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<text id=93TT0122>
<title>
Oct. 25, 1993: Spectator
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
Oct. 25, 1993 All The Rage:Angry Young Rockers
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
SPECTATOR, Page 68
Rock And Roll Deja Vu
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By KURT ANDERSEN
</p>
<p> Americans born between V-J day and J.F.K. have always considered
themselves the 20th century's chosen people. Their wonder years
were blithe and prosperous; they invented sex, discovered candor
and stopped an immoral war; they were rewarded with Haagen-Dazs
and Saturday Night Live. Three decades ago, the Beatles' crude,
cheerfully anarchic exuberance came as a revelation to the adolescents
of the day, who proceeded to make an ideology and then a mass-market
sensibility out of a certain high brattishness. Adolescent baby
boomers were by turns passionate and sullen, angry at the world
in general and grownups in particular, certain, above all, that
they were uncompromised, pure.
</p>
<p> In the mid-'70s, as prosperity finally ebbed and a generalized
post-Vietnam enervation set in, much of rock turned merely slick.
But along came a fresh cohort of bratty youngsters convinced
of their own exceptional purity, and so a dozen years after
the rock-'n'-roll youthquake, punk music appeared--crude,
youthful, exuberant, sullenly anarchic, objectionable to grownups.
In the late '80s, as go-go prosperity ebbed and post-Reagan
enervation set in, yet another raw, out-with-the-old rock paradigm
arrived on schedule: the astringent musical and emotional impulse
driving alternative bands strikingly resembles that of the Clash
in 1977 or, even more, the Who in 1964.
</p>
<p> As before, the music tends to be willfully coarse and loud,
tough for anyone over 30 to like. As before, the musicians are
passionately, defiantly alienated lumpen prole white boys flirting
with nihilism. "I'm a negative creep," Nirvana's Kurt Cobain
sang. Keith Richards remained cooler than Mick Jagger because
he was a junkie; Sid Vicious became the permanently coolest
member of the Sex Pistols when he died of a heroin overdose;
Cobain has already spent some of his fresh superstardom as a
heroin user. The Who and Jimi Hendrix ritually smashed and burned
guitars onstage in the '60s; today Nirvana does its own instrument-destroying
thing. There is a familiar solipsism. Alternative rock, says
Atlantic Records' Danny Goldberg, who managed both Nirvana and
Sonic Youth, "takes itself very seriously. It's very similar
to the '60s." Plus the jeans, the extremely long hair..."I look at Nirvana and Soul Asylum," says Jann Wenner, the 47-year-old
founder of Rolling Stone, "and I practically get acid flashbacks."
In other words: been there, done that. For any smug baby boomer,
it is pleasant to see the young so precisely following in one's
footsteps.
</p>
<p> A century ago, there was Dostoyevsky on the one hand and Dickens
on the other. You could be a doomed bohemian man of principle,
or you could be popular, but it was pretty hard to be both.
Beginning around 1965, however, rock's big stars became a new
breed of living oxymoron: it was possible to become rich and
even powerful by striking extravagant poses of contempt for
the rich and powerful. In theory, "selling out" was a major
cultural felony, but in fact it was almost impossible to be
convicted. For the mass audience, icons like Mick Jagger and
John Lennon retained their outlaw tang even after they acquired
palatial residences and took up with socialites.
</p>
<p> By and large, the paradox at the heart of bohemian superstardom
has been tolerated or ignored by successive waves of teenage
fans, although it makes for pretty luscious ironies. "We've
got to the stage where we end the night by destroying everything,"
Pete Townshend said in 1967, "which is expensive." At their
zenith in 1977, the Sex Pistols peevishly canceled a Saturday
Night Live appearance. SNL creator Lorne Michaels, who has himself
made a lucrative career out of counterculturalism, complained,
"It's very strange that a group that prides itself on representing
the underground turns us down because we can't pay them enough."
</p>
<p> Punk, essentially a working-class British genre, never went
fully mainstream in happy-face America. But since then the U.S.
has become a significant bit more like Britain: the sense of
tapped-out, no-hope job anxiety that has settled over this country
helps postpunk bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam sell millions
of records. And with megapopularity comes the rub for another
cycle of suddenly-rich-and-famous rock performers: What is a
boy to do when his splenetic-loser shtik wins him magazine covers
and huge record contracts? How to deal with the heartbreak of
success? By growing up. It happens. According to John Lennon's
friend and producer Phil Spector, the edgy Beatle regularly
joked about losing his edge. "John would say, `Jesus, Phil--we're startin' to sound like our f---parents.' "
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>