The smashes, trashes and hits of schizophrenic 2002

The Sum 41 Of All Our Fears

It was supposed to be year of rock’s glorious return. Not exactly. Someone did a Pinocchio on us somewhere because we got more Britney, more boybands and more Michelle Branch clones. This geezer remembers the epochs when rock ruled the roost. We all know about the hip post-Elvis hysteria; the magical, mysterious, tour with the Fab Four; the Summer of Love with Jimi, Janis and the Lizard King; and the dark Sabbathy age that followed. In the ‘80s, rock took the form of jangly, overdriven Strats or Rickenbackers and brooding lyrics courtesy of The Cure, REM, The Cult and the ironically detached Smiths. After that, headbangers had a ball with Guns N’ Roses, Metallica and Slayer. Later in the ‘90s, rock assumed the name grunge, sludged its way into our ears and stirred our slacker minds into a state of ungrace. We listened to Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, as well as other brilliantly dark bands that didn’t fall into the Seattle label — Nine Inch Tails, Tool, Jane’s Addiction, Faith No More, Dream Theater, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Smashing Pumpkins...man, too many to mention. Before, pop was subservient. These days there is a dearth of thinking man’s metal in the mainstream. There is rock all right, but it’s being overshadowed by beautifully packaged nauseating pop.

In 2002, we watched cute Avril Lavigne — with her cute necktie, cute raccoon eyes, cute tank top and her cute Hobbit-like posse — sing her poignant ode to a certain skater boy of her dreams. (I never thought cute could be so sickening.) Shakira, too, as she gyrated like a damn invertebrate while singing the pukeable lyrics to Objection Tango. (By the way, how many music videos does she have? Ten thousand?)

Britney bared her belly; dirrty Christina Aguilera, her red undies; Pink, her Linda Perry influences. Thank God the nefarious creature that is the Spice-Girl-gone-solo was largely ignored.

We heard pop superstars Eminem and J. Lo sing about the perils of being pop superstars and we found it difficult to relate. (How could a working-class dog like me dig a line like, "Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got, I’m still Jenny from the block"? Or Eminem’s mom-bashing diary? Pop stars whine so much about being pop stars. How hard is it to cash checks, or buy a diamond-studded watch, J. Lo? Absurd!)

We also let stupid anthems about ketchup turn our brains to French fries.

A ray of hope in 2002: Boybands are on the wane. Wait...it’s more like a good-news-bad-news thingie. Boybands are passé, but boyband members are branching out into solo careers. They’ve multiplied like f*cking Gremlins. Now, there are more shitty albums on the market; your teenage nieces will have a hard time choosing a five-hundred-peso CD from: 1) ‘N Sync; 2) Justin Timberlake (nothing but a less wacky Michael Jackson); 3) the Backstreet Boys; 4) Nick Carter (nothing but a circumcised Aaron Carter). I absolutely hate it when Justin and Nick give interviews and say stuff like "my music this, my music that" because we know it’s all hogwash. Timberlake and Carter "making" music? Maybe in the universe where David Hasselhoff is god. They even cite legends like Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye as inspirations, which gives you the urge to hurl expletives or simply to hurl.

In Justin’s Like I Love You video, he apes Wacko Jacko. Just be limbherrrr. He sings like a damn eunuch, but the teenyboppers absolutely love it. (It’s ironic that the public would diss shit — Jackson continues to flop at the charts — and prefer similar shit with a different name — Justin is setting cash registers ringing.) It’s the third most despicable song of 2002, next to Objection Tango and the top notching The Ketchup Song. Acereje my aching soul! And look Ma, Nick is playing guitar in his video!

Britney and boyband factories may have closed down, but not the labs concocting the Michelle Branch doppelgangers. Avril Lavigne. Vanessa Carlton. A repackaged Jennifer Love-Hewitt. (Norah Jones, even if she’s as young and as beautiful as them, is an exception. She’s the next Diana Krall.) We dread what the next trend will be — the Dave Matthews clone with John Mayer as prototype?

The funny thing is, if you watch MP3TV and listen to all those unsigned artists you’ll wonder why they remain unsigned. How come no label’s interested? A lot of great talent and musical ideas out there. Why strap a guitar on mallrats and give ‘em potential hits to lipsync?

(Same situation here. Eat Bulaga’s Sexbomb Dancers — as well as their MTB counterparts, the Giling Girls — have waxed an album. And there’s something terribly wrong with that statement. It makes you ask if there’s justice in this world when aberrations like L.A. Lopez, Mo Twister and G. Toengi get to make records.)

Rockers taught us in 2002 the stupid formula for making rock and punk songs. Rapped clichés plus distorted guitars plus turntable squeaks plus menacing tattoos and body piercing equals Linkin Park minus turntable squeaks plus mentor Fred Durst equals P.O.D. (Or cut off Rage Against the Machine’s ballsy convictions and you get yer average rapcore band.) Goofy lyrics plus goofy guitars plus videos (very important, this one) plus goofy looks plus Blink 182 posturings equals SUM 41. (My apologies to SUM 41 fan Arlyn Pan.)

The shallowness is appalling: In 2002, P.O.D. sang about a satellite (silly poseurs!), while SUM 41 made more anomalous songs and parodied the Strokes in their video (like the campy Michael Bolton satirizing the soulful Van Morrison).

Has rock flatlined in 2002? We all saw the sign: Celine Dion singing a faithful cover of AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long while playing air guitar in VH1’s Divas Las Vegas. Even Satan was horrified. Folks, that may very well be one of the most glaring indications that rock, as we know it, is dead.

And Life magazine unintentionally published rock’s obituary in a coffee-table book called Rock & Roll at Fifty. The book (thanks, Celine Lopez) presents a list of the most influential rockers of all time from Elvis Presley to the Led Zeppelin to Rage Against the Machine. A caveat: why were Madonna and Michael Jackson included? It seems like Life’s old geezers have redefined the term "rock" to include the two pop superstars. Britney was also there. So were the Spice Girls and the Backstreet Boys. But I don’t remember seeing Metallica.

The Strokes Of Luck

Fortunately, rock showed signs of life in 2002. There were bright spots; it wasn’t all shit for the ears. Great albums from The Doves ("The Last Broadcast"), Flaming Lips ("Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots") and Wilco ("Yankee Hotel Foxtrot"), and a more introspective Beck ("Sea Change"), although none of ‘em got the spotlight they deserved. Many missed those gems, including this writer. I was so caught up in the "Rock-is-dead" meditation that I overlooked those fresh yet underrated rock n’ roll records.

There were some good ones that stole pop’s thunder. Audioslave (the Soundgarden/Rage Against the Machine hybrid) made its mighty, mighty debut. It was great to hear Chris Cornell’s bluesy baritone framed by gutsy riffs from RATM guitarist Tom Morello after the former Soundgarden singer dabbled into Beatlesque and ELOesque stuff in his solo platter. Tori Amos’ dreamy pop travelogue, "Scarlet’s Walk," was another good album. We heard the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ most mature record to date — "By the Way," more in the vein of California Dreamin’ rather than "Californication." Dream Theater did the anachronistic: release a progressive rock opus in the age of nü metal. The Foo Fighters could’ve done rewrites of their Learning to Fly hit; instead Dave Grohl and friends released their heaviest record to date, "One by One."

Santana also did a sorta sequel to the hit album "Supernatural" with "Shaman," featuring duets with Seal, Macy Gray, Michelle Branch and (you might like to skip this one) Placido Domingo.

Also, two legendary bands came out with definitive greatest hits packages: Rolling Stone and Chicago. Chicago released "The Story of Chicago" which interspersed truly evocative songs (Wishing You Were Here, 25 or 6 to 4, Beginnings, I’ve Been Searching So Long, etc.) with really crappy material (I Don’t Want To Live Without Your Love, You’re the Inspiration, Look Away, etc.). But it’s a collector’s disc nonetheless. The Rolling Stones — those ageless wonders Mick, Keith and company — came out with the excellent "Forty Licks." Music from the Glimmer Twins is still hallucinogenic after all those years, even if nowadays Jagger is a bona fide knight and Keith Richards resembles an iguana with a Telecaster. Elvis had a hit, too. It was a year of ghosts, I’d say.

In a way, 2002 was also a case of grunge days revisited because Cornell had a new band, Pearl Jam and Dave Grohl’s Foo Fighters had new albums, and Kurt Cobain’s voice was heard over the airwaves once more with the single, You Know You’re Right from the best-of Nirvana album. (Where’s the goddamn "blotched" set that was promised? Courtney’s to blame.)

In the local music industry, two of rapcore’s big three released new albums — Slapshock ("Project 11-41") and Cheese ("Pilipinas"). Rivermaya and Makiling Ensemble also came out with new albums. But Pan’s "Parnaso ng Payaso" was easily the best release of the year. Characterized by infectious punk rock riffs, sarcastic lyrics and biting social commentaries courtesy of Dong Abay, Pan’s songs picked up where Yano left off. More Pan, please. And more Cynthia Alexander, WDOUJI, Shiela & The Insects — enough of the balladeers and divas doing revivals. There are one too many versions of On the Wings of Love already!

Garage Daze Revisited

There was also the onslaught of garage/indie/neo-punk bands in 2002 — namely the Strokes, the White Stripes, the Hives, the Vines. (Reminds me of At-The-Drive-in, the exciting hardcore-ish outfit which broke up untimely, quickly burning out rather than fading away. A tragedy: Too many John Mayer CDs in record stores and not one At-The-Drive-In. Paging those concerned.)

Great to see bands who practice the anti-rockstar ethic: Make music and mean it; make inexpensive but brilliant recordings; go onstage wearing Salvation Army clothes; and become future legends. These are groups who usher us into a new future by purveying glimpses of the past. Isn’t that ironic?

Looking at them simplistically, the Strokes resurrects the Velvet Underground; The Hives does a Nirvana and Iggy Pop; the Vines reminds us of The Knack. They allow us to wax nostalgic of that epoch when music was raw, ecstatic and life-altering. Songs back then were bittersweet commentaries on that curious circus called existence, not sorry excuses to make videos.

Yes, the future of rock n’ roll is a rehash of its past. And we like it.

Maybe 2002 is but prelude to the renaissance of rock — or the starting gun for more jumpers onto the garage bandwagon. Or maybe we’re about to reach rock-bottom. There is the lurking horror of each of the Backstreet Boys and ‘N Sync whiners going solo. That would be like Beelzebub setting up his apartment in our ears.

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Thanks to Joelle Jacinto of Sony Music, Chito Confiado and Jorelle Legaspi of BMG, and Anne Poblador of Warner Music. For comments, suggestions. curses and invocations e-mail iganja@hotmail.com.