…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column

…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column – by Chris Busone.

In its infancy, Rock & Roll was looked upon as a pox to the health and well-being of young people from sea to shining sea, when the seas actually shone and weren’t littered with the scattered remains of fishing boats. Its trance-inducing rhythms were meant to twist young minds into thoughts of growing their hair to unreasonable lengths, dancing with unbridled exuberance, turning on-tuning in, and defying their parents to the point that they contributed nothing to society or their 401(k)s. And God bless it; it did just that back then.

But as is the case with many things that start off innocent and pure, popularity and the promise of big money and dizzying fame can turn them into a big crap-flavored popsicle. But fear not, there’s still hard rockin’, honest, grab-you-by-the-privates, Rock & Roll out there if you look for it. So let’s look.

From the time Bill Haley and his Comets first rocked their way around the clock, and Elvis dippity-do’d his first pompadour, Rock & Roll has been moving minds and soothing souls with its driving beats and lyrics of angst and ecstasy alike. It was born of the blues, of that there can be no denying. In 1951, long before Haley and Presley, Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats cut “Rocket 88” at Sam Phillips’ joint, and it is widely thought of as the first time Rock & Roll was committed to wax. That track swings like I-dunno-what, and along with Eddie Cochran’s “Twenty Flight Rock” is credited as among the first songs Lennon and McCartney played together. So cool, off to a great start. But where are we today?

The Rock & Roll of the masses has lost that “living on the edge/nose permanently thumbed at the establishment” persona which it acquired as a birthright. If Rock & Roll were a person, and it probably is, it would be Elvis Presley. He is the perfect example of what Rock & Roll was, and what it can become when it’s not tended to properly. The Memphis wiggler scared the ever-lovin’ sh!t out of every parent in America when he hit the scene, only to be singing watered-down Hollywood pap in a hideous Hawaiian shirt a few scant years later. And that transformation sort of encapsulates the corporate aspect of Rock & Roll for me. From fearless rebel to jabroni in a goofy tiki-top. And all due to the aforementioned big bad dollars and famously famous fame.

But before this fiery sermon makes you think me a hair-sprayed, sweating-through-my-overpriced-suit, say-anything-to-get-a-piece-of-your-pension-check-televangelist, extolling the evils of soulless rock, let me present the faithful flock with a couple more examples to make my case. Turn to Page 12 in your hymnals.

The biggest corporate shill in the history of gluttonous glut, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, is a running joke among those who have even a flicker of the fire left in them. Their inexcusable inclusions and exclusions are as legendarily hilarious as they are egregious. They refuse entrance to their sad little clubhouse to deserving artists of all genres of Rock & Roll. And why, you ask dear reader? Because the Hall wasn’t created to honor those they love. It was created to exclude those they don’t. Just like every other country club on the planet.

Take a second and let that sink in. I’ll wait.

Their most obvious oversights include Motorhead, the New York Dolls, Alice in Chains, Blue Öyster Cult, Dio, and Thin Lizzy on the harder side, and the Smiths, the Cure, Joy Division, and the Pixies on a more esoteric tip. And strangely, they offer no quarter to mainstream monsters like Huey Lewis and the News, Phil Collins, Stone Temple Pilots, Lenny Kravitz, Bryan Adams, and even the goddamn Carpenters. (And we’ve only just begun!) But they somehow saved a seat for balls-to-the-wall rockers like Whitney Houston, Donna Summer, and of course Dolly Parton (a lovely lady, but even she knew that was bullsh!t). But bigtime rock is not alone, my fellow worshippers, oh no.

Even rap, which was greeted with an even more caustic welcome than Rock & Roll when it emerged from the streets, has smoothed its edges in recent decades. Two of the most ferocious (and best) artists who led the way early on, Snoop Dogg and Ice-T, are now part of the mainstream zeitgeist for reasons other than their rhymes. Snoop is making butterscotch scones with Martha Stewart (“It’s a Motherf—in’ good thing!”), and Ice-T, who once had the entire country on edge when he released a tune called “Cop Killer,” has been playing (you guessed it) a cop on primetime network TV for the last 34 years and wants to sell you an extended warranty for your car.

So, what’s my point to all of this, if I even actually have one? It’s this next bit. The answer to the question, “Is there anywhere to find real-deal Rock & Roll of any kind anymore?” And the answer is a resounding … Hell Yes!

It’s local. Stay with me, I’m going somewhere with this, not just pounding my fists on the bar in one of those petulant posts to shame people out to local gigs.

Local artists still have that hot white flame inside of them that sets fire to everything they touch. Because there is no famously famous famey fame and rivers of ridiculous riches in their world. They do what they do for the love of the art. They do it because they have no choice but to do it, because it’s who they are, what they are, all that they are. The cliches about guitar players bringing $5,000 worth of gear and spending 20 bucks in gas to play a gig that pays $75 are funny, and absolutely f—ing true. It’s worth all the time, effort, practice, money, sweat, stress, and strain to ply your skills in front of a crowd, no matter the size. When you see a local artist, you’re looking at someone who is not in the least interested in the payday or payoff of their performance. Just art for art’s sake.

Ya know what, screw it, let me officially climb up on my bully pulpit and preach.

Yes, my children, that is where the true spirit of Rock & Roll lives on these days. Can I get a witness! Let it be known throughout the congregation that it endures in the hearts, the souls, the gritted teeth, the sweat-ridden hair matted to the foreheads of the players and artists who are in the local venues around you. Praise be, Chuck Berry! They are gutting it out night after night after non-corporate night for nothing more than the pure pleasure of creating. Those one or two “Sounds great, man” that you get after a set, and the handful of people in the crowd who know the words to your song. That’s our riches. That’s our payday. And I’ll take it all day long, every single time. Anytime and every time I get up on a local stage and count my way into another night of real-deal, from the Heart & Soul, Rock & Roll.

Here endeth the sermon, here endeth the lesson. Go in peace (to a local venue near you), 2…3…4

More from Chris Busone…