Long ago, in an America far removed from its present facsimile, there used to be rock and roll. It was a great thing. It started my little seven year old feet tapping, when I first heard Ricky Nelson, Leslie Gore, Del Shannon, Motown, Gene Pitney, Bobby Vee, and all those Phil Spector girl groups. I loved the wall of sound.

And then I happened to be tuned in to Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, on the day the crowd rated a new single from a band from Liverpool, I Want to Hold Your Hand. I was in love. My seven year old legs and arms joined my feet, in wriggling about in an original amalgamation of the Twist, the Pony, the Swim, and other dance crazes of the day. Every new dance looked even better when pretty go-go girls were doing them. I’m pretty sure I was far younger than Dick Clark’s targeted teenage demographic, but I was simply smitten with rock and roll. Like millions of other young Americans, I became a Beatles fanatic, even getting a wig that I donned when I used wooden spoons to bang on some boxes in the basement. I won’t belabor the point I’ve made so many times before, about wanting a Ludwig drum set. Just like Ringo. I loved the early Beatles; Beatlemania. When John Lennon was clearly responsible for almost all of it. Un-Cancel Robert E. Le... Kerr, Gib Best Price: $12.15 Buy New $18.99 (as of 11:57 UTC - Details)

As a grade school kid who was rapidly attaining obesity status, I loved the pop brand of rock and roll. The Beach Boys. Gary Lewis and the Playboys. Tommy James and the Shondells. Lou Christie. The Turtles. The Lovin’ Spoonful. Then, as a slimmed down teenager, my musical tastes grew more sophisticated. Or so they say. Were the Beatles’ later albums really better than She Loves You and Please Please Me? Was Pet Sounds- as remarkable as it was- really more memorable than I Get Around or California Girls? I know which kinds of music I more enthusiastically sing along to now. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! The critics were usually right, but not always in my estimation. Personal taste is personal taste. If someone likes Wayne Newton better than Wilson Pickett, that’s their prerogative. Musical taste is like food preferences; there is no “right” or “wrong.” Don’t demonize me for wanting a well done steak. It’s all related to free speech.

In the 1970s, album rock became all the rage. Forget about hit singles. Nobody bought 45s any more. The singer-songwriter was born. Jim Croce. Jackson Browne. Joni Mitchell. And, of course, the greatest songwriter, and least polished singer of them all, Bob Dylan. I spent far too much time poring over, and analyzing Dylan’s lyrics. I too was beginning to look for “all the agents and the superhuman crew” that strapped “heart attack machines” to inferred Thought Criminals. His songs were full of genuine poetry, and outrageous imagery. So I started writing my own songs. It was impossible to approach his profundity, especially as a teenager, but I humbly suggest I probably sang a little better than him. It was wonderful absorbing his older work, from the early to mid-1960s, as well as that of his female counterpart, Joni Mitchell. Disco had taken over 1970s culture, and I’ve made it very clear how I felt about that.

I admired the artistry of The Band, and think they sound even better today. With the recent death of Garth Hudson, all of them are gone now. And yet most of the Rolling Stones live on, still touring in their 80s. The Byrds and Roger McGuinn, who kind of influenced my own faulty singing voice. There are some perks to having offbeat tastes; I was usually able to find the music of Don McLean, or Procol Harum, perhaps even Roxy Music, in the cheap cut/out bins. For some reason, I was attracted to the work of Buffy Sainte-Marie. Some people made fun of me for that. I always got bargains on her albums. Yes, it was disillusioning to find out that she had never actually been an American Indian. A mere Italian? Mama Mia! But she sure played the part well. She certainly wasn’t the first entertainer to be playing a part offscreen.

Then came 1979. One of my best years. The year I discovered all the great New Wave music. I remember listening to Bram Tchaikovsky’s Girl of my Dreams on WHFS, the “progressive” or “album rock” radio station in our area. I was stunned. When I heard Nick Lowe’s Cruel to be Kind, it was like being a seven year old again, hearing the Beatles for the first time. I became obsessed with Elvis Costello, and played the grooves off of his Armed Forces LP. Elvis was barely older than me, and his birthday was almost the same. I found out he’d worked as a computer operator, biding his time while writing those great songs. As a computer operator myself, this made him all the more relevant to me. I was biding my time, too, writing the novel that would become The Unreals. One of us sold millions of records. The other sold about 4,000 copies of his magnus opus. I knew we’d probably have hit it off, but I’ve never been a stalker.

I discovered Tom Petty through my wife, who I started dating in 1979. I thought to myself, that guy sounds even more like me than Roger McGuinn does. Despite him blatantly mimicking my style, I found his music irresistible. But I wasn’t going to go as far as Mick Jagger, who reacted so favorably to Petty’s Damn the Torpedoes that he said he’d be willing to give him a blow job. I think Mick was found in bed with David Bowie one time. It’s hard to imagine how he managed to sire an estimated billion kids by various groupies. Kind of the Elon Musk of the rock world. I loved Bruce Springsteen, too, although I cringe when one of his songs comes on the airways, now. I think his bosom buddy Barack Obama has taken over the saxophone for the late Clarence Clemons. The crowd probably just sees another Black guy backing up the “Boss.” I don’t know, you really lose your cred by jamming with Barack Obama. America’s Cultur... Rufo, Christopher F. Best Price: $6.55 Buy New $12.50 (as of 07:57 UTC - Details)

Imagine a song like Randy Newman’s Short People today. That actually raised the ire of percolating LaKarinas (don’t want to defame the good name of Karen any longer). And how about John Lennon’s Woman is the N****r of the World? That was considered a feminist manifesto back in the day. Today it literally cannot be played anywhere. Except perhaps in your basement, with the curtains drawn, and the speakers turned off, listening through headphones. Elvis Costello’s classic Oliver’s Army has that same pesky word in it, so needless to say he will never be playing that at any concerts. Randy Newman filled his Huey Long tribute album Good Old Boys with the “N” word, and took swipes at Jews as well. But few stations were going to play anything off of that album even when it came out in 1974. I’m surprised they still let Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey play Won’t Get Fooled Again. People might get the “wrong” ideas.

Rock and roll remained vibrant through the 1980s and into the 1990s. But it might as well have been assassinated at this point. Or outlawed by “cancel culture.” Other than the old guys still hanging on, and touring to support themselves in their twilight years, who are the rock and rollers today? Actually, who are the White musical artists today, other than Taylor Swift, Pink, and Miley Cyrus? Not exactly the Traveling Wilburys. Sure, you have White country performers, but that kind of mainstream pablum is like NASCAR; the White branch of our ghettoized culture. It’s not like they’re promoting the Dillards, or Flatt and Scruggs. Although I have heard some good stuff from Rascal Flatts. The rest of popular music today has been ceded to a bunch of DEI Black performers who won’t remind anyone of Louis Armstrong or Marvin Gaye. I don’t think Whites are allowed to win Grammys now.

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