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Two Songs

July 5, 2009 Leave a comment

I hate to sound like an old fogey at eighteen tender years of age, but I really miss the seventies.

I miss the long hot summers. I miss the protests. I miss the impassioned young people screaming about justice. I miss the wicked guitar solos.

In 1970, Neil Young produced a song called ‘Souther Man’. This song pertained to the attitude towards and treatment of blacks in the south, at this time still prevalent, despite widespread controversy. This is a song that bespoke the rage and despair felt by those who were aware of and in opposition to the situation in the south;

Lily Belle,
your hair is golden brown
I’ve seen your black man
comin’ round
Swear by God
I’m gonna cut him down!
I heard screamin’
and bullwhips cracking
How long? How long?

Four years later, Lynyrd Skynyrd (notoriously proud southern boys) released a song you might have heard of as a response. It was called ‘Sweet Home Alabama’;

Well I heard mister Young sing about her
Well, I heard ole Neil put her down
Well, I hope Neil Young will remember
A Southern man don’t need him around anyhow

Rock stars used to have balls. Or ovaries, respectively. And they used to write about interesting things, such as, oh I don’t know, opression, and corruption in the government, and stopping unjust wars. They also wrote about girls and getting high, but at least many of them did so with finesse.  Remember Jimmy Hendrix? He wrote about girls AND being high at the same time. And he died of a heroin overdose. But he did so while chewing through wicked solos and lighting his guitar on fire. Which, as far as I know, isn’t really an artistic statement of any kind, but by God it’s still awesome. ‘Rock Stars’ these days are pre-packaged and over-polished twelve-year-old boys who think that owning a nifty pair of converse implicates musical talent.  Their music is overproduced and bland, and the worst part is that if it’s in the ‘indie’ section of the record store, fashion-crazed hipsters claiming to be individualistic and bohemian will clamor to get their hemp-bracelet and nail polish encrusted paws on it.

Yeah. I miss the days when rock stars actually fucking rocked. Remember that? Neither do I.

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