bring the noyz

Recently I found myself in the middle of a torrid stream of email exchanges between dear friends at times almost orgasmically extolling the virtues of the recent Led Zeppelin reunion. While I found the discussion very interesting and certainly entertaining, you must forgive me my dear reader, if I could not find it within myself to summon up the same level of enthusiasm.

You see, my dear reader, my reaction upon reading the news some weeks ago that these aging Gods of Rock were reuniting was not so much "Wow!" as it was "Why?"

I struggle, and have been for some time now, to properly express myself here. I realize that although I strive to chose my words carefully, I am still to some degree opening myself up to charges of hypocrisy (so tell me, who are you). This is okay. For now I can live with myself, and it is my hope that when this rant reaches its verbose conclusion those charges will be answered, or at least explained, to your satisfaction.

Perhaps it is a sign of the increasing cynicism that comes with encroaching middle age, but I just don't get it. I find myself wondering is it the music, or our memories of it that incite such excitement? I am currently more inclined to believe it is more the latter. Can the two be separated, or are they so intertwined in our consciousness that they are one and the same?

Getting more to my point, maybe, I have always believed that the one crucial ingredient that is essential for great rock music is not a blistering guitar lick or the swaggering moans of an oversexualized vocalist. It is passion. It is having the rebellious passion to rip your heart out, wear it on your sleeve and proudly proclaim to the world that this is who you are as you endeavor to find your place in it. And fuck all else.

I'm not knocking the music, from time to time I still let it be my master. For cripes sake man, my iPod has a hearty helping of it. I'm not knocking their musical abilities or their showmanship. I've read some reviews. I'm sure it was awesome, and yes, part of me wishes I could have been there.

I just don't believe that a group whose music sold Cadillacs can lay claim to having any real passion left for what the music originally meant to them or to the legions of their fans. It's like watching Dennis Hopper do those ads for that investment firm.

Well my dear reader, without the passion, it still may rock, but it's just not rock-n-roll. And I seem to remember that somehow, somewhere, somewhen, that distinction mattered.

I keep thinking of a few lines Pete Townshend wrote for a David Gilmour song twenty some years ago (perhaps when feeling a bit like I'm feeling now):

You know that you don't really fall in love
Unless you're seventeen
The break of day will make your spirits fly
But you can't know what it means
Unless you're seventeen

And my dear reader, while your back and shoulders may not remind you almost every morning as do mine, there is still no escaping the realization that we are no longer seventeen.

More later.
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