Power of rock 'n' roll fuels search for heart of gold

Published: Thursday, February 9, 1995

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.