Wallow in frozen stupidity
by Matt Worley

It is August 1985. I am riding back from a church youth group outing in my brother's car with a couple of friends. Both I'd known since moving to Clovis when I was ten because we went to the same church. The girl (we'll call her Kate) I had a crush on pretty much the entire time I was in Clovis, but never did anything because of a strange mental block called shyness. We were all (except my older brother, of course) in the same grade: ninth. I'd recently discovered there was good music that wasn't being played on the radio.

"What do you want to listen to?" my brother asked, always diplomatic about music as long as we picked from his tape selection.

"Bon Jovi?" Kate asked. I smiled. Bon Jovi was my favorite band at the time. They'd just released 7800 Degrees Fahrenheit, and I was in love with their musical version of life. It was just a little bit extra special that Kate wanted to listen to them, too. That night, as we drove back from a sand dune party (hey, in the desert you party wherever you can), I learned the words to "Tokyo Road," even though I really had no idea what the song was about. It was an unconscious decision. I gave my young life to glam rock that night, never to return to the suddenly obvious stylings of radio pop music.

It is August 1997. Some people seem to be forgetting the date. Kate is now married with three children to my 10th grade percussion section leader. My older brother just got back from his ten year high school reunion to contemplate working for Microsoft, and Jon Bon Jovi is making adult contemporary music for VH-1. For some reason, I'm a skater punk posing as a writer/graphic designer during the day.

For me, late 80s glam rock ended when Andrew Wood died of a heroin overdose a few months before his band (Mother Love Bone) released its only full length release in 1990. Before that a truckload of bands passed through my system, flaunting a style that can only be described in terms of over-the-top capitalism. 80s glam rock told stories of non-stop sex, drugs and rock and roll with the flair of guys who were very proud of what they were doing: being rich children. For a while it was spandex, neon colored ribbons and scarves, hair spray and make up, and fake breasts. It was the 80s. Everyone was getting rich or wanted to look like they were. I believed it all.

Even with my obvious overdose of glam rock, I was able to get past the whole spectacle. Sure, some of those concerts were quite special. Bon Jovi always holds a special place in my heart for the enormous amount of females who attended. I saw Guns N' Roses with my Dad when they opened for Aerosmith. The Great White/Tesla show I saw in Salina, Kansas, was a great package. I went with members of Mach 5, a cover band I was drumming in at the time. We got drunk on MGD, stole a couple of Road Closed signs from an abandoned road outside Salina, and then headed for the venue. I caught a guitar pick from Tesla and one of our guitarists caught a drum stick from Great White. We swapped. To get to a Cinderella show in Lubbock, Texas, we "stole" the aforementioned Kate's car while she and her family were out of town--she told us how to sneak into the garage, left the keys and a note, but her parents didn't know.

As one might surmise from these memories, it wasn't the actual music that made much of an impact (although there were some great performances), it was the experience of the time. It was going to these bands while they were vital to my life. I believed in the lifestyle and the bands. The feeling I felt for glam rock and all of its accouterments could not be corrupted by the real world, because for me this strange fantasy was real.

Now, Great White is coming to town. So is Dokken. Ratt came through a month or so back. While they never knew how to keep it real, they've decided to keep it going. I guess I understand. Anyone who toured for years and years, made (at one time) millions of dollars, and dated Pamela Anderson probably wouldn't want to go back to a day job.

Friends talk with excitement in their breath of the second coming of these bands from the past. I just don't get it. Maybe I could blame my apathy to rekindling youthful lust by the fact that I still consider myself young. Life hasn't stopped and settled into a nice neat package full of walls, children and Jeep Cherokees.

I always envision people who grew up on late 80s glam rock as walking around today with a dazed and defeated look on their face. As if the golden chalice always preached about was stolen from their grasp. Maybe this is what everyone wants to grab when they go to see Great White or Dokken or Ratt.

A new piece of life isn't waiting for them when they step into the time warp, just an old, rusted, broken down shard of the past. It looks a lot worse now, and even a pitcher of beer won't smooth out those edges. People should let it go, or life will be frozen in a time they don't even understand anymore.

Matt Worley is currently battling back an asthma attack brought on by overgrown weeds fed by torrents of monsoon rains. He hopes modern medications will be effective, even if he has to exceed the regular dosage.

return to the Shut up, I'm talking page
return to the LIES home page
return to the A&A home page