No lockage? No spam dumping? No Laughing Wuting Pear of Doom?
Thank you, people. Really, I'm moved. Plus, nothing says "receptive audience" as:
what the fuck are you talking about, guy?
So, without further ado, because I focking hate ado:
Scene 01: Regression - The Wembley Tribute and The Oedipus ComplexLet's Delorian© back to 1992. If you weren't born yet, feel free to mock me to Kingdom Come and back, and thank your gods you weren't given to live through those malevolent times.
All you have to know is I was fourteen. Now, if ancient Greek myths and modern science – because we're having a focking cultural discussion here - have taught us anything is that your average fourteen years old kid with all the hormones in the right places basically needs to reach three goals in order to successfully evolve into manhood:
1.Getting one-upmanship on father
2.Finding worthy musical heroes
3.Getting laid
Summing up Aristoteles' thought: you complete the trifecta, you are entitled to spend the rest of your youth as a happy insufferable dick like nature has always meant you to. You don't, you better start auditioning for a guest spot at Jerry Springer's.
Starting from the bottom, let's see what transpired in my sorry case:
Getting laid?None of your focking business, thank you, but it eventually and legally happened.
Finding worthy musical heroes?It sounds easier than you think, dear reader. Being born in a 24/7 hard progressive rock sounding house, I had the undeniable privilege to be exposed to a plethora of magnificent sounds, bands, albums, and songs. Magnificent, but not Mine. Like in Bought-First-Album-Followed-Whole-Career-Watched-Live-Everytime-They-Came-Around kind of Mine.
If it doesn't lose its virginity with you, it ain't Your Band.
On the other hand, The Drumming Dad had the Unreachable Pantheon© (Led Zep, Deep Purple, King Crimson, Pink Floyd): he basically witnessed the Big Bang. Even The Banging Big Bro, although severely retarded, was graced with the Second Hand Tier© (Maidens, Motorhead, Van Halen, Helloween). Of course, I could (and did) join them in the general perusal hero-worship, but it felt cheap. Metaphorically speaking, I wasn't going to prom night with Strawberry Bubble-Gum Jenny©, I was dating a tobacco chewing exhausted whore.
Honestly, who did I have? Focus on 1992, count back from ten to one, and try to come up with a great band, or a good one in its prime. Now, before the cream of the smart-ass crop starts producing data, I beg you to simmer down already. You're undeniably well-equipped with amazing internet powers and a 20/20 Hindsight©. But hold your pants, gentlemen: there was no such thing as the world wide web at that time. Al Gore hadn't invented it yet. Furthermore, records distribution and music press in the corner of the world I was living in were as efficient as Iraqi Democracy©. You could just buy what you knew, and know what the Record Shop Heroin Junkie Clerk felt to smuggle. The rest was silence.
Metallica? Sorry, just neutered on the altar of Bob Rock. Extreme/Mr.Big? Great guitarists, not much substance under the glitter. Guns 'n' Roses? Like the Lost Finale, they never happened. The Weeping Willows from Seattle? Please. And since we've gone there, I'm still feeling the whole Grunge fad was a terrible generational slight. The ultimate divine slap on the face, as if God told me: “Hey son, do you remember your mental impaired brother partying and copulating like there wasn't tomorrow in the middle 80's, basking in the glory of the Sunset Strip aphrodisiac sound? Well, now it's your turn. Here's some depressing music, emotional mascara girls submerged inside deformed cardigans and HIV paranoia. Have fun. By the way, there is no Santa”. Thank you very much, I'm not having my Bar Mitzvah.
Getting one-upmanship on father?Ouch. Like the poet said, Tough Titties©. That fickle bitch of destiny wanted me to struggle for supremacy with The Drumming Dad. Not only he was my natural hero – In my heart he's Voltron mixed with Inigo Montoya mixed with Sgt. Slaughter – but my whole focking town's as well. Great drummer, relevant in my country, owner of thousands of records, certified waterwalker. Ok, I just made up the last one, but you got the idea. Beat that. Beat that at fourteen with only your pimples and morning erections to brag about.
Music was to be the battlefield, “My generation's bands are better than yours” the playground.
In fact, we eventually found an appropriate stage for the Freudian showdown, gracefully provided by a Fatal Tragedy©. The greatest vocalist and front-man in the history of rock music had passed away the year before. If I have to tell you whom I'm talking about, I don't want to know you. The important thing being, the international gotha of hard and not so hard music decided to pay due tribute at Wembley Stadium, London, UK, on April the 20th 1992. That lovely spring evening caught me, The Banging Big Bro, and The Drumming Dad literally glued to the TV for the live broadcast, while The Material Mom was probably asking herself what ferocious pagan divinity she had offended in a past life to deserve such a fate.
For the first time in history three generations of rockers were fencing for joyful supremacy, secretly celebrating the fact the grim reaper had already chosen its legit superstar for the decade, and I was tragically embarrassed. I mean, Under-The-Shower-With-The-Harlem-Globetrotters kind of embarrassed. My dad, the man who introduced me to Gentle Giant and to the gentle arts of tying my shoes and wiping my ass, could boast Daltrey, Iommi, Plant, Bowie, May, and several other living posters. The first failed experiment, also known as my brother, tried to defended himself with Metallica and Def Leppard. In my corner: Axl Focking Rose. Seriously, I think the following exchange of words actually occurred:
Drumming Dad: “Who's that monkey butchering Bohemian Rhapsody?”
SoilingInShame Me: “A guy chicks are digging a lot these days ...”
Banging Big Bro: “Is he wearing a skirt?”
WantingToDie Me: “Shush you. At least his drummer doesn't lack an arm.”
Game over. I wasn't meant to become a proper man. There was no kick-butt band to take me to adulthood's promised land. Or so I thought until I met destiny on a sunny July day ...
Coming Soon: Scene 02: Overture 1992 - Shirley Temple and Vindication.Stay classy.