Power of rock ‘n’ roll fuels search for heart of gold

Power of rock ‘n’ roll fuels search for heart of gold

I can play you like I play this guitar," an ex-boyfriend of mine
once said to me as he glided his wrist down the neck of his gold
Gibson Les Paul custom.

"You think so?" I answered back in weak defiance, placing my
hands on my hips.

"Oh yeah," he said. He tossed me a pack of Marlboro reds. "Now
sit those bell bottoms down and watch me play."

I flopped down on the sofa, lit up and listened. It was a sunny
summer afternoon. I knew what I was in for. The same old, beautiful
thing. He started slowly, as he always did, with a few scales; D
minor, A minor, eventually E major and then he whipped suddenly
into Led Zeppelin’s "Whole Lotta Love." Leave it to him, he knew
what was good.

Cradling the hourglass frame of that guitar for the rest of the
day, he’d sneak in his own guitar riffs and licks in between the
basic rock ‘n’ roll rhythm; snap the pick and bend the strings to
elicit the response he wanted from his instrument. But whether he
chose to stretch out the progression or crunch it in, he always
kept to the blues.

That was my baby. Our time together evolved from the passionate
to the turbulent to, ultimately, the dysfunctional, and there were
times when I’d wonder why I stuck around.

When he played his Gibson, I knew. It was rock ‘n’ roll, bluesy
rock ‘n’ roll to be precise. From B. B. King to Zeppelin, from
Creedence to Hendrix ­ my baby knew enough to never disrespect
those who mastered the blues by hastily labeling them "dinosaurs"
and replacing heart and soul with worn-out power chords. He
emulated the work of the masters and appreciated the evolutionary
power of the blues.

As I’d lie there in the sunlight, smoke dripping from my lips in
long ripples, the rhythm kept me in his grip. He knew this, so
confident in the power of rock ‘n’ roll that he had the audacity to
remark bluntly that he could reel me in with a melody. For a long
time, he was right.

Not forever, though. In time I discovered that he wasn’t the
only one out there whose understanding of the blues could give me
satisfaction; so I broke off.

Because it wasn’t him, really. It was the music. And more
importantly, it was his comprehension of the blues and why it spoke
more directly to me than any sermon from a priest or law on the
books. He understood because the blues had the same effect on
him.

We both knew about the seductive power of rock ‘n’ roll because
it, like all good art, is about vulnerability. Not vulnerability
for the sake of shock value, necessarily, but vulnerability for the
sake of honesty, what is pure, what is real ­ what is raw.

This is liberating. Because face it ­ just turn on the
television and you’ll see that this era is fraught with "Hard Copy"
"journalists," arrogant politicians and TV preachers who denounce
everyone to hell while building air-conditioned dog houses with
church donations.

Open the Los Angeles Times and you’ll read about higher taxes
and mediocre services and a deficit younger adults really don’t
want to pay for since they didn’t create it. Pick up the L.A.
Weekly and, among other things, you’ll read about adolescents in
high-security prisons and the fatal status of art in America if and
when the federal government decides that funding art just isn’t
worth it anymore.

And if you flip to the back, you’ll discover plenty of pages
with the directions to the nearest female mud wrestling
establishment and numbers for your local phone sex line. The
section is thick and it must prove useful to someone because these
gigantic ­ and expensive ­ ads appear each week.

It’s sad and disillusioning, but to me it’s understandable, for
though the city is bursting with people, its loneliness can be
overwhelming.

So enter rock ‘n’ roll. Enter Neil Young’s "Heart of Gold" or
Cypress Hill’s "Light Another" and you’ve got your escape … and
at the same time you’ve got a camaraderie that, in a society of
cynicism and dishonesty, has the guts to speak frankly and the
talent and originality to make it beautiful.

It is for this reason that rock ‘n’ roll can still cast a spell
on me. It sings to my blood, lets my emotions flow, frees me from
my inhibitions. Rock ‘n’ roll exposes me, lets my individual spirit
soar, and when I’m flying high I can accept the state of the world
without condoning it and know that I’m not alone.

And on a more personal level, when I’m flying high, it doesn’t
matter to me if people think I smoke too much or that I should keep
my mouth shut more often. I don’t care if the guy at that party
thinks chicks shouldn’t drink 40-ouncers and I don’t care if my
aunts and uncles think I date fairly good-looking but notoriously
half-witted losers.

And I couldn’t care less if those girls holding up the wall at
Club ’70s think I’m a slut for dancing on the platform too close to
the go-go dancer. To hell with them.

When rock ‘n’ roll seeps into my blood and imagination, I feel
its power and energy. The blues is undeniable. And once it’s in me,
I am vulnerable, yes, but my body and soul are rich and meaningful
­ and the rest be damned.

Viewpoint Assistant Editor Marquez is a fourth-year student
double-majoring in history and English/American studies. Her column
appears on alternate Thursdays.