Went to Revolver Golden Slob Awards. Bad mood so be warned. “VIP” room full of industry. Not important. Certainly not “very important.” But air of humility and general “wow this is nice of them” vibe from guys like Alice Cooper and Dave Mustaine was refreshing. Alice Cooper, ok? Get “Alice Cooper’s Greatest Hits” and we can learn something together. He’s right to be equated with Marilyn Manson now, but not for the reasons the marketing people think.
Cool to see Halford riding his bike on stage with a smile, knowing how silly it is. (I still wonder why I liked my Halford poster so much as a young lad; lot of soul searching there.) Cool to see Dio alive and tanned and looking healthy. Cool to see Dave Grohl get to play of Ace of Spades with Lemmy and Slash get to be a musician. Cool to see Fear Factory back together. Cool to see the enthusiasm of the fans. But that’s about it. We were chafed last year to see screamo “punk” bands on the Warped Tour, but Holy ca-ca, The Devil Wears The Emperor’s New Clothes at a METAL awards show? And I’d Be Lying If My Eardrums Weren’t Dying? Are Wharton and Harvard Business School now pumping out people THIS removed from reality to think a distortion pedal and growled vox = metal? Hey Devil Wears The Emperor’s New Clothes keyboard guy – jump on your earthquake proof keyboard stand all you want, but if a twenty something Iggy would have had a nice strong foundation like that he would have done something interesting like impaled himself on it. As we said a year ago, these bands will have great college entrance essays. And what’s up with the “clean” vocals? Why do I hate them so? No doubt rock n roll’s always had a streak of victimhood in it, but it was always turned around. As in “I’m not rich, but I still might fuck your girlfriend Mr. Polo Player.” As in “You might not get it, but I’m the backdoor man, and the little girls understand.” As Lemmy put it: “I’m a loser… now I got their women layin in my bed.” That’s hope, that’s America, that’s the fast food burger guy blowing a wad in your boss's vanilla milkshake after a tough day at the tennis club. But a growled vox line followed by a clean top line of “I’m so lonely, I’m so sad, I’m beyond help” or whatever the fuck they are saying smacks of downright despair. No help, no hope of a future human connection – even revenge. Ok, be gone, off with your head, get out of my sight. But don’t call it metal. There’s a reason Elliot Smith and Kurt Cobain are dead. And we’re all heading there. And I posit that there is some interesting shit gonna happen, so stick around and up the irons.