Gimme a break - rock music criticism

WHILE I ADMIRE Mr. Buckley's enthusiasm, unfortunately that is about all that can be said for his clever effort. Mr. Buckley appears to be neither a rocker nor a conservative-if one accepts the notion that conservatism means balance, moderation, and, most of all, common sense. Rather, he has apparently never gotten over being a "rock critic."

For the most part, rock critics are a dreary and dull-witted bunch of guys with rumpled clothes, dirty tennis shoes, and speech impediments-a simpering, humorless pack of gimps and failures who've found a way to hang out with the guys whose posters used to adorn their bedrooms when they lived at home. In common parlance, they're groupies, Mr. Buckley displays all the traits of groupie-ism: a slavish idolatry of assorted heroes; a sycophantic I'm-with-the-band posture; and a frantic defensiveness when the little gods he worships are profaned.

Mr. Buckley's dewy-eyed cheerleading as George Bush straps on his Stratocaster (which he couldn't play) would almost be cute if it weren't so sad. I'm sorry to have to say this-because I like old George-but the poor man never looked sillier in his life. The only political act I've ever seen that was more embarrassing was when Hubert Humphrey-speaking before a black audience-referred to himself as a "soul brother."

Now, Lee Atwater is another story. Purportedly, the guy can play; moreover, he likes all the right stuff-but so what? According to Mr. Buckley's twaddle-brained logic, the underlying message is that Republicans aren't really a bunch of stiff-necked guys in three-piece suits. No, they're regular folks, just like you and me. Folks who have decided it's okay to "have fun." So taken with this image is Buckley that he parades George and Lee and their dueling Strats across his computer screen twice (count 'em!)-as if they were the Lone Ranger and Tonto coming to the rescue of the Republican Party just in the nick of time.

Groupies lack the ability to see beyond their own fuzzy little fantasies. Mr. Buckley evidences this quality in spades. Consider his citing of Miles Copeland IV as proving that rockers can indeed be conservatives. If Copeland calls himself a conservative, then he has all the morals of a Fifth Avenue whore, considering that he manages Sting, one of the most flamingly radical of the liberal rock brat-packers. Among the acts signed to Copeland's IRS label are the homosexual activists Fine Young Cannibals, as well as bands like Nuclear Assault, Wall of Voodoo, Seduce, and Leather Nun.

In regard to Buckley's ballyhooing of punk rock as a vehicle of democracy and free enterprise, this is pure, unmitigated hokum. Punk is, by its very nature, a force for anarchy, nihilism, and overthrow of the establishment. As for punk being a return to "real rock 'n' roll" (a music elegant in its melodic simplicity) Mr. Buckley again displays a woeful lack of knowledge. Punk rock never utilized three chords, It was more like no chords.

But Mr. Buckley continues to insist that rock-like great literature and art -has the capacity to enhance our awareness of the world, and that it is a vital force in enlivening culture. Again, his thinking exposes him as another casualty of rock propaganda. When a music is played daily in shopping malls, dentists' offices, health spas, and on the bulk of TV shows and advertisements, the only thing it's a force for is selling products-primariIy fashion and the promotion of an attitude that ceased being relevant years ago. But no matter. By now, Buckley is carried away with the heat of his own prose and we find the "walls of Communism are toppling to the beat of rock 'n' roll."

ALTHOUGH CRITICS of my piece would like to paint me as some stodgy old curmudgeon who wants to burn all rock records (casting me in this role makes their argument much easier), this is simply not the case. I am not a "rock hater." My reason for abandoning today's rockwhich simply means that when I listen to music I listen to other stuff-is not that I think it's going to cause our culture to come toppling down, or that I believe everyone who listens to it will become demon-possessed. It's simply that I got tired of wasting my time. After all, why should we listen to Guns 'n' Roses when we can hear the Stones or, better yet, Big Joe Turner or Sonny Boy Williamson? Why should we waste our money on Dwight Yoakam when we can hear Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys? Why worship fifth-rate guitar gods like Eric Clapton when there are Django Reinhardt records available?

If Mr. Buckley wants to sift through the garbage bin of rock, circa 1989, to come up with some undiseased fruitlet him have at it. For my money, life is simply too short.

COPYRIGHT 1989 National Review, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group