So, let’s wrap up yesterday’s journaling with a little help from the legend himself—Mr. Lester Bangs. He put it best: True music, not just real rock and roll—doesn’t just let you in. It chooses you. And my friend, those first twelve seconds of that legendary purple guitar? They didn’t just change my life; they gave me the dubious honor of being the first to declare, without irony, that rock is officially dead.
Yeah, I know what the ancients are going to say. The grizzled ones who grew up on beer, sex, drugs, and music so loud it made your teeth rattle—“We’ve said that before.” But this time? No. Not like this. See, I’m over here name-dropping someone as seismic as the Rolling Stones, but he’s not a rock god—he’s a critic, a journalist. Today, people barely remember their names, let alone their words. If that’s not proof we’re at rock’s funeral, I don’t know what is. Picture it: Lester Bangs, sermonizing at the altar, telling us truths like he’s holding a candle up to your future. And, dammit, he’s right.
When the bands my generation worshipped—Blink-182, No Doubt, Red Hot Chili Peppers, even the so-called “basic” ones like the rebellious Avril Lavigne—when they’re gone, your kids will have no rock bands left. They’ll be stuck with country music, never knowing what it feels like to actually live, to have a real Jimi Experience. They’ll have to settle for Kid Rock—yes, Kid Rock, who’s somehow all three genres at once, our last tenuous thread to rock’s golden era and its original hip-hop heartbeat. That’s what it’ll take for them to stat a Jimi Experience to go back to original rock. And there’ll never be another Lester Bangs. If anyone tries, it’ll be too late. If someone emerges like him, at that point? That’s the apocalypse. Tragic, isn’t it? But here’s the beautiful twist: Funk rock isn’t “Black rock” anymore. It’s just rock.
This funeral is a daily event, broadcast live with every ounce of love these legends poured into true music. Now, all those bands that were once boxed in as “Black music”? They’re finally taking their rightful place in the story of rock. I’m honestly honored to witness it.
Speaking of legends—critics and journalists who burned for rock—there was a time when you didn’t need a pen, or a radio, or a clickbait headline. Sometimes you told the story just by snapping a photo. But you weren’t just a “photographer.” No one wanted that label. You were a photojournalist, chasing your own legend, searching for the next big thing to etch your name in history. Enter Dennis Stock and his moody star, James Dean. Didn’t know photojournalists once changed pop culture, did you? Thank Stock for James Dean—because everyone, including Life magazine, doubted him. After all, rock was just noise, right?
But real rock? It’s films, makeup, fashion, music. True rock is knowing those bands had more style than any runway model, and still rolled out of bed in yesterday’s clothes, on five hours of sleep, not caring if Dennis Stock was lurking outside. Because nobody really knows how to write about rock. And people like Stock? They’re not paparazzi; they’re photojournalists—hunters for raw talent, the ones who could sniff out Hollywood before anyone else and say, “This is my story.” It was unfiltered, unmerciful, what used to be called “cool” and “real talent.” Just like Bangs—there will never be another. Stock wasn’t a photographer; he was a photojournalist who, once he found Dean, went on to document blues and jazz—Jazz Street—capturing legends like Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday. That’s what it means to be truly experienced.
Rock is Hollywood. Rock is the heart of Hollywood. Putting Bangs and Stock together? It’s like officiating at rock’s funeral—because someone huge just died. Oh wait, someone did. Several legends did. Like Ozzy. So go ahead—light a candle and look into your future.
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