Would You Be a Rock Star?

Post 822

Rock ‘n’ roll, is there any sweeter sound? Some would say ‘yes,’ of course. The giggle of a newborn. Not for me. I mean, I’ve heard the sound of a giggling newborn and I’ve held a newborn screaming for around three hours nonstop. For me, the screaming crushed the life out of any joy the giggling brought me. It also tells us that I am not your man when it comes to shutting up a crying baby. Now I’m your man if you want to get away from one. No, the best sound in the world is and always will be the doomy deathy tunes of deathy doomy rock. And what better life to live than the life of a rock star? You wear, eat and buy what you want. It’s up to you when you work and when you have time off. You can smoke as much dope as you can get your hands on and it’ll only improve your music, as history proves. You get to trash any hotel room you want, throw as many televisions out of as many hotel windows as you can, and drive as many Jaguar Mark Two’s into as many swimming pools as you want. You’ll be a legend, cemented in history as a bad boy or girl without a care in the world, adorning the wall of teenage emos around the world for the rest of time. And, best of all, you can screw anyone you want and, indeed, you’ll spend most of your time doing just that. I mean, sure, I haven’t done any screwing yet in my life, but I hear intercourse is just dandy…

But should we all go rushing out to make it in the big time, playing to crowds of thousands to line our pockets with gold and, occasionally, in often ill-fated attempts to save Africa? Such is not an easy life. For example, you must practice and practice and never stop practicing. Practicing until one’s fingers are sore and bloodied. Until one’s brow is so furrowed it starts to resemble the testicles you’re so keen to put to good use in your new life as a rock god.

You’ll have to hit the road in your tours of the world, away from home for months and months on end. Which is okay if you’re like me, without anyone back home who would actually miss you. Sniff. And you can forget about the big fancy tour bus with golden loos on the roof. Oh, no. You can forget all about that. You and your fledgling band’s first road trips will be a clapped out old VW, living off a diet of crisps and Coke. How these people survive touring their first few songs is a wonder of the modern age, but one that certainly proves they’re kinda like superheroes. If you can survive a six month road trip on crisps and Coke, you deserve a knighthood…

Then you have to deal with the critics. A few hundred words could sink your band and any reputation you had. Critics are not nice people. They’re like the lawyers of the literary world. You’ve put everything in to those songs and the critics, no matter how good you are, will be eagerly waiting in the wings to rip you to shreds. You must have a thick skin, preferably tattooed and pierced, and then there are the record labels to deal with, not to mention the daily fights with people who were supposed to be your bestest buddies. God help you when one of them walks out and you have to replace them or, as often happens, one of them pops their clogs and you’re left with heartbreak and angry fans.

Some would say the fame is worth it, the money is lovely and travelling the world would be marvellous. But then there’s the weight of burden that comes with being a rock star. It’s often these folk many say are a bad influence and carry around a veil of darkness that poisons the souls of the young and rebellious. Indeed, it’s darkness that often floods the lives of the rich and the famous. Dealing with the stress of touring and producing music, plus even finding the motivation and determination to get up each morning knowing what day lies in front of you. Your normal life will be vanquished in the pursuit of fame and fortune.

Sure, you get to spend your time doing what you love but such a life is unpredictable. Rock stars die all the time, often rather young. Many have died from suicide, accidents, the obsessed fanatic gunning you down on stage, alcoholism, sexually transmitted infections, drug overdoses or even from drowning because you didn’t realise the pool you drove in to was rather a lot deeper than you thought. You might be living the dream, but you’re also living a nightmare.

Your life is public. You have far more responsibilities and far more pressure than you’ve ever felt in your entire life. Not to mention the party scene and all the interviews and radio appearances, plus having to deal with press and social media. Money will always be an issue and there will be plenty of flat crowds to contend with. And what about the groupies? They’re often quite psychotic…

It doesn’t sound as good as one often hopes, does it? The public eye on you all the time. Having to deal with the party scene, something I’ve always stayed away from. Dying young. Being responsible for teenagers doing stupid things. Critics judging you, often harshly. Stuck in a VW for far too long with people you’ll probably end up hating. And you can forget about the tattoos and piercings, that certainly aint happening to me. And as for the constant sex? I don’t mean to be a stick in the mud, but it would be exhausting and I don’t know about you, but I want people to sleep with me because they like me, not my fame. Rock legend Gene Simmons has naked photos of every woman he’s ever slept with. All 4,800 of them. 4,800! If that was me, right, “I’ve slept with 4,800 women!” I’d also be wondering, “How many of them were really in to me?” I’d also need a lot of lotion…

Although that proves you can be an ugly bastard and still live the life of Riley, it doesn’t sound like a life I’d want. No, I think I’m better off standing on the sidelines, watching the gods of rock from afar. Measured respect and admiration is my approach.

That said, I would one day really love to drive a Jaguar Mark Two into a swimming pool…

But would you be a rock star, readers?

Ciao :)(:

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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other blog:

The Indelible Life of Me
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