As I sat yesterday, lounging back in my chair, with a fistful of cheap, greasy cards I could do fuck all with to win the game; something occurred to me.
There we were, the three musketeers – two guys and me, the girl – hunched around a poker table scattered with beer stains and chips from the night before, messy and stinking of cigarettes, with a tipsy glow about us as at that point, it was 5pm and we’d been drinking since noon. Smoke billowed like hazy circles in the air while in the corner; the casual atmosphere was cut by the dirty bends of Angus Young, mid-solo and half-way through AC/DC’s legendary Back in Black.
I bopped my head to the track as the solo catapulted into the chorus, and smiled a little to myself. Despite the smoke stinging my eyes and the crappy hand I was about to lose with, the music made me feel like I was in a filthy bar far away, with the muffled gurgling of Harley engines outside… no responsibilities apart from who would be paying for the next round.
I felt sexy.
You know, I might be crossing the line between self-loathing and vanity by saying this, but nowadays, somebody has to. The three of us musketeers aren’t exactly a sight for sore eyes. The guys are 20 years old and top rock n’ rollers, kit out in black and matching bad attitudes, and I’m 19, wearing denim and tight trousers… and, well, that’s enough said, isn’t it?
Yesterday morning sitting in bed, I read a post written by a favourite blogger of mine, Lüc Carl on drunkdiet.com (PLUG), about how rock n’ roll just ain’t sexy anymore. It’s sadly true; the riffs which were conceived to make people want to fuck have been resigned to suburban offices, where your average mid-life crisis can attempt them on their Gibson ES to re-live the years they spent fighting the system. Y’know, before their wives call them down for dinner.
Rock n’ roll is the sexiest genre of music ever created. It’s a shame that culture doesn’t exist for us young ones anymore, which I suppose is why we stick around in packs like the three of us – united by the appreciation of rock, and bonded by the resulting narcissism.
It dawned on me yesterday, watching my boys joke about the card game, that it’s almost our responsibility, to resurrect the power of rock in modern society. Between the three of us, we’ve got a sly, lucky bastard with long hair and a suit jacket, a six foot tall body-building fanatic (who I’m proud to call my boyfriend), never seen for more than ten minutes without a beer, and me, the token girl who spends 3 hours getting ready for a night in, and probably has too many opinions for her own good.
We’re not reliable, and nor are we probably worth much more than the couple of chips scattered across the table, but there’s hope yet. I’m just as proud as a 19 year old girl to listen to Back in Black as my 50 year old neighbour, and something as pathetic as the trends in popular society won’t ever stop me.
Rock n’ Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution!
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