Here’s a thought I had while walking the dog this morning: the Internet, as wonderful as it is, has really fucked up the process of loving rock and roll. Like some gloriously bad drug, it’s made the process of finding stuff so easy and instantly rewarding that it’s put another important human experience — the process of seeking — to sleep. And that process of seeking was one of the things that put the world of recorded music up on a pedestal; that gave rock its mystery — its Godhood.
Please recognize that I was only walking my dog five minutes ago, so I can’t claim to have properly beard-stroked and pipe-tamped my way through this one. That’s your cue to chime in and help me.
The genesis of this thought-bomb occurred last night, as I was driving home. I had the wonderfully eclectic and entertaining Stiff Generation CD in the stereo, and was bouncing about between tracks, when the player alighted on “Peppermint Lump,” as performed by Frisbie. (I found this out later; I’d long since lost the CD cover — another side effect of the digital age that’s demythologized rock and roll.) Anyhow, as I tooled down the byways of northern Virginia, I thought to myself: “Man, that sure sounds like a Pete Townshend song. But what on Earth would he have been doing on the Stiff label?”
I got home, and popped open the laptop. About 60 seconds later, I had my answer — and a YouTube “audio” of the original track in question. This was satisfying at a certain level, but at another, it really bugged me. It was so easy!
About 10 years ago, I found out that Harry Vanda and George Young (of Easybeats and AC/DC producers fame) were very briefly involved in a studio lark they called the Marcus Hook Roll Band. I think I learned about the MHRB in the liner notes of an obscure Australian Easybeats greatest hits album — and the story excited me. Supposedly, in 1972 or thereabouts, Harry and George — on a legendary studio Lost Weekend — had gotten drunk and thrown together some simple, balls-out rock and roll for fun, involving George’s younger brothers Angus and Malcolm. Then they sobered up and largely forgot about what they’d done. Somehow, some way, a record exec heard these tracks and flipped out, thinking they were huge hits in the making. Back in the studio they went, and cranked out a whole album’s worth of this cock-rock stuff, laughing and winking at the silliness of it all.
Anyhow, 30 years later — but before the internet really gained the ability to help — I began my quest to find some Marcus Hook Roll Band. The long and short of it is that I had to enlist the services of a friend who lived in Holland, who scoured local record stores and online used/bootleg CD outlets until she finally found one. Which she then mailed to me. Turned out it sucked. But it was like buying a lottery ticket — half the fun was waiting to find out if you’d won, and imagining how much better your life would be if you did. That’s what you spent your money and time on — and now that pleasure is largely gone.
The end of the Rock Holy Grail doesn’t necessarily mean that the God who once supped from that chalice is dead. But he’s been demystified in a critically important way. And that’s a bad thing. You may discuss when ready — I look forward to your responses.
HVB
