The Stark Raving

I just got off the phone with my old high school pal, Dave Rummel. He's married now, has an unrewarding day job and a couple of screaming, leaking kids. Back in the day, however, Dave knew how to rock. It was he, after all, who introduced the neighborhood to bongloads, Black Sabbath, BB guns, and barre chords.

We were talking about the techno/rave craze that has swept the country. Like many of my peers, Dave is appalled at the whole scene: kids freaking on amphetamines; spellbound, skinny queers with bug-eyed sunglasses waving green glowsticks; and sassy, young nipple-babes in flimsy tops, undulating in the middle of three-way pelvis grinds.

Dave alleges that techno is garbage and music in general was much better in our day. He said it was about time I wrote a column about the whole rave abomination.

Now, I don’t frequent raves, but I’ve bartended a ton of them. And Dave is right -- there is an abomination afoot. And the abomination is this: My once-rocking pal has become a crabby old dud.

Don’t you remember, Dave, when we were kids? We cranked Zeppelin III in your bedroom until your father threw open the door and screamed -- with eyes blood red and his uvula wriggling like a dog’s ear in a stump grinder -- "Turn this garbage OFF!!" Our hearts broke when he dragged the needle across the record and stormed away.

Remember what you said as you traced a finger along the cruel trench that ran from "Immigrant Song" to "Celebration Day"? You said adults were already dead because they couldn’t hear the miracle in Led Zeppelin. We made a pact then: to never grow up to be like our fathers.

So blow me, old pal -- you just shattered the pact.

Isn’t it interesting that most of the people who think today’s music sucks are the ones with nowhere day jobs and a crop of kids who do nothing but leak and scream all day? Isn’t it possible, David, that it is you who sucks, while the music is actually getting better and better?

Listen up, people. The day you stop seeking new music and start hanging at the oldies stations is the day you officially become Mr. or Mrs. Old Fuck.

Even Henry Rollins, a punk icon, isn't immune. At his February show in town, he told the crowd that techno DJs are not artists and sampling is theft.

Et tu, Henry?

That’s what they said about punk, too. Remember? They said punkers couldn’t play their instruments, and therefore punk was not music.

DJs don’t just spin other people’s records. They take a hodgepodge of sounds and conjoin them in a way that suits their mood. Which is what every musician does. As for "sampling is theft," well look -- if you truly want to bake a pie from scratch, you have to invent the universe.*

So perhaps you should try biting me, Henry Rollins. Punk isn’t defined by loud and scowling. Punk is fearless opposition to the status quo. And those spellbound queers in bug-eyed sunglasses are more punk rock than you ever were. They don’t give a soft-serve turd what anyone thinks and they’ll wave their glowy green phalluses until six in the goddamn morning.

You, on the other hand, are just another old fuck who stopped seeing the awesome mystery in every song.

Why Techno and Raves Are Real Rock Music

1) Parents Hate It: If your parents hate something it must be right and good -- because parents are stupid. Why do you think they had you? Everything was fine for them until you came along.

2) Cops Hate It: The CIA trailed John Lennon, the FBI harassed NWA and Ice T, Miami pigs dragged Jim Morrison away, and the Woodstock Police Department nearly busted a collective nut when they heard a black man shredding the Star Spangled Banner with a distortion pedal and a Stratocaster. Are you kidding me? That, dear friends, was punk like fuck. And what was Woodstock anyway but one giant rave? Only, instead of techno, it was psychedelic rock. Instead of foam dancing, it was mud. Instead of Ecstasy, it was acid.

3) Homos Love It: The homos adore anything with artistic merit. Just look at Hillcrest, with its Landmark Theaters, dozens of outstanding bookstores, Off The Record, and culinary wizards on every corner. That place is the nucleus of art. . .

So rock on, ravers -- I dig your scene, baby.

And never forget how Mr. and Mrs. Old Fuck scorned this thing that you love. Remember how you triumphantly flipped them the glowing green finger and danced till dawn anyway. And when you are 30 -- and the next new scene emerges -- just remember to find the awesome mystery in it. I promise you, it will be there.

* origin unknown to the author

EJD

12/12/01