Rock and Roll is on Life Support

All great empires eventually fall. That is the unrequited truth of history. We cannot stop it - nor are we supposed to. The long rises, reigns and perils of great societies have been documented elsewhere. This page is not intended for stories of history, it is merely the wonderings, ramblings and inquiries of one writer trying to find his voice. Sadly, one voice of our time is dying. You may have known him as R. N. Roll.

Mr. Roll rose up in the heyday of an American empire itself that faces unfathomable challenges in these days. Roll was a rebel, a savant, a clairvoyant, a punk, a garage filler, a dancer, a stripper and a harlot all rolled into one. But R. N. also had his softer side, the anima to compliment his animus. On that side, we heard the Sirens, the heartbreak, the wail, the intrusion, the hope, the future, the piano of our lives.

R. will hold a legacy that many will cherish and that some will do nothing more than willingly forget. For R.N. Roll was not met, he was ingested, and in the bellies of our mainstream he rose up to greet us head on, one-to-one or one-to-ten-thousand, but he never left us lonely. There were good times and bad times when good men and strong women had to run far away to avoid the nausea, the vomiting, the gut-wrenching that followed Roll's lifestyle. As well, there were those who stood to be soothed by the subtle charm, mystified by the electric brilliance, and dazzled by lights unseen, chords ever echoing and reasons unquestioned.

We are all fans, in one way or another. So, please, stand with me, ladies, gentlemen, junkies, alcoholics, lovers, winners, runaways, bus stop clerks, teachers, poets, politicians, doctors and prostitutes alike, as we prepare to bid farewell to R.N. Roll.

R.N. Roll is sick.
Rock N. Roll needs Hospice care.
Rock and Roll is DYING!

You did not even see it coming, did you?

Rock N. Roll recently reached middle age. Many historians pin 1955 as the birth of Rock. With that being accepted, it would be 55 years old now. No, it did not live to the ripe old age of 92 - only poets are afforded that opportunity. One might guess that Rock died of a massive heart attack - the final effect of a life of excess, debauchery and overexposure. Ironically, no. How did Rock N. Roll die? He just kind of slunked off into the night as the rest of us were watching idols and retreads and washed-up reunions.

It started as a half-time show, never mind the act, they all appeared to be the same by the turn of the most recent decade. Rock hobbled itself onto a barely built stage, ran through meaningless repertoire of a mindless montage played at semi-half speed, doffed a hat and went on to some trendy party in the foothills.

The first real signs of declining health came in the form of a Rock Hero Guitar game, played by unknowing children and clueless former fans of bubblegum pop. They spent the summer asking, "What song was that? Who played that? Is that really the title of that song?"

Not soon after, she appeared as metaphor, a commercial selling cheeseburgers or facial cream or even erection pills. Her condition worsened as she gave herself willingly to the newest cell phone. What a travesty! It even provided a copy of her newest song as a free ringtone.

Originally, Rock had a keen sense for business, but its purpose was never about the profit. The music had always come first. Later in life, he turned to concern over retirement and investment strategies - even an odd trust fund here and there. Scholars will later come to mark that as the beginning of the end.

She led a grand life. Along the way, a museum was named in Rock N. Roll's honor - in Cleveland, Ohio, of all places. Fitting, seeing as Alan Freed dubbed her by her given name there so many years back. Since, she has been called Grunge, Pop, Acid, Metal, Art, Garage, Psychedelic, even a savior once - just so long as you make no claims that she is as popular as any Biblical friends.

She was at once a Long, Tall Woman in a Black Dress, an Evil Woman, a Jessica, a Maybeline, a Pearl, and at the same time a Johnny B. Goode, a Johnny Rotten, a Sexy Pistol, a two-time Elvis, and even The-Mister-Duran-twice-over-each somehow as well.

She had her finer moments - a clash here and there, a kink to work out, a temper to throw.

But she is now dying, as near death as the legacy of the many one-hit wonders who have come and gone in her short but remarkable career.

And in that palace - that Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame - is where the death knell began its somber toll, a tintinnabulation marking the trek to an early grave.

Rock was given due celebration recently as a new group of members joined service after years at her calling. While the stage looked like her typical show, Rock N. Roll was bamboozled. As he strutted his bare-chested glamour across a New York stage, socialites in black ties, tuxedos and three-thousand-dollar dresses sat idly by and watched the demise. They did nothing to try to save her. They did not rock! They did not roll! They did not demand an encore call! They did not rush the stage, scream for more or even mosh their nearest friend. They just sat there and clapped in rhythmic denial of her beautiful swan song.

A few witnesses screamed for help, but most just nodded and smiled in some deft reverence to her inevitable passing. After all, they had paid so much for the dinner.

Perhaps you saw it. The Waldorf Astoria was the location, and the event was the 2010 Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame Induction Ceremony. It was anything but ceremony. It was a funeral pyre! Mr. and Mrs. Rock N. Roll never expected to be famous in the first place; now their eventual passing has been met with luke-warm applause and the tragedy has unveiled itself.

Those long-dead empires mentioned earlier all crumbled from within. Due to either arrogance or corruption, they simply did not pay proper attention to their simplest of needs. Their people went hungry, their leaders grew powerless and their enemies found easy rapture over their once-proud societies.

Rock has suffered much the same fate. It is as if someone left the back door open to a great gig (in the sky) and forgot to check the front of house for intruders, and in crawled the posers and look-alikes who had no artistic originality, no soundful skill and who were certainly not welcome. Still, they mosied to the stage and didn't so much as steal the show as snuffed it out in fear of a fire code violation.

Once the passion is gone from Rock, its soul withers quickly.

Somewhere between a Genesis it failed to acknowledge and a wanted Nirvana that never lived up to its hype, Rock became ill and began to die. And Who knew?

While Green Days have tried to save it, White Stripes have bandaged it in vein and some sort of Purple Haze still looms over its impending demise, it may be too late. No colorful soliloquy can bring about a miracle cure.

Twenty years ago, that induction ceremony would have seen tables toppled, fists furiously flying and even the occasional bra brandished toward the bar. Not at The Astoria! Rock and Roll was never meant to be played to black ties, it was made to drive you mad with its pounding, tear at your ears with its howling and leave you sweaty like a lover who still demands more from you.

The only hope is that somewhere out there in Australia or England or Germany or Russia or even Bosnia, Boston or Brussels, that a few angry lads are strapping on guitars and kicking into a chord that will forever drive them mad. If not, rock will die. Someone needs to re-energize her, for us.

In the end, we have tributes far and wide left to her greater legacy - the Mount Rushmore of Rock - effaced with Led Zeppelin, Rush, The Beatles and...you decide. It is too painful to chisel. U2? Metallica? The Eagles? Pearl Jam? Lynyrd Skynyrd? Areosmith? Who will fill the final spot? History will decide. Just don't kiss her or adorn her with guns or roses, she deserves more than such a creed.

Like all great arts, Rock N. Roll will not be forgotten, so in that manner she will live forever, but Rock as we know it is nearly dead.

Long live rock - but only in our minds. Rest now, for you are tired. We can only hope that it is not too late. Flatline would make a terrible name for a band.