Macchars don’t wear sweaters


Posted on: February 17, 2007


Sweat poured down his wiry naked upper body as he paced purposefully up and down the stage. He stopped every now and then to approach the crowd, place his foot on the speaker, and unleash a few shrill wails from his sleek electric guitar. His long sweat knotted tresses tumbled down his face, half hiding his kajal lined eyes and thin mouth, pursed in an expression of complacency, precariously balancing a matchstick at the edge of his lips. He held his guitar close to his body, spread his legs, and grinded his hips in rythm with the music, the sexuality of his movements more than obvious.

He could see that the crowd was getting more and more frenzied as his fingers travelled further and further down the fretboard, weaving a musical logic whose pitch rose higher and higher, building up an excruciating musical tension, creating a feeling of an ever increasing taughtness – of a rubberband being stretched to its maximum, then suddenly with a riff which in a moment of inspiration leapt from the shrillest moan to the deepest bass, he released the tension, and he could feel a corresponding heave going through his entire audience. He knew he had his audience completely under his spell, they were puppets whose strings were the strings of his guitar, and playing with thier emotions merely meant weaving his fingers around his fretboard. He felt powerful, potent, like he were thier master, thier god.

Rock is the ultimate cult of self celebration. Modesty and self effacation lie in another dimension. Rock is narccissim, rock is extreme masculinity, rock is unbridled vanity, rock is unhindered sexuality, rock is a complete submission to the Ego, rock is a relentless pursuit of glory.

2 Responses to "Rock"

Jo bhi likha hai achcha hi hoga

keep it up dude

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