Noam Chomsky
Robert Fisk
Pico Iyer
Edward Said
Mark Kingwell
Arundhati Roy
John Lavery
David Solway
Tariq Ali
Rochelle Gurstein
GUITARS, GONADS & GROUPIES ARE WILD
by ROBERT J. LEWIS
envy
. . . seen from a distance these existences
seem to possess a coherence and unity
which they cannot have in reality,
but which seems evident to the spectator.
He sees only the salient points of their lives
without taking into account the details of corrosion. Camus
We
mock and deride them, dismiss them as tramps and tarts, in order
to disassociate ourselves from the ethos that compels them to
give themselves away to total strangers. Groupies, as they are
eponymously known, are chicks that follow, fawn over and offer
themselves to musicians performing in mostly rock and pop groups.
And while the phenomenon dates back to the 1950s, groupie behavior
has been explicit since the dawn of man when men were waxing savage
over wild game in the African savannahs or fighting for cave space
in the cliffs of les- Eyzies (France). Back then, females, to
optimize survival for themselves and future offspring, would gravitate
toward the most powerful, territory-toting males. Males, too,
would attempt to forge asexual bonds with their betters to better
ensure their chances at survival. Over time, these survival patterns
-- expressed as primordial impulses that compel someone towards
someone better -- found their way into our DNA, and since then
has accounted for our abiding fascination with persons exercising
power.
What
is striking is that until recently in our history the prototype
of the groupie was envied for giving herself (her eggs) away to
the alpha male. Today, her modern counterpart invites universal
scorn for the exact same comportment, a development which underscores
the importance we attach to the rites of courtship which the groupie
insouciantly flouts and for which she is stigmatized: the smallest
price to pay for a chance at the big prize. Which is to say in
the grand evolutionary skein of things, the bio-force urging the
groupie to tender herself to the rich and famous takes precedence
over any rite of courtship. Or, with all due respect to able bodied
latrinists and their kind without whom society would be in the
deep, the groupie wants what is (genotypically) best for her eggs.
That
too many of us have convinced ourselves we are superior in kind
may be a self-serving delusion that begs further investigation,
especially among males who secretly long for the unconditional
adoration and ovarian rights conferred by the guileless groupie.
Can the case now be made that the groupie phenomenon conceals
a universal truth that designates Becoming (a groupie) prior to
and a condition of self-hood? And those of us too proud and prude
to assume our groupie inheritance imperil not only our peace of
mind, but condemn the fugitive quest for the self to a series
of defeats. Perhaps women in all cultures outlive men because
they have the courage to acknowledge the groupie within? -- a
little part of us in every one,' -- pace Neil Young, professional
rock star.
Enlightened
males (pardon the oxymoron), who are in touch with their groupie
patrimony, can be observed performing the acrobatics of self-vassalation
while struggling to maintain acceptable self-esteem indices. Like
flies to fresh fertilizer, they seek out hierarchies established
by powerful males, but unlike females, social custom obliges them
to disguise their groupie instincts. So instead of admitting --
outside of their fantasy life -- to their desire/dream of meeting
with and getting connected to a Bon Jovi, Tiger Woods, or Brad
Pitt, they approach the object of their adulation through, for
example, the rite of the autograph request (always for someone
else, of course) or engineer the desired association through non-fawning
conventional means: practical doctor-dentist-financial advisor,
career consultant relationships.
Rob:
I was thinking, Mick, that maybe we should place that small
speaker more to the left, so your voice and Keith's guitar are
more separate.
Mick:
(Offering thought to Rob's suggestion). That's probably a good
idea, Rob. You're talking about 5 feet, 10 feet?
Rob:
Not sure. Maybe we should do a quick sound check?
Mick:
Absolutely. Fans deserve the best. (Conferring in low voices,
Rob and Mick approach the concert stage).
That
the ultimate power is creative and not political or territorial
-- which is what Nietzsche means by the Will to Power, shorthand
for the Will to re-invent oneself -- explains why the rock star
is by far the first choice of the groupie. Compared to music --
and the pleasurable drugs with which it is often mixed -- the
content of political discourse, despite its occasional theatricality,
oscillates between the soporific and anal retentive, not to speak
of the age differential between groupie and politician, on top
of which it is now politically incorrect for politicians to cultivate
groupies. Beyond that, music is that perfect friend outside oneself
that invites the listener to indulge his/her (unedited) feelings
without ever having to articulate them. For every emotion there
is a musical counterpoint, a private place where the listener
can go and confess his/her anger, frustration, hatred, self-hatred,
alienation, and desire to be understood. Like no other art form,
rock music provides for the inner life of mostly teenagers trying
to find themselves and their way in a mostly indifferent world.
If power is the measure of someone's ability to command the attention
and love-adoration of large numbers of people, rock music reigns
supreme; from Mali to the Mekong Delta, it has found a home in
every corner of the world.
Is it
any wonder that rock stars are enjoying unprecedented global adulation,
a groupie-quantifiable fact that prompted John Lennon to declare
the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ, which, if nothing
else, demystifies the unspoken conceit that being able to create
something out of nothing is tantamount to playing God with a small
'g.' So that when we find ourselves inexplicably drawn to the
gods who created the B Minor Mass and Abbey Road it is because
we are drawn to and want to participate in the very mystery of
creation itself. By preserving and transmitting the artist's exceptional
gifts, we are signing on to the notion that what isn't transmuted
into art won't survive, or, taking liberties with Mallarmé,
and with all due respect to Rap and its monophonic siblings, the
aim of the universe is the creation of melody.
Which
leaves you and I in the unmediated presence of the groupie in
the truth of her being, confident and fully rehabilitated, a steady
calm in the discontent of our pride and prejudice.
For
when all is said and done, the groupie, without apology, is simply
and frankly expressing his/her devotion to the principle of creation.
That young women will continue to give themselves away to lead
guitarists in tight pants, total strangers known only through
their music, confirms the exceptional status of the artist, who
by making exceptional demands on himself, commands the means (the
groupie) to genetically preserve and transmit his gift.
*
* * * * * * * * * *
We,
the legions of the mediocre, aching to transcend the stubborn
fact of our mediocrity, by associating ourselves with the most
influential creators of our time, are expressing, with the blessings
of nature, our deepest groupie instincts. There should be no shame
in this; the only shame is to deny the longing.
So let
us demystify the desire that moves us to follow and fawn over
the great artists of our time, knowing that nothing less will
set us on the path to self-hood.
Before my confessor, I'll say it once so you don't have to say
it for me: I want to be Mick Jagger's roadie. That is the truth
I hide behind, the truth that provides me.
blank
page was all the rage
never meant to say anything in bed
i was half dead tired of dreaming
of rest
got dressed
drove the state line looking for you at the five and dime
stop sign told me to stay
at home told me you were not alone
blank page was all the rage
never meant to hurt anyone in bed
i was half dead tired of dreaming of rest
you haven't changed you're still the same
may you rise as you fall
you were easy you are forgotten
you are the ways of my mistakes
i catch the rainfall through the leaking roof
that you had left behind
you remind me of that leak in my soul
the rain falls
my friends call
leaking rain on the phone
take a day
plant some trees
may they shade you from me
may your children play beneath
blank page was all the rage
never meant to say anything in bed
i was half dead tired of dreaming of rest
got dressed
drove the state line looking for you at the five and time
but there i was picking pieces up
you are a ghost of my indecision
no more little girl.