Obviously, Azerrad disagrees with me on this issue, and his argument is that a band like Fugazi never overtly said “we’re important,” nor did they ever technically demand anyone to live in the manner they embraced. But that sentiment was there. It’s almost always riding shotgun with the music rock critics tend to adore. I eventually interviewed Azerrad about his book, and I asked him to speculate on the differences between a kid who went to a Black Flag show at a Moose Lodge in 1981 and a kid who went to a Van Halen show at The Forum on the very same night. This is what he said:
“Obviously, the kid at the Black Flag show is a bit of an independent, investigative thinker. He or she probably had to read about Black Flag in a fanzine, and he or she can look past glossy production to see the gist of a band. That takes a certain independence of thought and a leap of imagination. Someone who makes their way to a Black Flag concert in 1981 is obviously different then the kind of kid who’s at Van Halen, because the Van Halen kid only reads mainstream publication and listens to the radio, so that’s all he knows. For the person who goes to the Black Flag show, music is probably more important to them. But that’s not a value judgment about them as a human being.”
Wrong. That is a value judgment. What it says is that the kid who likes Black Flag is a better music fan than the kid who likes Van Halen. And that’s ridiculous. It’s possible these two hypothetical kids like Black Flag and Van Halen for diametrically different reasons, but its just as possible they like them for the exact same reason (“Man, these guys fucking rock!”). The true difference is that—20 years later—loving Black Flag meant you understood the unbridled intensity of the raging underclass. Loving Van Halen meant you liked to party. Consequently, loving Van Halen meant your adolescence meant almost nothing.
Azerrad thinks my feelings about the exclusionary aspects of Black Flag and Sonic Youth is a product of my own insecurity; I don’t know, perhaps there’s a grain of truth to that assertion. There is a paradox to the fact that—though I honestly love ’80s metal—I almost never listen to it anymore, beyond Guns N’ RosesA and Vinnie Vincent Invasion. But maybe that’s why I can suddenly understand what it must have been like to be Nikki Sixx, back when he was writing music that normal people loved and intellectuals loathed, even though neither faction was really paying attention to the songs; they merely loved or loathed what they wanted those songs to represent. I’m sure Nikki spent more than one night in the studio thinking, “Man, this record is crap … but this crap is who I am.”
In the introduction to Fargo Rock City, I stated that I was going to show why all that “poofy, sexist, shallow glam rock was important.” There are some who claim I failed at this attempt, which is fine. Part of me doesn’t even care anymore. But part of me still does, so I want to give it one last shot. …
Try to look at it like this: I love Radiohead. I’ve slowly come to the conclusion that Radiohead is the best working band I’ve experienced since I started listening to music 18 years ago. And even though they get bushels of positive press coverage, I think they’re still slightly underrated; people don’t seem to realize they’ve made the best record in the world during three different years (1995, 1997, and 2000). Sometimes, Thom Yorke is perfect. We are watching a band that’s at least as good as The Who. But you know what? I could never love Radiohead as much as I loved Mötley Crüe. I could never love Radiohead as much as Mötley Crüe because I’ll never be 15 again. I can certainly appreciate Radiohead, but they’re not an extension of my life. No rock band ever will be again. For 99 percent of the populace (myself included), that kind of mystical connection can only happen during those terrible, magical years when you somehow convince yourself that a guy like Nikki Sixx understands you. And it didn’t matter if Nikki didn’t write with the poetic prowess of Paul Westerberg; for me, he may as well have been Paul McCartney. It’s all about timing, you know?
In 1996, I went to a concert headlined by Vince Neil (this was during his ill-fated “solo” period) that also featured Slaughter and Warrant. All three acts were at the lowest points in their career. But something happened at this show that I will always remember: After his first song, Warrant’s Jani Lane promised the crowd he would sing “Cherry Pie” and “Heaven” and all the other songs he knew everyone had paid to hear, but he just asked that we sit through a half dozen of the new (and—to be honest—horrible) songs he had recorded on the unsuccessful Dog Eat Dog record. And he didn’t ask this in a self-conscious, self-deprecating way; he was almost begging. Basically, he agreed to deliver all the old songs he hated if we would politely listen to the new stuff he cared about.
To me, that was cool. Maybe the 8th grade Chuck would have scoffed at his desperate earnesty, but the 24-year-old Chuck was sort of touched by that sincerity. And when I look back at Jani’s request today, I always wonder: Would Thom Yorke ever do that? Well, perhaps he’ll never have to. But on that summer night in 1996, I was glad Jani Lane cared enough about his life to give me back 20 minutes of mine.
February 2, 2000
Mr. Charles Klosterman
Dear Mr. Klosterman:
We received a complaint this morning regarding loud music and jumping in your apartment in the early hours of the morning. After reviewing your file, it seems as if this is a recurring problem in your apartment. It distresses us to have to write this letter, but you are keeping your neighbors awake.
We realize that it is sometimes difficult to live with neighbors, but please understand that playing music loudly at any time, if it disturbs your neighbors, is expressly against your lease. Your lack of consideration for your neighbors is also very disrespectful.
Your status as a resident here at Cedarwood Village is very tenuous. You are currently here on a month to month basis. Therefore, if we receive just one more complaint about noise we will give you a 30 day notice to vacate your apartment.
Our hope is that we do not have to take any further action in respect to you disturbing your neighbors. If you have any questions, please give us a call.
Sincerely,
General Manager
We hope you enjoyed reading this Scribner eBook.
Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Scribner and Simon & Schuster.
or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com
A I have since moved. Sorry.
A Of course, Cobain’s victory as an icon does not necessarily mean he made better music; at least technically, Appetite for Destruction is a stronger album than Nevermind. They’re weirdly similar, actually: Both open with songs that defined each band’s aethetic; both track 2s are about testosterone-driven males (Nirvana hates ’em, GNR represents ’em), both track 5s are about drugs (one prescription, one illegal), and both albums conclude with alienated, spacey finales. The difference is that Appetite … always comes across as a tour de force and a classic rock masterpiece, while Nevermind will forever be remembered as a vehicle for “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and its subversive affect on mainstream culture. It’s periodically brilliant, but half the material on Nevermind is filler. There’s no doubt about which of these records is more socially important, but there’s also no question about which one gets played in my apartment when I want to hear something badass.
A It must be noted that I recently spoke with Cliff for the first time in seven years, and he is no longer an angry young man. In fact, he now wears Hawaiian shirts in public and has become shockingly amicable. Cliff works as a beef inspector for the state of North Dakota (he actually has an office in the capitol building in Bismarck) and recently purchased a pontoon boat for the purposes of “beer drinking and womanizing” on Lake Sakakawea. I suspect he is the only meat inspector in America who talks like Paul Stanley in casual conversation.
A Driving around aimlessly and going nowhere is an aspect of small-town culture few people from urban communities truly understand, but it’s pretty muc
h the backbone of teen life in places like Wyndmere. We drove our parents’ cars around the same path endlessly for several hours every weekend evening: The route ran from the Cenex station, north to Main Street (where you made a U-turn in front of the bankrupt lumberyard), down the residential stretch of Highway 18 for about a mile, east past the Tastee Freez (and through the town’s only stop light), and then back to Cenex. The total distance of one rotation is 2.8 miles. Whenever you wanted to talk to someone in another car, you hit your brake lights twice when they passed you, which indicated that they were supposed to meet you in the parking lot of the high school bus barn. The fundamental goal was to make the local police officer follow your particular vehicle, which is why I’ll always begrudgingly adore that Gin Blossoms song where the dude sings, “We can drive around this town / And let the cops chase us around.”
A This analysis was somewhat complicated by the May 11, 2000, issue of Rolling Stone magazine, which essentially described Rose as a nocturnal New Age freak who spends much of his time in Sedona, a pseudo-spiritual Narnia in the Arizona desert. The article implied Chinese Democracy will probably never be released, but I’m confident it will eventually come out—however, I have no clue when that will be. When I started writing this manuscript in 1998, I jokingly said I wanted to have it published before the next GNR record, and (at this point) I think I still have a legitimate shot. Meanwhile, my aforementioned buddy Mr. Pancake now lives near Sedona and told me he’d keep an eye out for Axl’s aura.
A Or maybe vomit.
A Limp Bizkit also received much of the blame for the riots at the Woodstock ’99 rock festival, prompting MTV’s Chris Connelly to scoff at the “inexplicable anger” from the Bizkit’s “white, upper-class audience.” I guess this aggression was “inexplicable” because white rich people are always unspeakably happy about being white and rich.
A We hope.
A Of course, they’ll all be twenty-one by the time this book comes out, which might mean they’re already irrelevant.
A Love’s ability to fool intelligent people continues to baffle me. In 1991, she made Pretty on the Inside, and it was about as remarkable as a bucket of vomit warming in the afternoon sun. By 1994, she had married Kurt Cobain and—surprise!—proceeded to “write” a record that’s pretty amazing (and seemingly unconnected to her debut in almost every possible way). Tragically, Kurt died the week before it was released. Courtney subsequently stopped making music … until she renewed her friendship with Billy Corgan and—surprise!—released Celebrity Skin, another exceptional record with virtually no sonic relationship to Live Through This. Funny how this keeps happening. I hope Courtney starts sleeping with Trey Anastasio of Phish, because I’d love to see Hole become a jam band.
A And I’m really afraid they will.
A Well, okay … I’m sort of a Mötley Crüe apologist.
A Funny (or maybe not so funny) side note: While I wrote Fargo Rock City, my standing joke was that I’d try to finish before the new Guns N’ Roses album came out. It still blows my mind that I did. As I write this coda, it’s March of 2002, and it appears that the softcover edition will beat Chinese Democracy again. I would also like to note that I’ve now heard about half of the yet-to-be released GNR album, and at least one song—“The Blues”—is as good as anything Axl has ever recorded. I’m still a fuckin’ believer.
Fargo Rock City: A Heavy Metal Odyssey in Rural North Dakota Page 30
