Rock and roll has never been about fucking. Blues is about fucking. Rock and roll is a pimply , young daydreamy, other art form. It is the art of jerking off.
Greil Marcus, a coupla decades ago, wrote about the onanstic nature of the Beach Boys “In My Room””. Right now, blogging about rock is the artistic form of jacking off.
Alone, in my room, nobody knows, nobody cares, keyboard in hand I pound away with ideas nobody gives a shit about.
Word after word, thought after thought, pummels and dribbles and drips in endless egotistical nothingness. Like rock.
Like rock.
So intense, so meaningless… do you want to know a secret.
Here is why bloggers are closer to rock than rock critics: we pound alone and we disappear. We are involved in a single thought to the end. It is nothing final, it isn’t the last word. It is a spurt of energy that dies and gos nowhere.
We are the sputter of ignition but too pathetic to ever get nailed. In he end we are just idea floating in the epheral world.
We are wankers.