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>From the 1970s on, Top 40 rock music has been just plain bad. Boston, Bad Company, Phil Collins, Styx, Creed and Nickelback are just a few of the countless offenders of the past 30 years. But until the last decade or so, audiophiles always had a safe haven that would arrive at their doorstep twice a month, a place where they could run from the new Journey single and scream for sanctuary.
Once a significant voice of a ravenously creative and political counterculture, Rolling Stone magazine basically decided what was cool each month for millions of thirsty music fans. And for the most part, their suggestions were spot-on. The publication was the epitome of hip, a mecca for music journalists and depraved rock junkies everywhere. Rolling Stone always seemed to get the most value out of each and every impressive feature the magazine landed. Bob Dylan. Joni Mitchell. Bob Marley. John Lennon. Janis Joplin. Marvin Gaye. Run DMC. Not to mention the mind-bending, controversial contributions of Hunter S. Thompson, whose cumulative works continue to generate passionate followers. Most importantly, the general feeling of the publication was that its readers were intelligent, open-minded Americans who would not stand for any kind of worthless pop culture drivel. Rolling Stone could seemingly do no wrong.
Fast forward to present day. Pop music is in positively dire straits. Limp Bizkit is selling millions. Britney Spears is making movies. Jennifer Love Hewitt has a goddamn album out. MTV is ruining our impressionable minds with pitiful, brain-numbing programming. Brilliant albums are sitting on the shelves. At this crucial time, subscribers to Rolling Stone have been greeted with covers such as these: Jennifer Aniston. Staind. Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. ‘N Sync. The Rock. The Girls Of American Pie. Britney has appeared on the cover four times, twice in 2001. Instead of crackling political commentary, readers were subjected to Jenny McCarthy gleefully squirting mustard on a hot dog. Somewhere in the ‘90s, for whatever reason, the once revered publication became an empty, miserable rag.
Pathetic exploitation of women became the norm for RS, the "Random Notes" section becoming nothing more than a glorified tabloid, perpetually chronicling the latest idiotic act committed by Kid Rock or Carmen Electra. By the time readers get to the still relevant socio-political pieces and album/film reviews, their intelligence has been insulted, their willingness to trust the magazine soured. Of course, the decision to treat the average RS reader like a drooling, sexist frat boy has been a rousing success, especially among drooling, sexist frat boys across the country (a scary thought: they make up a larger percentage of the population than you think). Rolling Stone is still ridiculously popular, but for reasons decidedly opposite those of the publication’s content and opinion-driven glory days. It originally became popular in the ways of The Nation and The Village Voice, but now Rolling Stone has taken the same road to success as Baywatch and Temptation Island. Instead of telling people what was hip, the magazine began following the crowds, particularly the ones who ruined Mardi Gras and made the Girls Gone Wild videos a huge success.
The past few years have spawned some amazing achievements, mostly ignored by the covers of RS. While devoting huge coverage to Creed and Dave Matthews, the magazine missed the boat on incredible efforts by Bjork, Cannibal Ox, Tom Waits, Ed Harcourt, Mos Def, Jill Scott, Wilco and Lucinda Williams. (Take a deep breath, America; don’t get too mad, because they did give us that huge feature on the cast of the WB television show Smallville, which I was just itching to read, even though I’d never even heard of the damn show.)
The question is, what the hell are the priorities of Rolling Stone today? Do the editors set out each week and plan on injecting the magazine with nothing but T&A and coverage of bad music and talentless movie stars? One of the most important publications out there for fans of music and youth culture has been run into the ground. Once on the side of art for art’s sake, Rolling Stone has become that which they fought so valiantly against: a whimpering product of corporate America. Those of us without car CD players who have to endure Puddle of Mudd, Nelly and Sugar Ray every day deserve a well-written apology from editor and publisher Jann S. Wenner. And while we’re at it Jann, could you please put a moratorium on those patently idiotic 10-page fashion spreads people have to dredge though once a month? Oh yeah, and nobody gives a shit about Sarah Michelle Gellar. Got it? Good. Toodles!
Appeared in Issue Five of Traffic East ©2002.