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immmmmmmmmmmwM
Trendy heavy metal UK tor now
Guns ‘N Roses “Appetite For De
struction" Geffen Records
If all metal was this good, I’d
probably start liking the stuff.
Having admitted that, I also have
to admit that I’m hesitant to admit I
like this album And believe me, my
hesitation stems not from the critic’s
constant irrational fear that some
body “cool” will see that I really like
heavy metal after all and will dismiss
me as a dork. Five of the six people
who read this already think I’m a
dork, (and three of them are right).
No, the reason I’m so loathe to
admit I really like Guns ‘N Roses’
new alhum is mis — mciai is Becom
ing trendy. Suddenly, it's hip to like
the horrid sludgy hits of rock and roll.
Obviously, blame MTV for shoving it
in our faces all day ‘til everyone’s
resistance eventually wears down,
but that isn’t even what I’m really
mad about. Not at the moment at least,
because everyone in their right mind
expects a diet of 90 percent swill from
the ceaseless hype kitchens of the
Meaningless Trendy Void channel.
No, w hat ’ s most bothersome to me
is the way the critics have suddenly
started slobbering over it. You re
member the critics — those self
righteous maggots (self included, of
course) who arc always telling you
not only w hat you have to listen to, but
w hal you have to like lor uou s sake,
and you (we) only tolerate them (us)
to find out what new alburns are
coming out.
So anyway, the esteemed learned
scribes of rock, who’ve been castigat
ing the more pasta-minded selections
of pseudo-macho teenager’s aural
impulses for most of their wasted
lives (How’s that novel coming
along, Byron?), now' seem to be fall
ing all over themselves in their plight
to embrace all the posturing, brain
dead guano that sent them scrambling
to the import racks in the first place.
MTV can’t take all the blame for
rave reviews of each week’s leather
dad “Up with a bullet, down without
a trace’’ champion in Spin, Rolling
Stone, and all the other “America’s
only rock and roll" magazines. These
magazines arc run by consenting
adults, and generally, they have con
senting adults writing for them. If
these consenting adults still can’t
figure out what to write about because
I Marcus Yabba Griffiths |
I ■ it 1. _ I
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iv11 v nas auuieu meir Drums va ms
tinct possibility), well, maybe Tipper
Gore was right alter all.
It’s gotten to the point that reading
music magazines these days is like
going to “Rocky Horror” and hearing
that guy in the crowd — he’s always
there — that same guy who always
yells, “What, Mcgadeth again?!”
So anyway, 1 kinda like Guns N’
Roses new album, but I don’t want to
contribute to anybody’s trend —
especially one as nefariously back
ward-thinking as this. As if the usual
skull-covered album jacket wasn't
enough, I should’ve been warned by
seeing the usual “Next Big Thing”
stories in various magazines from
Spin and the Stone to Family House
keeping Journal, complete with
sneering leather-panted photos with
lots oi strategically placed peer
bottles.
Yeah, I know, I should probably
jusi let go and admit 1 like it, and not
try to think Ux) much about why I like
it, but just leave it at that. Alter all, it
isn’t math, and it isn’t otearth-shat
tering importance, it’s only rock and
roll.
But I like it. Maybe I’ve been
cursed with a good upbringing, but 1
feel this weighty responsibility to use
even the miniscule influence and
authority I have for purposes of good
— you know-, to fight crime, and to
strive for truth, justice and the liberat
ing of music from boastlul adenoidal
whining.
Speaking of backward-thinking,
there’s this one other major critical
trend going on right now that has me
even more worried, and even though
it hardly applies here, I may as well
mention it since I’m already mired in
enough self-indulgent pontification
as it is. What’s that? Cover stories in
aforementioned national magazines
about some ridiculous made-for-TV
concoction called Latin HipHop,
a.k.a. teenage disco with a beatbox?
No-o-o-o, let’s just ignore that,
‘cause it’ll go away. What I’m talking
about is that “Weren’t the 1970s
Fun?’’ rotten apple that keeps getting
tossed in the barrel by same afore
mentioned music magazines and
dragged out of the woodwork by oth
erwise rational bands.
The ’70s, the obvious successor to
the ’50s and ’60s in our current
decade’s Retro Hell Series (I suspect
Silver Eagle Records is somehow
flWinz'irifT I ho u/hrxln tharwti umrA n/\i
“fun.” As I recall, the closest thing to
“fun” indigenous to the times them
selves that the ’70s had to offer was a
choice between staying home to
watch “Chips” or going to an alleged
“party” in a “friend’s” basement,
which consisted of “dancing” to the
likes of Styx’s “Lorelei” while wear
ing polyester, sweating nervously and
hoping cither Brenda Nelson or T rac y
Stromquisl would sm ilc at me without
noticing how much I was staring at
them. If the evening was truly suc
cessful (as in transcending the dreams
of mere moitalsandcxploring into the
next greater realm of consciousness
reserved only to those who’ve
achieved a higher plane of intellec
tual being), one of them would ask me
to dance with them during “Theme
Irom Charlie’s Angels.”
As I also recall, the weekend often
started by having the choice made for
me when my stepfather would ground
me for having the insolence to ques
Soe ROSES on 11