Rock and roll is dead
Oh dear me. Coming soon to a Holiday Inn Boom-Boom Room near you: Jimmy and the Foreheads
In the afternoon we went to the Guitar Center to buy an amp for Garageband. Itâ€™s been a long time since I went to a guitar store, and I was amazed by the quantity of merchandise; never mind the silly HaRd Rawk axes or the innumerable cheapo Strat knockoffs – they had some vintage Fenders in hues you associate with tailfinned death-cars, and a butterscotch-finish Les Paul that made me weak in the knees. I didnâ€™t know whether to buy it or ask for its neck in marriage. I might go back. (My Strat, she is a heavy burden â€“ literally, the thing weighs nine tons, and as much as I love the whammy bar the guitar is incapable of staying in tune.) Gnat amused herself by playing all the guitars like harps. She sat in my lap as I tried out some pedals. Weâ€™ll have to go back; I can only imagine that â€œgoing to the electric guitar store with Daddyâ€ might be one of those key memories that leads her to think Iâ€™m far cooler than I could ever hope to be.
It was with this eventuality in mind that Pete Townshend found the need to write:
I hope I die before I get old.
I blame this on easy-to-acquire digital audio-editing software that allows anyone whose muse is Night Ranger to become an artiste in the non-critical comfort and sanctity of their own home. Just because You Can Still Rock In America (Ah yeah s’alright), doesn’t mean that you should.
The very technology that gave us Trent Reznor also gave us Andrew WK.