1976 was Year Zero in rock ‘n’ roll history, so to speak. When The Sex Pistols, The Damned, Saints, Ramones and numerous others blew the cobwebs off a stale overindulgent scene where boring, dinosaur rockers like Yes, the later Pink Floyd, Bad Company, and Queen and sensitive, bearded pussies like James Taylor, The Eagles, and Jackson Browne ruled the day. It feels like 1976 all over again. Only this time indie rock is the disease. I’m sick to death of clever, over-the-top idiots like The Decemberists (who to me are the Yes of the 21st Century with their fucking concept albums based on whatever buzz word they’re up to in their thesaurus) or the lack of melody found in neo-stoner clods like Dead Meadow, The Mars Volta, or the godawful Black Angels. Then there’s the hippy folk crap. I hate, hate, hate the likes of Sufjan Stephens, Jens Lekman, and Devendra Barnhart (sp? — I’m too lazy to look it up). Cut your hair kids, shave your beards, and memorize “Raw Power” and “Never Mind The Bollocks”. And while you’re at it, throw out your bongs and start doing speed. Motorhead yes, Deep Purple no. Maybe then we can have some skinny rock stars for a change. Ever notice how husky indie pinups like the Decemberists, Death Cab For Cutie or most bands on the cover of Magnet are these days? Signed, a rock ‘n’ roll Pol Pot who’s had enough.
Bring on Year Zero!