mattbraunlin
Member
From a Rock Apostate
Humans are designed to worship. We each have a God-shaped void in our hearts which we inevitably fill with something. And once it's there -once we have found the object of our 'humble adoration'- we feed it. We cater to it. It alters our hearts and our minds as it expands, layered with either lithe muscle or sweaty flab, quickly bringing on vivid, sometimes revolutionary, sometimes catastrophic change in the way we view ourselves and treat others.
Once that void is filled, Heaven and Hell enter the desert and turn it soggy with blood as they fight for the strongholds of your being. Some gods stay, some fade away, some are even (in rare cases) rejected outright. But each leaves vapors in your life which never completely dissipate. A Year Zero in your life cannot be removed from the calendar. Just as a Buddhist who converts to Christianity can sometimes not shake the urge to burn incense, any god, of any type, connects your wires in ways that only cause wretched pain when you try to reverse them.
Which brings me to rock'n'roll.
As I was prepping for my baptism eleven years ago, I vividly recall asking my mentor, a conservative, lionhearted Kazakhstani, if I could still listen to rock music as a Christian. Before God, the firm 'Yes' I recieved in reply may have saved my life, never mind my faith. Though I was prepared to put God at the helm, I don't think I could have made it without my Rock Gods tending the sails.
Rock has a truly powerful Pantheon. Only the statue of Christ himself is more massive and centrally placed than those of Jim Morrison and Little Richard in the Temple of My Mind. It is itself a religion, as even as free a thinker as Frank Zappa openly attested to. It has grabbed the 'immortal longings' of half a dozen generations, and like any other religion it is only fueled and enriched by the snarls and persecution of the Pharisees and the establishment.
Also, like any religion, it is jealously exclusive. As the Jews had their Gentiles, so Rockers have their Mods and Squares. Rock took its membership status so seriously, went to such theocratic lengths to protect its integrity, that the very fact has become something of an embarrassment. All along its course, its long-haired inquisitors excluded and interrogated, cutting off from the community anyone over thirty, anyone who wore a cross, and anyone who declined a puff of a joint.
Now a proud violator of all three of these Commandments, I look at things a little differently. I may never be 'cool' again, bro, but I see Rock music for what it is and what it is not, where it succeeds and where it fails, and where it fails most miserably is at the centre of your life. Like the drugs with which it often walks hand in hand, it warms your heart, fills that void, then goes tame and tepid and merely nags, and becomes one more part of your life that must be catered to. Even the greatest discoveries I make in the rock world these days seem like pretzels and diet coke compared to the earth shattering feasts of Pink Floyd and Bob Dylan a half a lifetime ago. And those feasts are over. They would not happen -I would not let them happen- today. It's just music, just art.
How did it happen? How did I go from the self-proclaimed rock guru I was in high school to the disillusioned musical realist writing this dirge? By living the life that rock laid before me. By embracing the druggy melodrama and pretentious self-righteousness which eventually seeps into all but the very wisest and soundest minds who gorge themselves on The Lifestyle and Philosophy of The Rocker.
As a result, I very nearly joined the likes of Hendrix, Cobain and Joplin who bought the ticket, took the ride, and found out, through torture, just how short that ride is. Except I never made it big, and, like the vast majority of dead rockers, no one would have remembered me, or even known I'd existed in the first place. THAT'S rock'n'roll, Mr. Townshend. That's rock'n'roll.
Rock is one among many. It is a hammer in the toolbox. It drives the nail in nicely, but don't try to tighten a nut with it. If you do, you will fail, and make an ass of yourself for your trouble. Add some jazz and classical to your presets and you'll soon realize that they fail no more, and often less, than rock and its faded anti-establishment dogma.
And it's all just music, just art. It's all wonderful, but it merely decorates the world built by carpenters, farmers, preachers, politicians, soldiers, authors, and everyone else who looked entirely outward and took real, tangible action. Bob Dylan was a masterful poet, but only a madman would substitute his work for Churchill's in an attempt to rally the world against Hitler. Only the suicidally stupid would call Led Zeppelin's entire run, more noble and significant in its work than the dairy farm next door to my grandparents'.
I feel obliged to make it clear at this point that I still love rock music. But I will no longer have anything to do with the Cult of rock, which smirks at outsiders and builds monuments to its own greatness. I no longer believe that I am on a higher level of consciousness than you.
The God-shaped void is meant for God. Music, perhaps most especially rock, is a peripheral, albeit a highly enjoyable one. There are few shakier foundations upon which to build a worldview than music. My life is proof of that, and if you're not extremely careful, yours will be too.
Humans are designed to worship. We each have a God-shaped void in our hearts which we inevitably fill with something. And once it's there -once we have found the object of our 'humble adoration'- we feed it. We cater to it. It alters our hearts and our minds as it expands, layered with either lithe muscle or sweaty flab, quickly bringing on vivid, sometimes revolutionary, sometimes catastrophic change in the way we view ourselves and treat others.
Once that void is filled, Heaven and Hell enter the desert and turn it soggy with blood as they fight for the strongholds of your being. Some gods stay, some fade away, some are even (in rare cases) rejected outright. But each leaves vapors in your life which never completely dissipate. A Year Zero in your life cannot be removed from the calendar. Just as a Buddhist who converts to Christianity can sometimes not shake the urge to burn incense, any god, of any type, connects your wires in ways that only cause wretched pain when you try to reverse them.
Which brings me to rock'n'roll.
As I was prepping for my baptism eleven years ago, I vividly recall asking my mentor, a conservative, lionhearted Kazakhstani, if I could still listen to rock music as a Christian. Before God, the firm 'Yes' I recieved in reply may have saved my life, never mind my faith. Though I was prepared to put God at the helm, I don't think I could have made it without my Rock Gods tending the sails.
Rock has a truly powerful Pantheon. Only the statue of Christ himself is more massive and centrally placed than those of Jim Morrison and Little Richard in the Temple of My Mind. It is itself a religion, as even as free a thinker as Frank Zappa openly attested to. It has grabbed the 'immortal longings' of half a dozen generations, and like any other religion it is only fueled and enriched by the snarls and persecution of the Pharisees and the establishment.
Also, like any religion, it is jealously exclusive. As the Jews had their Gentiles, so Rockers have their Mods and Squares. Rock took its membership status so seriously, went to such theocratic lengths to protect its integrity, that the very fact has become something of an embarrassment. All along its course, its long-haired inquisitors excluded and interrogated, cutting off from the community anyone over thirty, anyone who wore a cross, and anyone who declined a puff of a joint.
Now a proud violator of all three of these Commandments, I look at things a little differently. I may never be 'cool' again, bro, but I see Rock music for what it is and what it is not, where it succeeds and where it fails, and where it fails most miserably is at the centre of your life. Like the drugs with which it often walks hand in hand, it warms your heart, fills that void, then goes tame and tepid and merely nags, and becomes one more part of your life that must be catered to. Even the greatest discoveries I make in the rock world these days seem like pretzels and diet coke compared to the earth shattering feasts of Pink Floyd and Bob Dylan a half a lifetime ago. And those feasts are over. They would not happen -I would not let them happen- today. It's just music, just art.
How did it happen? How did I go from the self-proclaimed rock guru I was in high school to the disillusioned musical realist writing this dirge? By living the life that rock laid before me. By embracing the druggy melodrama and pretentious self-righteousness which eventually seeps into all but the very wisest and soundest minds who gorge themselves on The Lifestyle and Philosophy of The Rocker.
As a result, I very nearly joined the likes of Hendrix, Cobain and Joplin who bought the ticket, took the ride, and found out, through torture, just how short that ride is. Except I never made it big, and, like the vast majority of dead rockers, no one would have remembered me, or even known I'd existed in the first place. THAT'S rock'n'roll, Mr. Townshend. That's rock'n'roll.
Rock is one among many. It is a hammer in the toolbox. It drives the nail in nicely, but don't try to tighten a nut with it. If you do, you will fail, and make an ass of yourself for your trouble. Add some jazz and classical to your presets and you'll soon realize that they fail no more, and often less, than rock and its faded anti-establishment dogma.
And it's all just music, just art. It's all wonderful, but it merely decorates the world built by carpenters, farmers, preachers, politicians, soldiers, authors, and everyone else who looked entirely outward and took real, tangible action. Bob Dylan was a masterful poet, but only a madman would substitute his work for Churchill's in an attempt to rally the world against Hitler. Only the suicidally stupid would call Led Zeppelin's entire run, more noble and significant in its work than the dairy farm next door to my grandparents'.
I feel obliged to make it clear at this point that I still love rock music. But I will no longer have anything to do with the Cult of rock, which smirks at outsiders and builds monuments to its own greatness. I no longer believe that I am on a higher level of consciousness than you.
The God-shaped void is meant for God. Music, perhaps most especially rock, is a peripheral, albeit a highly enjoyable one. There are few shakier foundations upon which to build a worldview than music. My life is proof of that, and if you're not extremely careful, yours will be too.
