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As a teacher of English and history, and a person who tends to be a
traditionalist about most things, this book made me nervous on a number of
levels. And having read it, I am still uncertain of how many of these
opinions I actually support. I have not done much with my 30 years on this
planet, but I do believe that I know good music when I hear it, and I hold
many of the records thrashed here close to my heart. It is, in theory, a
great idea: A “new generation” of rock critics re-writes history by trashing
legendary albums. The question has to be asked, however, if this is all
just some kind of hipper-than-thou revisionist history; are these kids out
to show mom and dad that even after all these years, they are still square
and new rock and roll will always be more dangerous than their hippie, free
love nonsense or their over-blown seventies arena rock? The fact that Jim
DeRogatis (whose credits include Let It Blurt, his biography of rock
critic legend Lester Bangs) edited this tome made me feel better, and I
eagerly dove in to pieces that featured some of my favorite discs of all
time. In the end, I wound up disillusioned, somewhat depressed, but truly
looking at some so-called legendary material in a very different light.
DeRogatis begins the book by stabbing with his steely knife the
most scared of all beasts: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band.
Imagine the horror when he reveals this record to be nothing more than a
pretentious collection of disconnected material that does not even rock.
But this is an album that Rolling Stone has always listed as the best
of all time! How can anyone give it a poor review? (The anti-Rolling
Stone vibe here is palpable, and quite frankly, occasionally juvenile in
its repetition) Well, DeRogatis makes a great argument, basically claiming
that everything you hear on Sgt. Pepper’s is done more effectively on
Revolver, and Pepper’s includes overly conservative pieces
from McCartney, which did not mesh with the material contributed by Lennon,
Harrison’s guitar prowess is ignored but Ring’s contribution at least, gets
out of the way early on the record.
This sets a tone for an insightful, albeit occasionally,
mean-spirited text that does rip some of the more pompous acts of rock’s
history. I cannot thank Jim Walsh enough for the hatchet job done to
Rumors, Eric Waggoner and Bob Mohr’s dissection of The Joshua Tree,
or my favorite of the text, Burl Girard’s dismantling of Dark Side of the
Moon. This essay in particular truly made me smile because I just never
“got it” with Pink Floyd. Sure I tried all the necessary attributes needed
to better enjoy their music and I even attempted that idiotic Wizard of
Oz thing, but that band always annoyed the hell out of me.
Additionally, I have always hated Radio head with a passion, noting their
appearance on South Park as the only legitimate contribution that
band has made to the world. Apparently I am not alone as Ok Computer
was revealed for what it truly is by David Menconi.
I was truly shocked by some of the records that made the list
here, but the reasons for their placement were demonstrated convincingly.
When you truly dissect Exile on Main Street, as Keith Moiré does, you
find the Rolling Stones not at the pinnacle of their power, but a loosely
connected band of struggling addicts running from tax problems and domestic
hassles. The Beach Boys’ immortal Pet Sounds and the oft-celebrated
Smile are simply concoctions from a brilliantly twisted mind of
tortured genius Brian Wilson, but are not the stuff of legends so embraced
by the Baby Boomer generation. The same is true with Tommy, an apex
of musical pomposity that becomes downright creepy when one considers Pete
Townshend’s recent legal battles. (You will never hear Uncle Ernie the same
way again).
Many of the pieces
here smacked of private journals and that kind of personal touch made for
great reading. When Adrian Brijbassi takes you second by awkward second
through an early adolescent love scene set to “Stairway to Heaven”, you
cannot help but smile. I felt like it was my life being played out, for
when I was in eighth grade, the first great kiss I ever received came at the
end of a school dance when MaryAnn Lutz actually held on to me even after
Bonzo’s drums kicked in and the couples surrounding us split up into a
flotilla of awkward glances. The key to “Stairway” always was if the girl
kept dancing with you through the solo, you win in!
There were a series of essays which I did great umbrage, however.
How could our own Jim Testa rip the Sex Pistols?! Now, like any Jersey
Beat fan, I know Jim’s love affair with the Ramones, but come on now,
Never Mind the Bollocks changed everything, did it not? Well, according
to Jim, the band did not represent punk and for all their bombast and
anti-capitalistic stances, they were always right there to collect the cash,
even dragging their aging bodies out on the road for a reunion tour. In
every point he raised, he is absolutely right. The Pistols were not the
first great punk band, not even close, and when you listen now, Bollocks
does sound dated and thin. However, this was my dilemma with the book as a
whole: Won’t everything sound dated eventually? No matter how hip
something might be, somewhere down the line, that piece of art will come
across as silly, archaic or misguided. I love the Pistols and it is sad to
admit that I still listen to Bollocks regularly, only now, instead of
lying on my bed imagining the rebellion held by the music as I did when I
was thirteen, I am now sweating on a Stair Master in the early morning
hours. Yeah, I’m pretty vacant, but damned if I am going to be pudgy!
I had a similar reaction to Marco Leavitt’s take on Fresh Fruit
for Rotting Vegetables. In his essay, Leavitt’s seems to allow the fact
that Jello Biafra is an egotistical jerk to mask what was, I think, a nearly
flawless record of punk angst. Speaking of masks, I was dismayed to read
Jason Gross’s critique of Trout Mask Replica from Captain Beefheart.
Yes, this record left me confused, but I liked it. I cannot tell you why I
love this disc, I place it in the same category as anything by Lightning
Bolt, the Flying Luttenbachers or Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music
(also mentioned in the book). These are records that confuse those around
you and if you are a misfit looking for a place to hide where most people
simply will not bother you, records like this are your home. While Gross
hears mistakes throughout the record and sees them as getting in the way of
the material, I never fully believed that those “mistakes” were pure
accidents.
My heart nearly stopped when I saw that Nevermind was
here. Written by Anders Smith Lindall, the essay begins by explaining how
the author was in eighth grade when the record was released. Right there, I
have a problem. The author was thirteen and complaining of how “Teen
Spirit” became a staple at dances and the jocks formed pits. Ok, fine, but
please stop whining. I was a freshman in college when this came out and
“Teen Spirit” saved my life. After wallowing through high school actually
believing that Vince Neil and Tracii Guns had something to say, Kurt was a
revolution wrapped in a diminutive body and a yellow party dress on
Headbanger’s Ball. Yes, the record was poppy and it certainly does match
the angular, controlled fury of the far superior In Utero, but
Nevermind cannot be overstated in what it did for rock in the early
1990’s. Of course, like anything that becomes popular it eventually becomes
exploited, as body surfing was used in beer ads and Kurt’s kills himself,
but Jesus, how many of you folks ever thought you would hear a Blondie song
selling cars or Doritos? I am sorry, but it is the world in which we live
and let’s not forget what dominated the airwaves before Kurt, Kris and Dave
finally took hold.
There in lies a
problem with a book like this, for a person’s age, memories and experiences
are defined by the music that they hold dear. If you were punched in the
face at a dance by the starting quarterback, then yeah, Nirvana may seem
alike just another fad. However, when your tape collection was chuck full
of hair metal and other drivel, then your opinion will invariably differ. In
the end, Kill Your Idols may do for rock what talk radio has done for
sports, and this is intensify the arguments and get more people in on the
debate. I love having things stirred up no there will be hordes of people
offended, delighted, confused and intrigued by this book. I was all for and
I loved it. There is little else that I hold as significant as music, and
it is interesting to see how your opinions change as you mature. Many of
the authors here seemed to reflect fondly upon their youth, but as Leavitt
said at the conclusion of his piece, eventually you want a car that starts
in the winter. Your punk fanaticism may wane and as he said, I guess you do
grow up. To that end, I had to smile as I read the book with the love of my
life sleeping in the next room: my nine-month-old son Patrick. Go read this
and reconnect with some old favorites.
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