That Rock’n’Roll, it Just Won’t go Away… But Do you Give a Fuck?

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Like an unnerving case of genital warts or the fat around your face, that rock’n’roll just won’t go away. Make snide comments behind its back in an email thread, tell it to piss off, or push it down the stairs while mouthing off like JoJo, and it will continue to cyclically return like a washing machine with a lifetime guarantee that would put Curry’s out of business.

Rock’n’roll is immortal, that much is certain. Guitars exist; teenagers are angry; they play the guitar. An old person hears it; it reminds them of their youth; they write about it; a new rock’n’roll legend is born. Unless a global epidemic occurs - Fenders, Gibsons, and Ibanezs declared an endangered species after falling fallow to remedial doctors in China - the cycle of rock’n’roll will never stop happening.

Alex Turner’s Brit Award Acceptance Speech / audition proved that some still get wetter than an otters pocket at the thought of leather-clad gentlemen strumming. Others shrivelled up like skin that had spent too long pondering indifference in a bubble bath. However, thinking about rock’n’roll isn’t a one dimensional, yes or no, experience. As it’s been declared immortal, it’s time to heavily stereotype some people who think things about other people thinking things about rock’n’roll.

THE PEACHY KEEN POLITICIAN

Ask Gordon Brown what his favourite band is, and he’ll tell you that he loves the Arctic Monkeys before admitting that he can’t actually name any songs. Tony Blair was the singer in Ugly Rumours who were basically a Stones cover band and David Cameron will tell you that he likes The Smiths, smiling from behind a throne built out of the bones of forgotten Mancunian children.

How many fucks do they give: These guys are probably the first to talk about how much Britain needs rock 'n' roll, but only because they're dreaming of the corporate stasis of a Hard Rock cafe on every corner, Britiain's unenganged youth politely ordering a steak and Kaiser Chips.

THE PISS TAKER

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This breed of smug-faced commentators have been too busy drowning in Young Thug and Boiler Room sets to listen to any modern guitar-based-music. They’ll ridicule “indie bands” for music that’s inherently shit because it doesn’t involve laptops, but just like David Cameron, they won’t actually be able to name any songs by modern indie bands. Laughing at their haircuts and budget bohemian lyricism, the piss taker has meticulously combed their own Facebook profile, carefully erasing their one time love for Good Shoes. To them, guitar music is no longer cool and they’ll only draw up mentions of Larrikin Love/The Rakes when they need the butt for a not-at-all-good joke, unaware how they’re actually solidifying the passion they once had for those back when they were a teenager.

How many fucks do they give: The Arctic Monkeys arrived at a seminal point in their lives, slotting between blink-182 and being old enough to go to the pub. They still know every word to Whatever People Say I Am That’s What I’m Not and have maybe listened to AM on three separate occasions, in private, just to “check it out”. They’ll laugh at Turner, but deep down, probably wish they were still back in the halycon era of Underage Festivals and Topman button-ups rather than being in their early twenties, sitting on Twitter, laughing at people, trying to remember the last time they were touched.

THE DELUDED BELIEVER

Slotting next to juicing and Zumba in the triumvirate of things that people deludedly believe in, to some, rock’n’roll is a religion. These believers, a small minority of newly middle-aged men, have latched themselves onto every stadium-orientated guitar band since Oasis in the hope that Britpop can be reborn, somewhere in a field in Chelmsford. They will pontificate it’s a big deal that Kasbian may finally be headlining a festival because to them, Serge isn’t just a name of an Italian man that could sexually accost you under the table in a Pizza Express, it’s the name of a God. They love Biffy Clyro, Arcade Fire, The Killers, literally any rock band that has had more than three albums will do, pinning their hopes on to each before moving on to the next when they finally break up after never making anything as good as their debut. They want rock’n’roll to succeed because it’s real. Because it means something. Because it speaks to the world. Because it’s important.

How many fucks do they give: Enough for everyone else to not have to worry about it.

THE PEOPLE WHO STILL CALL IT ROCK'N'ROLL

TBQH, who calls rock’n’roll rock’n’roll outside of think-pieces, acceptance speeches and your mum.

How many fucks do they give: Assumedly, these people give the most amount of fucks.

THE STEADFAST REALIST

These guys are knowledgable and beneath their stack of Velvet Underground records and The Pixies DVDs, they understand that rock’n’roll will never be as good as it once was. Why would they care about Howler or Radkey? They’ve lived through the holy era (well their dad has) and they’re happy to keep discovering old bands until they’ve listened to everything from Magazine through to The The. If rock'n'roll is, as Alex Turner claims, cyclical, then these guys are permitting one spin only.

How many fucks do they give: None.

THE GUY FROM ONE NIGHT ONLY OR THE 1975 OR WHATEVER TODAY'S EQUIVALENT IS…

A guy stands onstage dressed in an All Saints leather jacket, singing in a mock-Estaury accent, elongating every vowel until sentences elicit slurred drawls. Half the band are ex-male models and half of them sixth formers. Bands like this are being fed broken dreams by major music magazines, advertising executives, and fucktards like Turner, believing that if they clean up with a nice coat, a styled hair-cut, and two guitarists then they, too, can achieve global success. Or at the least, a blowy from a T4 presenter. In reality, they get one shout-out from Steve Lamaq, the only person who actually listened to the handwritten press-release they sent out to every publication in the country and a small feature in that magazine they give out in Topman. Cemented years behind everyone else, they’ll know half of The Libertines songs, love The Strokes, and probably, genuinely, are quite interested in what conditioner Luke from the Kooks used back when he was famous.

How many fucks do they give: Their life depends on it, so quite a lot.

THE SOUTHERN HATING FAN

People many miles away from the Capital believe that the death of guitar music is the fault of limp-wristed jessies from the home counties listening to Ellie Goulding. They’ll tell you that if you’re north of Watford, then guitar music never ever went away. Which is 100% true, spot on, keep grinding out more bands like The Enemy, please.

How many fucks do they give: Alex Turner is from the north, right?

THE NORMAL HUMAN BEING

Then, you must hope, that there are those who realise that Alex Turner’s speech wasn’t a line drawn in the sand between “us” and “them” but the drunk ramblings of a man who’s probably quite embarassed by it all. These are the people who can love Rihanna with all their heart while being concerned about the uniformity and commodification of culture that comes with global pop stars who all use the same producer. Who can listen to Swim Deep and quite like it, while being aware that it’s heavily derivative and they aren’t the second coming of culture. Who doesn’t see music as a war between guitars and computers or rock and pop or indie and commercial, but just a fucking mess where nothing is entirely perfect and everything is a product of its environment.

Follow Ryan on Twitter: @RyanBassil

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