Bring Me The Head of Jeff Lynne, etc…

by Chris Adams
Illustration by Jef Taylor

“We Created It – Let’s Take It Over” – Patti Smith

Brethren, we are at a crossroads. It’s 1997, and King Rock is now 40 years old. This, my friends, presents us with an unfortunate dilemma. As The Kids useta say way back in the old days, “don’t trust anyone over 30.” Of course, that statement is mere rhetoric – there are plenty of true and noble older types who have done much for our cause – but it is steeped in truth. It’s an obvious fact that the King has not aged well. He’s been sullied, besmirched, tainted, and manipulated virtually beyond recognition by insidious pretenders, out for a fast buck at the expense of all that’s good, righteous, and transcendent about rawkinfuckinroll. Gaze upon the King’s bloated, corpulent frame, dozing like an overfed armchair quarterback on the once glorious Throne of Feedback! Stare with disbelief at the Best of Shalamar albums and Those Polka `70s compilations that stain his collection! Tremble with anger and frustration as you consider his court of suit-and-tied grownups with a taste for trad jazz and a sharp eye for the bottom line – knaves and heathens, all! Listen with shame to his rambling public addresses, stuffed with superfluous content and “social relevance” but devoid of the molten electricity, the fire that used to shake worlds, collapse stars, and send souls spiraling ecstatically into the farthest reaches of the universe! Comrades, it is clear that we are faced with a choice. We can slump back with resignation, sigh, and admit that rock and roll was all just a prolonged fad, something with a “good beat that you can dance to” that should now slink wearily towards the land of hula hoops, Atari game systems, and ten dollar dime bags. Or, compadres, we can recall everything that rock and roll has ever meant to us, has ever done for us! We can remember the dark and lonely nights it got us through, the sun-dappled days of drunken celebration where it acted as a soundtrack, the fever and excitement as it played through pivotal cornerstones of our youth and beyond! And we can fight for it! History is behind us! We had Presley, Gene Vincent, and Buddy Holly in `57! We had the Stones, the Beatles, and the Velvets in `67! We had the Clash and the Pistols in `77! We had… erm… we had… well, not much, actually, in `87 – but, dammit, now it’s `97, Kids, and we got a muthafuckin’ revolution on our hands! Let’s strip the emperor of his rotten clothes and fight for his essence, his glory-nay, his very survival! The King is dead – long live The King!

Our sources have done some investigation, and have compiled a list of some of our prime targets – those people and things that have made it their mission to undermine the innate purity and righteousness of the Hallowed Kingdom of Rock. I present them with a tear in my eye and hatred in my heart:

James Taylor (AKA “the Antichrist”) – Anyone who suffers through premature baldness, ten years of heroin addiction, and the messiest public divorce in rock history and comes out the other side with “You Got a Friend” is clearly a sick fucking bastard. Bring me his understanding, supportive and nurturing head on a plate, please.

“For the children” – Anybody caught in the cheap, downright insulting act of writing, recording, or performing a song dedicated to the “children of the world” will be forced to eat the contents of Alice Cooper’s diaper for a month. Welcome to my nightmare, ya cloying fucking jerk.

Jeff Lynne – This slick, twisted asswipe has tainted some of our most talented compatriots with his vapid, sugar-coated brand of “production.” He also foisted the myriad evils of ELO on an unsuspecting world some years ago. Approach him with blood in your eye and a rusty razor in yer mitt. When he realizes your intent, he may start whining “don’t bring me down.” Bring him down.

Music Industry dweebs – I’m sure you’re all too well aware of this kind of filth. These fakers have been infiltrating our kingdom since its very inception. Korporate Amerika has sent them over to act as spies, to observe and write detailed reports of our habits, our tastes and mannerisms. Armed with this Knowledge, the Korporation creates clones in our own image to dilute our cause, to misrepresent us, to sell bloated facsimiles of our own creations back to us. This evil plot, known by insiders as “Target Marketing” has had us in its crosshairs for far too long, rocking (sic) the foundations of our kingdom to its very core. However, with a trained eye, one can spot the MID’s with relative ease. When yer out for a night of good rockin’, keep an eye out for ponytails, lycra, brand-new squeaky clean biker jackets, sincere usage of the phrase “alternative,” and smug idiot grins plastered all over their cornfed whitebread faces. Bring me their severed heads on a bed of free backstage passes and promo-giveaway knickknacks.

Flutes and mandolins – Virtually any instrument has some place in the hallowed halls of rawk. The overly-sensitive meandering mewlings of flutes and/or mandolins, however, are notable exceptions and will not be tolerated. “But we’re expanding our sound!” “We’re experimenting!” “We’re exploring the parameters of rawk!” “We’re investigating the uses of medieval instrumentation within the realms of modular tunings in a modern context!” No you’re not, you silly twats – you’re making us wanna puke. On you. Mount the head of tights-wearing prancing traitor Ian “Thick as a Brick” Anderson on his flute and hang Bruce Hornsby at dawn by his high E string. Now that’d be a touching moment.

The early ’70s SoCal sound – This has been one tricky bug to stamp out. For the past twenty-odd years, this heinous brand of laid-back “take it easy” laissez-faire numb-strum has tortured tasteful souls worldwide. The Eagles’ drum sound alone ruined the first decade of my existence. Anyone spotted buying an album by the aforementioned Eagles, the Stone Poneys, Jackson Browne, or America should be suffocated with loaves of Wonder Bread or drowned in a bucket of Miracle Whip. Consider it a mission of mercy. (For further details on proper ritual mercy-killing techniques, refer to your complimentary copy of our Up Against the Wall, Motherfuckers pamphlet, available at the back of the auditorium.)

Lest our mission become ensnared in its own negativity, I present the following to remind us that there’s still plenty to fight for:

The Throne of Feedback’s Holy Ambassador of Rawk Medal of Honor – This month’s medal goes to Iggy Pop, retroactively, for the following gestures above and beyond the call of duty: Smearing his torso with peanut butter, smearing the audience with peanut butter, leaping on piles of broken glass, calling an audience of inbred backwoods toothless cowboys “faggots” while wearing lipstick and skintight silver pants, subsequently getting his ass kicked by one of the aforementioned cowboys, and enacting revenge by getting back up and writhing like a caveman banshee through a 40-minute version of “Louie Louie.” Genius, obviously.

In the following months I shall attempt to keep you abreast of our progress, our victories, and our failures. Remember, brethren, all you need is love, three chords, and a damn fine pair of shades. Over and out.

• • P.S. – It’s come to the attention of Lollipop that there may be some losers out there who will take this column literally and may actually try to enact violence on the people mentioned above. To those individuals, we say “buy a sense of humor, metaphor, and irony, get a fucking life, and, if those prove too difficult to obtain, go kill yourself.” Thank you.