Most women really get off on the whole “fuck me gently” love-making ideal, especially since such a treasure can be hard to find in this smash-and-grab world. There are times, however, when the situation calls for a different approach.
Every single woman has fantasized about being lifted up off the ground and pounded into the wall. Even if you’ve never picked up one of those twenty-five-cent paperbacks found in your local supermarket, you can imagine the kind of bodice-ripping, animalistic, screaming-crying-scratching sex I’m referring to…that is, if you haven’t been completely sterilized by what passes for rock ‘n’ roll in this day and age.
I was born in the Eighties, aka Hair Band Heaven, and what a confusing time it was. Every rock musician, male or female, had a big, tousled mane and a painted face. I watched Labyrinth countless times as a child, and the enormous, fascinating bulge in David Bowie’s white unitard was the only indication that he was of the male persuasion. My mom was into Duran Duran, Gloria Estefan, and George Michael; my dad listened to Cat Stevens, The Beach Boys, and Howard Stern. I enjoyed all of the above, but it became obvious to me that my education in Hardcore Muthafuckin’ ROCK would have to be self-taught.
The Nineties were grunge-filled, yes, but there were definitely some harder-edged bands that created the Fuck-Me-Music I was looking for. Nine Inch Nails is a good example: screaming, angst-ridden, and the rhetorical question that every girl yearns to be prompted to ponder: “Does he want to fuck me or kill me?” A dose of danger is crucial when it comes to primitive sexual urges.
It wasn’t until I traveled back in musical time to the Age of Classic Rock that I reached true Nirvana. Stumbling upon Led Zeppelin’s BBC Sessions opened up a whole new world for me. I’d never heard anything like it. They went from sexy, lazy blues jams to rip-roaring rock thunderstorms that built upwards into the ultimate climax of drums, bass, and guitar smashing and clashing wildly as Robert Plant’s vocals orgasmed all over the whole damn thing. Every song played out like an act of sex, perfect in its imperfection and always ending in a sticky, wet mess of satisfied bliss.
From there, I was hooked. I delved into every Zeppelin song ever recorded, picking them apart and finding something new every time. They ruined me, spoiled me, and made it near-impossible for me to sit through the garbage that my teenaged peers were into. If I wasn’t listening to the Gods of Music’s Past, I was tuning in to stuff that would never DARE try to pass itself off as actual “rock”, such as the brilliantly progressive Portishead, Radiohead, or…you know…fuck-me-gently, love-making music.
Nowadays, I’ll listen to pretty much anything, but I think it’s obvious: rock is dead. Pop has always been around in one form or another, so I’m not blaming Britney Spears or yesteryear’s barrage of boy bands – directly – but for the past decade, something really fucked up has been happening to music in general. Rap and hip-hop artists used to have stories to tell, penning rhymes and producing beats that engaged the listener. Now, they all use that Cher vocal effect that turns the nonsense they’re spouting into utter potato salad. (And if one more person sings about being “in da club”, I’m going to lose my shit.) Pop is usually disposable trash with the occasional exception, so no difference there. Rock, though. Goddamn. Did I miss the funeral?
Two evil forces – probably biological weapons created by our own government – infiltrated today’s youth and killed their sexuality. You might know them better as “Emo” and “Indie Rock”. Emo cloaked itself in the disguise of “punk rock”, a la Yellowcard, Fall Out Boy, et al, and managed to sneak into the party with none the wiser. By the time we realized we’d been had, it was too late. Indie Rock is worse, and I’m not talking about all “independently-made music”. Indie Rock was so deceptively light in its loafers and sickly-looking – ahem, Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst – that we waved it away as being totally innocuous and incapable of any real damage. How wrong we were. From both genres came an explosion of asymmetrical haircuts and jeans tight enough to give a skeleton muffin-top.
“But Britt,” you might say, “if you dislike that music so much, why don’t you just listen to something else?”
Oh, my dear readers, if only it were that easy! You see, Emo and Indie are so insidious that they have pussified actual ROCK bands. Have you heard Metallica’s new stuff? It’s not BAD, but it’s FAR from bad-ASS. Turn on your local rock/alternative station to hear what I mean. They’re most likely still playing “Smells Like Teen Spirit” four times every hour to make up for the sackless current shit they’re paid to promote. Kings of Leon are one of the only new-ish acts that hearken back to the good ol’ days of REAL ROCK ‘N’ ROLL. (“Sex on Fire” even has the word “sex” in the title, conjuring naughty, eruptive, explosive SCREWING…either that, or fucking during a really painful herpes outbreak.)
For the most part, it’s as though these former rock maniacs flopped their balls atop a chopping board and let all the testosterone drain out. The Red Hot Chili Peppers used to make albums, such as “Blood Sugar Sex Magik”, that appealed to the dirtiest, most sexually-depraved part of men and women alike. Their last effort was a double-disc pile of apathy that contained ONE song (“She’s Only 18″) that belied even a trace of their former pussy-ravaging, erection-raising capabilities.
“What happened?!” I cried out in despair. “Is it because they quit the Columbian Marching Powder and found yoga?”
No. It’s because Emo and Indie raped them in a dark alley and implanted their Prozac seed in the uterus of greatness, dulling and diminishing passion and lust and leaving SO much to be desired by those of us still looking to be fucked against a wall.
In an effort to counteract some of the damage that has been done to the libidos of America, I am providing a list of songs to help out those of you who still believe that balls should be big and jeans should be creamed. You’re welcome.
Blood Sugar Sex Magik – The Red Hot Chili Peppers
Wherever I May Roam – Metallica
Whole Lotta Love – Led Zeppelin
When The Levee Breaks – Led Zeppelin
Are You Experienced? – Jimi Hendrix
I Need A Man To Love – Janis Joplin
Where Is Everybody? – Nine Inch Nails
Possum Kingdom – The Toadies
I Want You (She’s So Heavy) – The Beatles
Sometimes It Hurts – Stabbing Westward
Everybody Wants Some – Van Halen
Make Yourself - Incubus
Stars – Hum
Magic Man – Heart
Liar - Rollins Band
Black Hole Sun – Soundgarden
Would? – Alice In Chains
The Stroke – Billy Squier
Hot Blooded – Foreigner
So Cold – Breaking Benjamin
Back In Black – AC/DC
Tom Sawyer - Rush
Hey, Johnny Park! – The Foo Fighters
Cold – Crossfade
Represent – Head PE
5 Minutes Alone – Pantera
Darling Nikki – Foo Fighters covering Prince
Living Dead Girl – Rob Zombie
Sober – Tool
Sunshine of Your Love – Cream
Feed My Frankenstein – Alice Cooper
The Beautiful People – Marilyn Manson
Crazy Bitch – Buck Cherry
Closer – Nine Inch Nails
Rx Queen – The Deftones
Do You Want To Touch Me - Joan Jett
Duality – Slipknot
Forty-six and 2 – Tool
Blind – Korn
Closure – Chevelle
Giving In – Adema
Your Disease – Saliva
Let’s Put The X In Sex – Kiss
