Rock n’ Roll Hair

            In the latest edition of Guitarworld magazine, we find ourselves looking at the visage of Mick Mars, guitarist of the band, Motley Crue, which is embarking on their final tour. Whether they tour again, or stay true to their pronounced exit from the stage, matters little to me, instead, what amazed me most was that even in his sixties, Mars has a full head of black hair, just as he did those thirty years ago when the Crue burst onto the world stage. Of course, Mars is not alone in this, even in his own band; all the Crue maintain the look they had back in the eighties. Now his face has the lines and cracks we all must suffer as we grow old, but the hair…..

            And this isn’t to pick on Motley Crue; any number of bands, performers from the sixties, seventies, and eighties still cling to the image they created in their youth, but young they ain’t. It’s this incongruity that fascinates me especially as younger artists outside the pop spectrum seem less inclined to create an image aside from body art and piercing. Why should we expect the remaining members of the Moody Blues, as an example, to have all that hair when we, their listeners don’t? Our hair has thinned and greyed; just survey any concert by a vintage act and the audience looks its age and then some. Shouldn't their's do the same?

            There are, of course, those who have chosen to change their appearance as they’ve gotten older; Rush, Peter Frampton, Ringo, and Charlie Watts as examples. After all, rock n’roll isn’t young anymore, either. It’s at least sixty years old, and denials aside, isn’t really the kids taking it to the Man. The whole nature of rock is in question as it ages and gentrifies into its many sub-genres. Name a great new rock band akin to those of the past! If the media is to believed, and I’m not necessarily anti-media, country music is on the ascent as rock fades, but today’s country isn’t exactly the rebirth of Maybelle Carter or Hank Williams; more Eagles lite than George Jones. Is that rock’s fate? To be warmed over Country? Is rock, as once conceived, like Jazz or Blues, trailing off, never to regain its former glory?

            And Hair? Well, it certainly isn’t a big thing these day, at least for men. This is my personal prejudice, but young men should glory in their hair while they have it. There’ll be many years left to run around looking like you just got out of prison or boot camp ( I’m probably dating myself here ). So maybe the whole hair thing is a nod to the virility it once conveyed to those strutting the stage, and those watching. We can, at least, pretent that virility doesn't decline with age. And if that means wigs, toupees, dyes, extensions; then by all means do what you’ve got to do; even if I don’t buy it. Besides, I understand it can be claimed as a business expense.

Because it's important to whine

The question arises for those with artistic ambitions; just how important it is that what they create is then presented to the wider world around them? For me, thanks to a rather severe case of the existential ‘why am I doing this’ blues; in which I seriously considered selling off all my instruments and equipment, it’s whether there’s worth in putting the work out there to begin with. Unlike when the material, in this case music, was first written and recorded back in the age of cassette tapes, when getting it out meant running around town trying to get people to listen, now we have the means to expose it to the great wide world, but, it also has to compete with the other billion voices seeking an audience as well. Ironically, you can now go from no one can hear it to no one wants to hear it. That may be overly pessimistic, but is there enough value to the person creating the work, to then spend the time necessary for it to be viewed or heard with the understanding that it may not be heard at all, or may be derided, criticized, lambasted, or flagged as a gross waste of anybody’s time?

As I write this, I sit on a pile of 90 plus songs, and 1 book, and vacillate as to what to do. On the one hand, I do want them to be listened to and read; on the other, I’m keenly aware that even if I put them all out there that doesn’t guarantee that they’ll be anything other than out there. It’s not even a matter of whether they will be like or appreciated, or dismissed as so much dreak. It’s the sinking feeling that it’s all a great waste of time. None of this happens in an afternoon, as anybody who has fallen into this habit will attest. It’s a lot of work, time, and effort. So, at some level, there needs to be some form of payoff, or acknowledgement, whether in personal or social recognition.

Am I whining? Absolutely. I believe it’s part of the artistic milieu. I want to be loved, admired, gloried; don’t judge me; love me! Yeah, it’s not going to happen, but I can dream. The more prosaic answer to all of this is do it, found your legacy and let history be the arbiter of it quality and benefit to mankind, because if history has to do something, it’s to determine our place in the human pantheon. I can cling to that in this roiling sea of existence. How's that for prosaic. Anyway, plod on and we won't ponder whether there's any monetary value to consider. That is a whole other can of hash.

Mr. Primitive

      After a lengthly sabbatical, during which I, in no particular order, wrote a book, had open heart surgery, and thought about nothing of any significance, the nature of my existence became clear to me: write more crap. So here it is in all it's misshapen horror, but first let us consider the moniker by which I ply this ignoble venture so that you may better understand what in God's name I'm talking about.
      Mr. Primitive. Meaning what? Well, it's pretty simple, no matter how hard we may seek to distance ourselves from our primate nature; our animalistic nature, we are what we are: animals. Voracious, solipsistic, occasionally funny animals. We are, in fact, physiologically no different from our caveman ancestors. If either were dropped into the world of the other as a child; either would be no worse off assuming who they ended up with were reasonably functioning. And isn't that really the operative phrase in any situation: reasonably functioning? I believe so.
      Naturally, we humans believe ourselves superior to the rest of the flora and fauna, not just our primate cousins. Never mind that gorillas and chimps are stronger than we are and could beat us to a pulp. We'd simply use our superior intellect and nuke them. We then prostrate ourselves; well, some do, about saving the Earth as if we would go on should something bad happen to her, the Earth. We're like that. The longer I live the more amusing I find the human condition. Our fraught head banging as something we do to wile away our time here, continuously plowing the furrows of the past; blithely ignorant that we are forever trod-ding the same miserable soil.
      Fortunately, many forsake the past, mostly by knowing nothing of it, as a means of avoiding the notion that we continually repeat the same mistakes as our forebears; you know, grandpa. Still, we confess our love for grandpa whether we have any idea of his misadventures or not. If it was good enough for him; why not us? Yes? Sure, what the hell. We do our time and pass the torch to the  young(er) so they may persist in the human folly that we so joyfully embrace. What else can they do? We're stuck here. We can dream that we're not held to the same limitations as our less fortunate Earthly cousins, but we're of the same biological limits and frailties which means we will not be traveling through time. We're good ol' Earth bound clodhoppers.
      So as we strut and fret upon this mortal coil, stuck like rats on a spinning ship; doing our best not to toss our cosmic cookies, I shall endeavor to persevere in voicing my own particularly pointless, or pointed commentary on what passes for existence at the particular moment in the ever spinning and expanding universe of which we're along for the ride.