tried to save rock n’ roll. While the mission wasn’t completed, we got our point across, pretty sure… Are you sitting down?
There may or may not have been a band that sang something along the lines of “… you can still rock in America …” and we all agree that was noble sentiment in 1983 or whenever that tripe was infecting our precious FM radio waves.
My friends and I were still living aurally large off of the fat of the new wave/punk rock/power pop land. We loved it loud, for damn sure. And then it all stopped, for us anyway. One afternoon, this absolute poison came spewing out of the Radio Shack car stereo speakers that I had painstakingly installed in the 1975 Oldsmobile Delta 88. We were mortified. We were livid. And we were afraid. Me, Fang, and Paul almost shed tears the first time we heard the band that may or may not have been called Night Ranger. It was appalling and we had to make a stand.
I mean, we were listening to Nick Lowe, Cheap Trick, Marshall Crenshaw, Graham Parker, and all of those lovely one-hit, 867-5309 wonders. Even the Stones were still tolerable … sorta.
Then, out of the blue, opportunity knocked. One of the guitar yabbos from the band that may or may not have been called Night Ranger was coming to our town to do a guitar clinic. I was like, “I dunno, Chuck Berry records and ‘KISS Alive 1’ were MY guitar clinic,” but who am I to judge?
The guitar clinic took place at a local music store that specialized in ripping off unsuspecting teenage dudes who wanted the shiniest and the pointiest guitars ever (very poorly) made. But I digress – or do I?
We found out that after the guitar clinic, Plastic Soul Brother number 1 would be brought to a local watering hole to mix and mingle. And of course, we planned to be there. He seemed pretty cool, to be honest. But he was the enemy.
As luck would have it, it started to snow and snow. Fueled by jealousy, spite, Molson Golden, and misguided testicular fortitude, we came up with a plan. Snowballs. I know … but it made sense at the time. Really.
It was cold, dark, and snowing like it ain’t no thang. So, we put on our coats and headed outside. Making snowball after snowball and laughing our asses off as we hid behind cars and waited. Our beer muscles and black beauty reflexes were poised and ready for maximum rock n’ roll vindication. And when we noticed our person of interest exit the building with his three or four local jock-sniffing pretend pals, we unloaded. It was glorious. Direct hit after direct hit. There were some spectacular near misses too. All the better to startle you with, I guess.
Best part was, the dudes ran! They didn’t even attempt to engage with us. We were stealthy though. It was too dark for us to be seen. We pelted these dudes left, right, and sideways and they ran away. Johnny Thunders would have chased us!! Rory Gallagher would have fought us!! But the Knights In Satan’s Spandex ran. Typical.
The band that may or may not have been called Night Ranger sold about 11 zillion records, I think. Clearly, me, Fang, and Paul failed. But we tried. We really did try.
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