I Didn’t Want To Know Slash’s Shoe Size Anyway
Today is April 16th, 2012, and we are now living in a world where Guns n’ Roses is a museum exhibit. It was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s their fault for living beyond forty. Can you believe every single member of Guns n’ Roses is still alive? None of them died! Three Ramones are dead, and they drank Yoo-Hoo. Axl Rose ate large blocks of cocaine like coffee cake in the late eighties and somehow he sashayed his way into the Ed Hardy era. Of course, Axl and the rest of Guns have been culturally condemned for a while now: The only question anyone’s had for anybody on that totem pole since the release of Chinese Democracy has been, “Hey, when’s the real Guns n’ Roses getting back together?”
It must really sting now that the Guns are officially enshrined in the Cleveland Temple of Doom. I say that because drummer Matt Sorum announced shortly after
his carbonite freezing process the induction ceremony that he’ll no longer be “commenting” on his former band in interviews or on Twitter or down at the tattoo parlor (or anywhere else, ever, I guess). Okay, Matt, but that doesn’t leave a whole lot to discuss.
I’ll admit I could read a healthy magazine article about that Neurotic Outsiders record you made with Steve Jones, and sure, maybe I have some questions about Y Kant Tori Read, but where do we go after that? I’d be lying if I said I gave a tinker’s damn about your performance on the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers theme song. I have even less interest in your bandana collection.
It’s a hard pill to swallow, Matt, I know, but look at Axl. He did the most logical thing he could after he fired all of you: He assembled a rag tag crew of MVP musicians to constitute the “new” Guns n’ Roses, and the world still sniffed with massive, crushing indifference. The whole thing came across like those final seasons of “Happy Days” where they had Ted McGinley and Crystal Bernard. It’s not that Ted McGinley and Crystal Bernard aren’t great, it’s just that we grew up with Ron Fucking Howard, and goddammit, that’s who we wanna see getting the business from Potsie and Mr. C. Yes, I am equating Tommy Stinson with the chick form “Wings,” and neither one of them should have any issue with that.
But I digress. Let me know how that whole “not commenting” on GNR thing goes after you’ve been stuck at the Kansas City Airport for thirteen hours amongst a gaggle of weary travelers who don’t follow your Twitter. If you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life fielding questions about a potential reunion with Axl or Slash’s shoe size or the cymbal hiss on “Don’t Cry,” maybe you should have just stayed in the Cult.
The Beastie Boys and the Red Hot Chili Peppers also went into the Rock Hall over the weekend, which means the nineties might be over, the eighties are definitely over, and those socks the Chili Peppers wore on their genitals are probably being delicately handled by a RNRHOF intern as I type this. Make sure the decades-old sweat stains are visible in that display case, Mortimer! That’s what the people are paying to see!