Filler

The Day the Music Died

Rock and Roll officially died on January 28, 2001. Killers were described as five whiny boys and a singing leaf blower with blonde hair, in the vicinity of the Super Bowl halftime show. Suspects should be considered armed and extremely annoying.

By Jeremy Jones

Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm afraid it is my unpleasant duty to announce the death of rock and roll. After it's last appearance at the recent super bowl half-time show, the last spark of life from a form of music that accompanied three generations for over forty years, officially went out. We are now left only with gangster wannabes swearing to a steady beat, and men in makeup screaming like tortured monkeys.

Growing up, I listened to the greatest artists of rock and roll. The Rolling Stones, Areosmith, The Eagles, and the other classic rock artists. It was the last shining hope that rock and roll, though on life support, would pull though the 90's and come out alive and well sometime in the future. I didn't watch the halftime show, I never have. During the Super bowl, halftime is the time to get more supplies, so I was not present at this crime against humanity. I didn't witness the horrible sacrilege until the walking hormone I refer to as my roommate walked in, turned on the TV and announce his intent to watch Britney Spears. I turned and glanced at the television to see what was happening, and I saw the band I had known since elementary school. I was at first pleasantly surprised to see Areosmith getting ready to perform. Then I witnessed the most horrible blow to rock and roll since the BG's.

N-sync was chased on stage by a hoard of lustful women. I was hoping they would be chased off by angry gun-totting men, but no such luck. Then the all too familiar tune of Bye Bye Bye starts burning in my ears. Then after the fowl tequila of N-Sync, comes the refreshing lime wedge of Areosmith's "I don't wanna miss a thing" After another song by the pathetic boy band. Now comes one of my favorite songs by Areosmith that is being ruined as N-sync joins in. The sound of this wonderful song sung by the whiny voices of N-Snyc forces my brain into a conflict. Files on my computer start crashing, and finally the whole system crashes. My computer does not want to live any longer. Briney climbs on stage, some other pathetic people join in. My brain was franticly looking for some sharp object for which to end my suffering. The song ends, my soul collapses, my roommates words of comfort, "Wow, that Britney Spears is soooo hot! Oh my God, she is f@$%iní fine!" I go to my CD's to play Don McLean's American Pie. There was booze and I passed out in mourning.

Let me just say first that N-Sync, Britney Spears, and what ever idiot they shamelessly paraded upon that God-forsaken stage is not worthy to roll in the feces of Areosmith. They are not worthy to lick the dog crap off their boots. They are not talented enough to act as Areosmith's personal beer bottle target, let alone tread upon the same stage as them. Yet in a shameless crime against nature, everything that had been created it forty years was destroyed. Elvis has got to be oscillating in his grave. I don't blame Areosmith, they had to be enticed by a check so large as to make Bill Gates drool. This was the work of MTV on it's quest to destroy American culture.

Almost as horrific as the damage it did to music, is the damage it did to American football. Some Femminazis are not going to like this, but I still consider football a primarily masculine pastime. It was the sport where men gathered, stripped half naked, painted their body in team colors, and consumed their weight in beer. Not a pretty picture, but a necessary part of American culture. So why did someone decide to parade N-Sync, a group more effeminate than the Rocketts, on the stage to perform at the biggest testosterone festival of the year? Because someone would piss on the constitution of the United States if they thought they could make a buck out of the deal.

Now I can no longer listen to Areosmith, the songs now serve as a constant reminder. I don't think I can ever watch the Super bowl ever again as it served as the medium for this sacrilege. Never had so much been taken away from me as a result of one act. So I call to arms every other cynical, embittered, meat-eating, angry, male who saw so much go up in flames on that terrible day. I ask all of you to observe January 28 of every year from here on out as a day of mourning. The official tradition of January 28: booze, rock and roll favorites, more booze, Don McLean's American Pie, still more booze, and finish the day by passing out by about 6:00 PM. The next morning we all wake up and take a beer laden leak on some form of N-sync paraphernalia, and continue with our lives. There is some hope for us, however. Thirty years from now when Britney Spears weighs 500 lbs. and is married to some beer swilling wife beater, and N-sync are all in rehab, and every other enemy of rock and roll is broke and performing at birthday parties, we can sit back in our recliners, grab a beer, turn on the Rolling Stones, and laugh our asses off.

Jeremy Jones, a freshman majoring in Journalism, is a staff writer for the Oregon Commentator