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Death by Rock and Roll - article in Details Mag. Sept. 02



Yet another re-post from O&S (sheesh), and a classic example of some of the
bashing we'll endure should a new album be released....   ;-)
Read on, but brace yo-self.  It aint pretty.
Kevin in VT

Subject: Details magazine Sept. 2002

Death by Rock and Roll
by Bart Blasengame

What good music needs now is a good, gory, old-fashioned human sacrifice.

Come to think of it, I wish Pete Townshend *had* died before he got old.
God 
knows a rotting corpse would never cup the balls of corporate America the
way 
Townshend did when he announced, the day after John Entwistle's death, that 
the Who would keep touring.  "I simply believe we have a duty to go on, to 
ourselves, ticket buyers, staff, promoters, big and little people," he said.

"I also have a duty to myself and my dependent family and friends."

And you thought Ozzy Osbourne was a whore.  Not only is Townshend admitting 
he takes it in the ass for The Man, but he's also saying that, yup, he 
wiggles around for good measure.  Townshend used to embody the extended 
middle finger of rock.  He's basically deaf from years of maximum-volume 
mayhem, he once impaled his hand on his whammy bar (and played the next 
night), and he smacked Abbie Hoffman across the head with his guitar in
front 
of 400,000 stinking hippies at Woodstock.

Three decades later, Townshend embodies rock-and-roll-over: bloated,
flaccid, 
and in need of a colostomy bag to caddy his crap from city to city.  The
Who, 
down to two above-ground members, are no more than a tribute act, on par
with 
Lynyrd Skynyrd and Styx, pissing on the bonfire of past greatness for a 
paycheck. *Tonight, at the Pig Knuckle County Fair--the Who. With special 
guest Black Oak Arkansas.*

But it's not just the geriatrics.  The latest crop of preening pansies--Fred

Durst, Kid Rock, Ryan Adams, even--have added nothing to rock's 
Scotch-and-semen-soaked lineage.  Where's the danger?  Where's the
decadence? 
 Where's David Lee Roth doing lines of coke off a hooker's ass while midgets

tickle his buttocks with ostrich feathers?  At this rate, R&B's soul brother

"number one," R. Kelly, is the only musician you wouldn't want your sister 
hanging out with--and even he has a spiritual adviser.

Give us Axl Rose (pre-male pattern balding) bitch-slapping supermodels and 
screaming "faggot" while the ACLU called for his head.  Give us Keith 
Richards constructing a masterwork like Exile on Main Street in a haze of 
heroin and hard liquor.  Or better yet, give us blood.  Because at this 
point, the only thing that's gonna clean out rock's cash-clogged colon is a 
proper, cathartic human sacrifice--something shocking, something seedy, 
something that'll leave skid marks on the social fabric.

And not one of these bullshit farces that now pass for tragedy.  Entwistle 
died alone in his bed.  *Alone*--no groupie, prostitute, or chimp by his 
side.  Dee Dee Ramone, who once penned a song about turning tricks for
smack, 
stuck a needle in his arm in the sun-dappled comfort of his Hollywood home.

Layne Staley?  The poor guy was reportedly missing teeth and fingers by the 
time heroin was done with him.

What we need is a Cobain.  A Hendrix.  Someone so freakishly talented, so 
*alive*, that the echo of the shotgun blast will wake us up to just how
vapid 
and tame our heroes have become.

After all, any jackass can play guitar (see Paul Allen, Eric Clapton, etc.).

But if you can play guitar, fill your system with enough sex and drugs to 
shame Robert Downey Jr., die by choking on your own vomit--and *still* look 
cool?  Man, you're not tragic; you're transcendental.