"We are not groupies. Groupies sleep with rock stars because they want to be near someone famous. WE are Band-Aids. We're here for the music." - Penny Lane, Almost Famous
That's it. Point blank. That's the Band-Aid phenomenon summed up with precision, perfection and power. I am a Band-Aid. I love rock stars more than anyone on earth. Sure, anyone who creates --painting, sculpture, poetry, theatre, film, fiction, origami, toast - is sexy, but rock stars are infinitely more fuckable than any other demographic. "But poor, misguided little Bex," you are thinking to yourself. "Rock stars are notorious tramps. Why throw your love away?" And that, my friend, is the point: rock stars sleep around because they can. They fuck often because they are sexy; and because they are sexy, they fuck often.
To begin: there are certain words in our fine language that bear a remarkable similarity: Satan and Santa, for example, or God and Dog. I leave you, Dear Reader, with the task of decoding the true meanings behind these anagrams, and I offer you a challenge one step further: Rock and Fuck. Take a good look, my friend, and watch as the letters start to blur. Chop off the rounded rim of the "R" and lop off the top curve of the "o." What's left? Fuck. Chop the rim, lop the curve, do me baby - do me all night long. There's no coincidence here, friends, this is a message from the ancient astronauts who invented rock 'n' roll and they're giving you the go ahead to do it.
But there's one important difference: it's socially acceptable to rock out in public, but they'll arrest you for fucking. So what do you when you're horny, jazzed and ready to rumble? Exactly: you rock out. Wiggle your rump and shake what your mama gave you, throw the sign of the beast to the stage and hoot and holler til you're hoarse - rock out and you won't need to jerk off for at least three hours.
We've established that the Rock is an acceptable alternative for the Fuck but we haven't yet begun to unpack the infamous Rock Star Sexy factor. Before I deconstruct, I offer you a few examples: Would I fuck a random British guy in his mid-fifties with a penchant for vintage suits and a few effeminate tendencies? Probably not. Would I fuck Bryan Ferry? You bet your sweet bippy. One step further: would I fuck a grizzled, incomprehensible sixty-something Midwesterner who went born-again Christian and has a rep for mistreating women? No way. Would I fuck Bob Dylan? Aaaaw yeah.
Before you turn away and shudder in disgust, think about that option just one more time. Would you fuck Bob Dylan? Would you? Yeah. You so totally would. Because he wrote "Subterranean Homesick Blues" and "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Hurricane" and, goodness, all of Blonde on Blonde and Blood on the Tracks and "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right." See? You would. In a second. In a milli-micro-second. Anyone who writes, "He who's not busy being born is busy dying," deserves a second glance, and anyone who's BOB fucking DYLAN deserves a suspension of aesthetic preferences. Close your eyes. Think about the first time you heard a song that made you feel sexy. Maybe it was Portishead's "Glorybox" or Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On," or even the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself." Whatever it was, something in that song got your juices flowing. Or maybe it was only a teensy bit of a song - that piano bit in the Doors' "Crystal Ship" or the last 45 seconds of "God Only Knows" - whatever it was, something bit you where it counts. And that's what music does - it bites you. Hard. And sexy songs bite you even harder and instill in you a strong desire to have sex with whichever magical being or beings were responsible for creating that effect in you. It's about the music, first and foremost, and the creator(s) of that music must have sex with you so they can understand how important they are to you. It's just that simple.
And now you're thinking, "But, Bex I want to fuck Fred Durst and his music doesn't make me feel sexy." Of course not. But because your favorite song grabs you in that certain way, whatever that "grab," or dare I say, "snatch" moment is, you've been bitten. As soon as you love a song, your passion for that song gets applied to the musician. If "Walking on Sunshine" makes you start dancing down the street, then your love for that song is equally as strong as your love for Katrina and the Waves, whether you want to admit it or not. I don't think I would fuck Katrina or any of the Waves, but I'd certainly enjoy making out with one of them just to say thanks. That's how profound the music-sex connection is.
Cameron Crowe, the writer-director of Almost Famous, clearly understands this sensation. He made a movie about it and I love that movie so much because it reminds me so much of me. Not only does he understand that rock=fuck, he fucking lives it. Dude's married to Nancy Wilson, one of the hard-rocking ladies of Heart. Ooooooh, Barracuda, indeed.
If you're inspired by music, if you imagine a soundtrack to every moment of your life (right now is where the Posies' "Grant Hart" starts to play ), if the rock drives your life forward, then of course you want to be as close to it as possible. You want it inside you, you want to be inside it, you want its calloused fingers all over your body. P.T. Anderson made Magnolia because of Aimee Mann's music, Douglas Coupland titled his books after Smiths songs, Bill Clinton chooses Fleetwood Mac for his campaign slogan - the rock is ubiquitous and omnipotent. The rock influences all it touches and the rock is all-pervasive. You can't escape. In your heart of hearts, you'll know that the man is drunk, rude, lewd and ugly but right now he's singing, and he's singing to you and therefore he must be kissed.
Why? Because, clearly, he'll fall madly in love with you and will create yet another sonic masterpiece, and this particular opus will be all because of you. SBecause somewhere out there, there's an Eleanor Rigby, and a Virginia Plain, and an Acid Queen and a Barbara Ann. And someday, if you're lucky, millions of people will be singing something along the lines of, "Now I run to you with open arms," and you'll smile smugly, knowing someone along the lines of Steve Perry wrote those words about you. And you'll just 'gasm every time you hear it. Fucking brilliant. (And brilliant fucking, if you're lucky enough to get some rock star booty.)
Many people confuse the rock star fetish with an obsession over the lead singer. True, the lead singer is usually really sexy, and he always has charisma, but the true music fan often obsesses over everyone. Especially the bassist. Why? A number of reasons. For one, look at the way you play the bass. It's that one-two, one-two finger slapping action that's oh-so-reminiscent of something dirty. And you know those vibrations are stimulating. And, dig this: when you go out dancing, who do you want to fuck? The people who are twiddling about, all dee-doo-doo with the fucking melody, or the people who are bumping and grinding to the bass line? Give me the rhythm section anytime, unless you've also got a rhythm guitarist. Or a singer who plays tambourine. Or a lead guitarist who clutches the neck of the guitar like she clutches a um, mic stand. Fuck it. They're all hot. Just put them on stage under some lights and let me at 'em.
Now I don't mean to imply that I only fuck rock stars or that I've extensively fucked rock stars. Neither assumption is true. I only intend to reveal the truth of the matter and perhaps to offer solace to others who feel the same way. The desire to fuck rock stars goes beyond collecting Tigerbeat posters and writing "Led Zep" in the Zoso font on your bio notebook. The longing may last forever and ever, compelling you to hang out by the bar at the Mercury Lounge or to linger in the bars at certain posh hotels. When you realize that rock = fuck, you're often (literally and figuratively) screwed. But that's okay. There are rock stars everywhere you look. Watch your boss bobbing his head to Foghat. Watch the chick on the stairmaster as she step-steps in time to Moby. Watch yourself rocking out in front of the mirror when "Born to Run" comes on the radio. We are all rock stars, Gentle Reader, and we are all fuckable. Find your inner rock star and hit the town. Watch the chicks melt or the dudes start to swoon... and, you know that song, "Come over and Fuck Me?" Yeah, I wrote it about you.
I need the rock. But GOD I love Elton John.
Two related theories about Bob Dylan, or, a review of his November 19,
2001 show, in which divine revelation plays a significant role.