Monitor Down

The world is filled with aging rock icons and rock stars who live perilously close to the edge, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t wake up each day at least a smidge worried that one of them will keel over. Not that the ones on this list are the only ones I worry about — any rock star death would make me at least want to sit on my couch all day with my girlfriend, a Jack and Coke, and a tub of ice cream watching “Almost Famous” over and over … but there are a few special apples in the heap that would definitely make me lose it, and probably a lot of other people, too. Dammit, Michael Jackson came darn close.

Here are the ten aging/living-on-the-edge rockers whose deaths would make us lose it faster than our inheritance in Vegas. God forbid.

10. Ozzy Osbourne. This gentle, funny, formerly evil and insane rock legend has gone from being the definition of rock mayhem to the definition of man-cute. He’s also the king of comebacks – after all the crazy crap he’s pulled, his awesomeness wasn’t even diluted by an entire reality series about his annoying family (I think Jack and Kelly bore most of the fallout from that). He even manages to seem relatively cool in commercials about cell phones and oil-based butter spread, acting confused and shouting “I’m the prince of f**ing darkness” at the air. A world without Ozzy is a world with no rock and roll mentor. When he goes, bands will dissolve out of respect, the news will be flooded with man-made catastrophes and mass suicides, and kitties and doggies will weep.

9. Ringo Starr. “The goofy one” (who is presently “the posh goofy one”) seemed to have a definite air about him during his Beatles career. It was a sort of blind joviality, with the slight appearance of being confused over what was going on at any given time. It came through pretty strong in his vocals for tracks like “Octopus’s Garden” and “Yellow Submarine,” where he sounded like a musical version of someone’s dad. These days he’s enjoying cooldom with his designer shades, Don Johnson stubble and ever-present peace signs — but geez, look at any photo of him and it’s obvious that he’s still Ringo. The day there’s no more Ringo will be the day there are no more rodeo clowns, doctor’s office lollipops, corporate meeting donuts, or anything else that makes a serious situation more fun. Long live the goofy one.

8. Lemmy Kilmister. I spoke to Lemmy Kilmister over the phone for about half an hour during college, and if not for that conversation he might not be on this list. But some of the things he said were just so …  rock and roll. Did you know his first set of musical equipment was all stolen? He said so. Or that he gives specific instructions to his publicist never to bother him before noon? He was also quoted in Maxim as having slept with over 1,200 women, and he’s 63. Jesus Christ, this guy is about as rock star as they come, plus he sports mutton chops that would destroy a continent if their power were properly leveraged. His death would be the equivalent of Dr. Doom finally defeating The Thing, or every Hustler store burning down. It would be a loss to all masculinity everywhere, and I propose if it ever happens, every straight man should buy at least one gay porn mag in solemn acknowledgment of Lemmy’s eternally superior man skills.
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First of all, I love indie. I love it like a 15-year-old boy loves Megan Fox, sans anything involving posters on ceilings. So before you get up in my face with loud, defensive, aggravated comments about how great it is — I know, I know. Mellow.

But again like our halter-wearing temptress, there are a lot of seemingly reasonable people who HATE indie. And when you start to talk to these people about their hatred (once they get past the asinine jabs about hipster jeans, beards and technical guitar skills, like those even matter), you start to realize they may actually be on to something. Because even though indie is awesome, it’s only really awesome if it’s done right. And sometimes, you just have to take a loved one by the collar and tell them when they’re not doing something right. Right?

Here are some of the things indie musicians do that piss off people who otherwise have good taste in music. (Subtext: if you hate indie because the only style of music you like is speed metal or radio country, then this list, and my entire blog, will probably mean nothing to you.)

1. Whine a lot more than necessary. Most people understand that songwriting is about expressing emotions, so like-minded listeners can identify when their parents get divorced and they’re shuttled back and forth like a fake ID at a sorority house. But those alleged “genuine” emotions shouldn’t cause stool to run soft in the bowel, and those “genuine” lyrics shouldn’t have to become ironic Facebook status updates. Despite the majority of indie songwriters who express their inner ingénue at an appropriate level, a lot of them tend to dwell on the idea of adult male vulnerability, riding it like the bow of the Titanic until people in the crowd are considering dialing a hotline. The result: indie rock that is backed only by overdramatic 14-year-old girls and moms who are just glad their kid isn’t listening to Insane Clown Posse. And the woe in my heart bleeds like yesterday’s undercooked pot roast.

2. Sing like the deaf. Okay, part of being vulnerable and “real” is not having an overtly superior singing style. No one expects to be empathizing with Bono, or relating on a personal level to Axl Rose. (Yikes.) Still, there are a couple of fundamentals that are just part of singing — like pitch control, and not making the audience laugh out loud. So when the biggest Clap Your Hands Say Yeah single sounds like Joe Assface got up on karaoke night and ran a schoolbus over the solfege scale, it’s tough to hold the contempt in check. It’s even worse when it’s a cover of a song people are already familiar with, like Clem Snide’s abhorrent version of Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful,” or Ben Gibbard’s cringe-inducing take on Bjork’s “All is Full of Love.” I don’t care how cute his own songs are, taking on Bjork’s most well-heard single with his northern-accented po-boy whimper is like climbing Mount St. Helens in a T-shirt and Converse low-tops. When the tone that comes across is “this didn’t sound like it did in my head, but oh well,” something is probably lost.
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