The ravages of time, all decked out in a Dorian Gray suit and dry-rot black leather biker jackets. Taken out of mothballs and propped up on the stage for yet another farewell to the farewell concert. We’re on the way out, along with our rock ‘n’ roll idols, but there’s no fanfare for us, no gesture to a grand exit. The music that shaped our lives is now a nostalgia trip for Geezer rock aficionados. I'm guessing it made a difference, but now in my world, I have doubts. A background soundtrack for my childhood years, then the teen angst that followed into my old age. Watching them perform nowadays in their septuagenarian and octogenarian swan song shows is a sad reminder.
It should be illegal for a rocker to roll after 65. It’s not a good look. The obvious offensive examples are The Rolling Stones, the last two Beatles, Elvis, Springsteen, Elton, Eno, Bono, Sting, Iggy, Ozzy, Axel, and Dylan, among others. Willie Nelson’s the only one who can convincingly pull it off without seeming unapologetically ancient, because he doesn’t try to hide it, although he’s not technically a rock star. Jimi, Janis, Kurt, and Jim had the right idea for all the wrong reasons. Die young and leave a pretty corpse. It sounds noble to say that, but it’s a cop out. No excuses. Only the dead die.
Rust never sleeps. Ask David Crosby. There’s something wrong with old people who try too hard to be young, hip, and rebellious. There’s nothing dangerous about Mick Jagger strutting and prancing around the stage, singing he “can’t get no satisfaction” after over a half century of being satisfied. Where’s the swagger, the righteous indignation, the menace to society, the revolution? Gone with the winds of youth and a chip on the shoulder. Having a bad hip is unhip. I reckon you can’t teach old dogs the latest dance moves. Not a classy act. No sympathy for the devil. I’m through being cool.
Stuck in permanent revival reunion mode, they trot out the dead and lean them up against the mic stand for one more rendition of their greatest hit tunes. I’m not talking about Jerry Garcia. I am not grateful, either. What a sham, what a shame. It was a fun run, but they missed the point. Those old dudes are long overdue to hang up their guitars and turn off the amplifiers forever. Mandatory retirement for old rock ‘n’ rollers. It’s the humane thing to do. Put us out of their misery. Like old politicians who should be put out to pasture. One-trick ponies. They should let the young ones have a chance. But the allure of wealth, fame, and power has a hold on their psyches.
There are no replacements for the endless bands whose songs remain the same, but the singers aren’t as good as they once were. Someone always chimes in, I know so-and-so from the band (fill in the blanks) is up in heaven jamming with the rest of those long-gone rockers. They have the illusion of their delusions. After they’re done and departed, diehard fans celebrate the birthdays of their favorite musicians with memorial tributes. Radio stations play their songs all day, as social media posts wish them a happy birthday like they’re still around. Hey, it’s Joey Ramone's birthday today. Here's a rock block of Ramones songs in honor of a special day. One, two, three, four—I don’t wanna be a pinhead no more. Judy’s a punk rocker now. Slaves to the rhythm of that crazy beat. Immortality has its perks, I guess. It is nice to be alive in some way. Excuse me while I kiss the sky.
How many more Woodstock’s, Lollapalooza’s, and Coachella festivals do we have left? Who needs it? Who wants it? Sentimental old-fashioned fools who like the idea of reliving their youthful counterculture outlaw days. The Hells Angels were hired to help in heaven, running security for the greatest jam-session of rock’s Stone Age ghosts. I wish they’d just go away. Don’t take my word on it. I’m just another moldy oldie on the way out.