Kings of Leon, Aha Shake Heartbreak
Dear Caleb, Nathan, Jared, and Matthew,
I want to tell you a story. When I was 17, 18, I wanted so badly to be in a band. And you'd have thought it was possible, given that all my friends at the time were boys in bands, fragments of bands, or at least played some instrument—some well, some not so well, but they were cute, and cute gets you very, very far, in rock and roll. (You should all know this, as you are all very, very cute. But we'll get back to that in a minute.) So yeah, I wanted to be in a band. I'm a pretty good singer—that's what got me to college, a vocal scholarship. I logged many hours in my friends' basements listening to them play really bad covers of Cure, Jane's Addiction, and Radiohead songs. Sometimes they'd ask me to sing, but they didn't ask me to be in the band. And I never thought to ask to be in the band.
When I was 19, I wanted so badly to be in a band. When I got to Ohio State, I started scouring the The Other Paper, looking at all the classified ads, hoping I'd find something like "Female Lead Singer Wanted: Must be hard working, talented. Influences: Scrawl, Pixies, all Manchester Bands, the Smiths, All Shoegazer Bands, and some trip hop." And I did, once. I psyched myself up to make the call, practiced what I would say and when the person on the other end told me, "No, it was a misprint. The ad should have been for a guitar player. We have a singer. But thanks for calling," I felt a tiny jabbing sensation in my chest, not unlike heartbreak.
When I was 24, 25, I wanted so badly to be in a band, and I was, sort of. My circle of friends at the time included a bunch of cartography grad students and a professor (don't ask), who played at cartography and geography parties. I sang with them a few times, mostly backup vocals on crowd favorites like, "Superman," "Gimme Shelter," and various songs by The Cars. They/we played at my going away party before I moved to Chicago. I know there is a videotape out there of me screeching the soul sister part of "Gimme Shelter." Not good.
When I was 27, I wanted so badly to be in a band. I took four months of guitar lessons at the Old Town School of Music, bought my very own Daisy Rock guitar, and played it 'til my fingers bled. (No, not really.) At our first recital, we played, "The Same Boy You've always Known," by the White Stripes. For our second recital, we played Wilco's "Passenger Side." We were terrible, but earnest, and our instructor went off to L.A. to become a star, only nobody's heard from her since.
I stopped wanting so badly to be in a band—until I got my most recent Rolling Stone. There you reformed preacher's boys were, in a glam spread shot by Terry Richardson, louche-looking models with mile-longs legs lounging on and all around you. You (and especially you, Jared) looked like you'd died and gone to heaven. And who can blame you? You're young, you have a fabulous, sexy new record, and you're damn good looking. You're on the edge of perhaps being serious rock stars.
Some thoughts: It might be better if everything Caleb sang didn't sound like, "Dang gum, darm mummpf allo fregunter, fucking yeah." You want to do growly and nicotine-ravaged, but it doesn't sound natural. The lyrics are sometimes shaky; Mick Jagger and Robert Plant would never write about their fear of going bald or impotence. That shit doesn't happen to rock stars, capisce? Matthew doesn't seem too comfortable in his skin and he needs a better stylist. No attractive guy ever, EVER should wear sleeveless t-shirts. Ever. Nathan, there's not much to say about you—you might want to work on that. Like, who are you? Tell me before I get disinterested. Jared, you're the cutest of the bunch, but the photo of you shoving your hand in that model's mouth? Was embarrassing. It wasn't sexy; you looked kind of like a dick and she looked like she was choking. These things can be remedied. Look, when it comes down to it, all that is required of a successful rock band is skinny jeans (check), great haircuts (check), well-composed songs (check), sexy-ness (check, check, check, check), and some balls (check). You're well on your way!
You have rekindled my desire to be in a band—but only if I could be a guy. You lucky bastards. Girls in bands, they get none of the model treatment. Sure, they can keep up with the boys in the drink and drug department (cf. Miss Zia McCabe of the Dandy Warhols), but once that part of the night is done, there's no guy waiting to be taken back to the hotel, waiting to get just 10 minutes of your time. Where are the sexy rock girls? Where are the sexy girl guitar players? When will there ever be a serious female contender for the cock-rock mantel? A female Led Zeppelin or Van Halen? An all-girl Rolling Stones? The Queens of Leon?
I'm waiting. But in the meantime, I'll take you.
Kings of Leon, Aha Shake Heartbreak
Purchased at a Best Buy, somewhere in the Chicago suburbs, March 2005
I want to tell you a story. When I was 17, 18, I wanted so badly to be in a band. And you'd have thought it was possible, given that all my friends at the time were boys in bands, fragments of bands, or at least played some instrument—some well, some not so well, but they were cute, and cute gets you very, very far, in rock and roll. (You should all know this, as you are all very, very cute. But we'll get back to that in a minute.) So yeah, I wanted to be in a band. I'm a pretty good singer—that's what got me to college, a vocal scholarship. I logged many hours in my friends' basements listening to them play really bad covers of Cure, Jane's Addiction, and Radiohead songs. Sometimes they'd ask me to sing, but they didn't ask me to be in the band. And I never thought to ask to be in the band.
When I was 19, I wanted so badly to be in a band. When I got to Ohio State, I started scouring the The Other Paper, looking at all the classified ads, hoping I'd find something like "Female Lead Singer Wanted: Must be hard working, talented. Influences: Scrawl, Pixies, all Manchester Bands, the Smiths, All Shoegazer Bands, and some trip hop." And I did, once. I psyched myself up to make the call, practiced what I would say and when the person on the other end told me, "No, it was a misprint. The ad should have been for a guitar player. We have a singer. But thanks for calling," I felt a tiny jabbing sensation in my chest, not unlike heartbreak.
When I was 24, 25, I wanted so badly to be in a band, and I was, sort of. My circle of friends at the time included a bunch of cartography grad students and a professor (don't ask), who played at cartography and geography parties. I sang with them a few times, mostly backup vocals on crowd favorites like, "Superman," "Gimme Shelter," and various songs by The Cars. They/we played at my going away party before I moved to Chicago. I know there is a videotape out there of me screeching the soul sister part of "Gimme Shelter." Not good.
When I was 27, I wanted so badly to be in a band. I took four months of guitar lessons at the Old Town School of Music, bought my very own Daisy Rock guitar, and played it 'til my fingers bled. (No, not really.) At our first recital, we played, "The Same Boy You've always Known," by the White Stripes. For our second recital, we played Wilco's "Passenger Side." We were terrible, but earnest, and our instructor went off to L.A. to become a star, only nobody's heard from her since.
I stopped wanting so badly to be in a band—until I got my most recent Rolling Stone. There you reformed preacher's boys were, in a glam spread shot by Terry Richardson, louche-looking models with mile-longs legs lounging on and all around you. You (and especially you, Jared) looked like you'd died and gone to heaven. And who can blame you? You're young, you have a fabulous, sexy new record, and you're damn good looking. You're on the edge of perhaps being serious rock stars.
Some thoughts: It might be better if everything Caleb sang didn't sound like, "Dang gum, darm mummpf allo fregunter, fucking yeah." You want to do growly and nicotine-ravaged, but it doesn't sound natural. The lyrics are sometimes shaky; Mick Jagger and Robert Plant would never write about their fear of going bald or impotence. That shit doesn't happen to rock stars, capisce? Matthew doesn't seem too comfortable in his skin and he needs a better stylist. No attractive guy ever, EVER should wear sleeveless t-shirts. Ever. Nathan, there's not much to say about you—you might want to work on that. Like, who are you? Tell me before I get disinterested. Jared, you're the cutest of the bunch, but the photo of you shoving your hand in that model's mouth? Was embarrassing. It wasn't sexy; you looked kind of like a dick and she looked like she was choking. These things can be remedied. Look, when it comes down to it, all that is required of a successful rock band is skinny jeans (check), great haircuts (check), well-composed songs (check), sexy-ness (check, check, check, check), and some balls (check). You're well on your way!
You have rekindled my desire to be in a band—but only if I could be a guy. You lucky bastards. Girls in bands, they get none of the model treatment. Sure, they can keep up with the boys in the drink and drug department (cf. Miss Zia McCabe of the Dandy Warhols), but once that part of the night is done, there's no guy waiting to be taken back to the hotel, waiting to get just 10 minutes of your time. Where are the sexy rock girls? Where are the sexy girl guitar players? When will there ever be a serious female contender for the cock-rock mantel? A female Led Zeppelin or Van Halen? An all-girl Rolling Stones? The Queens of Leon?
I'm waiting. But in the meantime, I'll take you.
Kings of Leon, Aha Shake Heartbreak
Purchased at a Best Buy, somewhere in the Chicago suburbs, March 2005
posted by Iseult at 4:31 PM
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