I am an unrepentant rockist. And like most children born in the West between, say, 1955 and 1975, I rocked out ecstatically in my bedroom in emulation of my arena idols. However, one of the key reasons I never followed my beshagged, velvet flare-sporting heroes to the stage is their unrepentant pursuit of hedonism. I’m neither Christian nor a temperance nun; classic-rock super-groupie Pamela DesBarres’s newly reissued memoir of backstage affairs, I’m With The Band, is more entertaining to me than shocking. Yet during my time as a fan and critic amidst rock’s vanity fair, I’ve seen a dear friend die from his relentless addiction — a Southeastern musician doubtless revered by some of this paper’s readers. Even more key to my point of view is my upbringing by revolutionary blackfolks whose mission was to produce revolutionary blackbabies who would not become statistics to delight The Man, nodding out in some ghetto shooting gallery like the tortured hero of Gil Scott-Heron’s brilliant and terrifying “Home Is Where the Hatred Is.”
I am also Native American and thus don’t subscribe to all the Thanksgiving hype. “Et tu, Squanto?” is my response to those who’d urge me to yield my preseason bah-humbug. Anyway, this year I could scarcely gag down a turkey leg, pondering the dispossessed victims (dead or alive) of Hurricane Katrina and the hell of Wyoming’s Wind River Rez, where Mexican narcotics cartel Sinaloan Cowboys has succeeded in shifting tribal members’ addictions from alcohol to meth. All of the exhortations to consume during this holiday and the upcoming Yuletide do steer my thoughts back to rock ‘n’ roll, the sonic addiction I nurture as a means to mute the din of life in wartime.
And so, in honor of this Hallmark holiday, here’s fitting tribute to America’s real favorite pastime — getting wrecked — in the form of rock hedonism’s greatest hits:
10. FUNKADELIC: Doo Doo In Excelsis Deo
Many veteran rock stars, from Iggy Pop to Keith Richards, show the marks of years of drug-fueled, rock star gluttony. All his beaming up is starting to wear on Parliament-Funkadelic guru George Clinton, too. Yet Clinton and his (roughly) 25-member band have — for 40 years or so — been the rock group that makes musical hedonism the most fun. Most music fans know Clinton’s electro ode to tomcatting, “Atomic Dog.” But the Funkadelic-ment Thang is much more diverse, webbing blues, jazz, country, ethnic-folk, gospel, rockabilly, metal and songs both ludicrous and political — like “Promentalshitbackwashpsychosisenemasquad (The Doo-Doo Chasers),” a sonic sermon to rid listeners of moral diarrhea and social bullshit. And don’t forget bandleader Number 2 Garry Shider’s droopy diaper.
9. ROCK TV
It began with the potty-mouth popularity of The Osbournes, featuring heavy-metal god Ozzy lucratively switching from Satanism to sitcom paterfamilias. Then the New York Times raved about this summer’s hit Being Bobby Brown, starring the troubled ex-New Edition star and his crack-addled wife Whitney Houston. Careening around Atlanta’s clubs and courtrooms wasting his wife’s millions, Brown served as the perfect Sambo for an era when folks’ appetite for mass destruction cares little whether the arena is Iraq or reality TV. Now, VH1 keeps feeding America’s insatiable maw with 24-7 copycats starring aging groupies (Jerry Hall’s Kept) and rock icons (Gene Simmons’ Rock School, narrated by erstwhile Twisted Sister Dee Snider). Yeah, dude, rock ‘n’ roll will never die!
8. THE SUPERFREAK SPEAKS
On his Comedy Central show, comedian Dave Chappelle nailed the final public image of rocker-turned-funkateer Rick James. The catchphrases “Cocaine…It’s a helluva drug” and “I’m Rick James, bitch!” spread through the culture like wildfire, neatly summarizing rock-star ego, excess and the secret longings of a generation entering its 20s when the Me Decade’s rampant indulgence is being eulogised on E!
7. THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD
The death of rock is hotly contested but I’d opine that it occurred when once-shocking glam chameleon David Bowie became publicly traded on Wall Street. Sure, keeping model-wife Iman in frocks and frippery must be expensive. But there’s simply no excuse for such an edgy, sometimes-brilliant pop artist to effect his most square transformation into BowieBonds, ISP Bowienet and BowieBanc. At $55 million and counting, David Bowie Class A Royalty-Backed Notes are the antithesis of rock — but definitely the epitome of greed. Why does the Space Oddity want to be a suit?
6. LADY MADGE, CHILDREN AT HER FEET…
Former Sex book conceptual artist Madonna has become a Ladies Home Journal cover star and children’s book authoress. Yet the recently minted Lady Madge (see Zoë Gemelli’s story in this section) began as a renovated Dietrich figure for the late modern era: Madonna has never ceased appropriating black and Latino street culture to power her lucrative cool blonde subversion, although her ambition and covetousness now ride to the hunt in the English countryside.
5. GUNS N’ POSES
Less cartoonish than Mötley Crüe, sexier than Mötorhead’s Lemmy, LA hard rockers Guns N’ Roses rose up in the mid-80s to restore a dose of badass to the Reagan-Bush years. Despite supermodel fiancées and million-dollar videos, singer W. Axl Rose was ultimately the jester of that era, the real Slim Shady rather than a true outlaw — his casual racism, xenophobia and objectification/abuse of women proved it. Still, GN’R was probably the last rock band to successfully exploit that 60s-bred myth that the music was about subversive power and Dionysian excess.
4. MICK JAGGER: ROLL MODEL
What’s left to say about the priapic Rolling Stones front man? This British Invasion Wilt Chamberlain has paid less wages than anyone in rock history for never-ending pursuit of pleasure (unless you count the corpse of Meredith Hunter at Altamont). Gabriel García Márquez’s new novella, Memories of My Melancholy Whores, could serve as Jagger’s autobiography. And his seven children by four different women from three different continents trumpet the Knight’s satisfaction.
3. MOTHER’S LITTLE HELPER
The ongoing ridiculous scandal about über-model Kate Moss’s drug use demonstrates that 50 years of rock ‘n’ roll cannot prevent an iconic rock chick from being pilloried as a bad mother and bad girl. The most interesting aspect of the “Cocaine Kate” affair was the mass exposure of Moss and her wastrel/tortured “genius” boyfriend, Pete Doherty, of aptly named Babyshambles, as the Aughties Keef & Anita of Primrose Hill. They’re living more sex-drugs-rock-and-roll clichés than the hapless contestants on Rock Star: INXS. However, those outside the music and fashion realms were hypocritically obsessed with Moss bingeing on coke to curb the symptoms of another form of gluttony: fat.
2. P. “DON’T DISTURB THE SEXY” DIDDY
More than anyone else, producer/rap-impresario/mogul/thespian/”musician” Sean “Diddy” Combs was the herald of ghetto fabulous. In the late 80s, rappers had already exchanged dookey ropes for African medallions and some semblance of consciousness. Then, in the wake of his client/bff Notorious B.I.G.’s murder, Diddy unleashed his marketing savvy and the Dynasty-by-way-of-Dapper-Dan style of first baby mama Misa Hylton-Brim on the world. Many a hip-hop star’s inner pimp roared outta the closet and fans followed suit, jumping from Hamptons hot tubs to Miami mega-clubs, dripping in Jacob the Jeweler’s ice and Combs’s own fashion label SeanJohn. From Downtown to the Down Low, Diddy’s bling influence continues unabated.
1. YOU CAN’T TUNA FISH…BUT YOU CAN BALL WITH IT
Circa 1969, second-wave British Invasion gods Led Zeppelin were in their first flush of fame. Singer Robert Plant was known for his Rabelaisian sampling of groupie poon; guitarist Jimmy Page was notorious for his dalliance with so-called Black Magic and assorted sexual perversions. During the band’s tour stop at Seattle’s Edgewater Inn, one anonymous groupie — “Jackie the redhead” — went down in the annals of rock infamy when members of Zeppelin’s entourage sodomized her with bits of red snapper (aka “mudshark”) that was caught through their room window (the hotel’s main attraction). Besides the exploits of the Rolling Stones, the “Shark Incident” is rock’s most enshrined myth, perhaps because it encapsulates the moment when the 60s flower-power ideal gave way to the era of jaded rock stars and entertainment as big business. No rock urban legend has had a longer shelf life.
This article appears in Nov 23-29, 2005.
