Carry The News, Bugaloo Dudes

I recently watched a documentary called Kill Your Idols, a horribly misguided overview of the early No Wave scene and bands of the early aughts who were influenced by that pioneering scene of yore. In the doc (which I do not at all recommend – it made everyone involved look like petty shits), Swans mastermind Michael Gira talked about “how things changed” for underground music when the record companies and the ad agencies figured out how to sell our culture back to us. That idea is nothing new, and some argue that the age of consumerism that began after World War II is really when art, and by extension its creators, became focused on the most shallow aesthetic representations of the world.

Art critic Jonathon Jones wrote about how the capitalist boom after the war led to the golden age of consumerism, and that the aesthetic lean towards only the sheen of products created an environment where “emotional depth in art was censured.” Our notion of a “rock star” is steeped in this aesthetic vision, a glimmering specter of capitalism and excess, sweating out genius and oozing sexuality, a living parade. Our notion of what a “rock star” is has left in its wake decades of screaming fans who yearn and pine to touch something that they think is above them, out of reach, existing in a mythical cloud of sheer greatness.

At this point in the commercialization of our culture, we can deservedly turn a skeptical eye towards this myth of the “rock star”. The idea of the rock star has been deflated and made base by the legion of sad old has-beens that dot the tabloids and read like footnotes to their former glories, whispering their passing as glancing gestures in tweets that announce their deaths. We’ve seen the rise and fall of too many hot messes who flicker with vitality early in their exposure to the bright lights of fame only to burn out in desperate gropes towards relevancy as they march towards the inevitable. Though the myth is perpetuated in the cultural bizarro-world of reality TV and Ford commercials featuring Keith Urban, the whole trick looks less like something that kids would aspire to and more like a corpse propped up and made to look animated. Weekend at Bernie’s starring Steven Tyler.

Of course, the image of the rock star has carried over into the visage of preening pop princesses, coiffured teen dolls and rap bling. We are not at all through with our fascination with the material world, and there are Biebers to come that we’ll all have to weather, to be certain.

But hey, we can celebrate the crumbling of the facade and ride the melt this week by basking in the glow of glam rock, a sliver of Ye Olde Rock Kingdom that was populated with the most fiercely sensual of the rock stars, those glittery angels that writhed in the camera lenses and shucked along the avenues of opiate reveries in platform boots and alien sex metaphors.

Mott the Hoople – The Golden Age of Rock n Roll

Mott the Hoople are best known for their Bowie-penned glam anthem “All The Young Dudes“, which made the band early stars of the glam rock scene. Although they had put out several albums prior to Bowie giving them their break, their earlier work bore more in common with The Band than it did with the androgynous sex-shuffles of T. Rex or Bowie. And despite the fact that they became the brief kings of the glam scene, they could not maintain the momentum that Bowie gave them. Their recorded output didn’t seem to match the intensity of their live shows (which were quite the spectacle), and they were plagued with a constantly shifting lineup.

Mott The Hoople – Roll Away The Stone

Regardless, their 1972 album All The Young Dudes, which was produced by Bowie and bears both the weight and the brilliance of his touch, is a fantastic listen. Their version of The Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Jane” is a faithful rendition that comes into its own in its second half, made new and interesting by Mick Ralphs‘ guitar work and vocalist Ian Hunter’s not-quite-Lou-Reed delivery (which seems sweetly sensual here rather than sardonic).

Keen ears might also pick up on the Bad Company song that appears towards the end of the album.  ”Ready For Love” has been murdered on the radio, but its origins are better represented here, where it plays a little more subtle than its better known counterpart (the song was written by Mott guitarist Mick Ralphs, who took the song with him when he formed Bad Company).

Elsewhere on the record, Ian Hunter’s swagger and bravado play well alongside Ralphs’ licks and the usual brash cries of a glam horn section. They may not leave the lingering taste of dirty fun like a T. Rex record or the oblique halcyon fantasy vibe of a Bowie record, but Mott the Hoople’s entrance into the world of glam is offered below as an example of shallow love laid bare for your enjoyment.

What’s that saying – hate the sin, love the sinner? Hate the game, not the player? Rock and roll is dead. Rock stars are bullshit. I wonder where I could get some green trousers like that?

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Mott The Hoople – All The Young Dudes (1972)
1. Sweet Jane
2. Momma’s Little Jewel
3. All The Young Dudes
4. Sucker
5. Jerkin’ Crocus
6. One Of The Boys
7. Soft Ground
8. Ready For Love – After Lights
9. Sea Diver