January 03, 2005

SHOT THROUGH THE HEART

I traipsed through the discount mondo warehouse big metal barn shrine to conspicuous consumption the other day and saw this cover on a box set of CDs. I was stunned at the temerity of this attempt to not only rip off a classic Elvis album cover concept, but to infer that John - er, Jon - Bon Jovi and his band of blow-dried hacks were somehow worthy of even putting on a gold suit that looked remotely like The King.

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Reminds me of the Denis Leary line: "How is it that Stevie Ray Vaughan is dead and we can't get Jon Bon Jovi into a helicopter?"

Allow me a direct appeal here for a moment...

Dear Mr. Tico Torres,

You're the drummer. You're the Paulie Walnuts of the band. You have a life outside the group as a painter. You're cool. You married and then dumped a supermodel. Even at 104 years old, you still have street cred. The crow's feet around your eyes are so deep, they look like they were made by pteradactyls hopped up on Draino and Ketel One.

You're not like Ritchie Sambora, who has to be told by his far-more-butch wife Heather Locklear that his Rachel cut went out of style four years before Friends went off the air. You're the soul of this soulless bunch. You're the anchor, the bedrock, the gravity in their helium-filled musical galaxy.

Please, Tico. I beg. Tell me you had to be paid extra to stand around in a photo studio while wearing the gold lame'. Tell me that it pained you and that you were only doing it to be part of the band. Tell me it made you bleed from the eyes just to gaze upon those golden sleeves. Tell me Amazonian tribesman stood just off camera with poison darts, waiting for a signal to blow one into your jugular, lest you take it off before the shoot was complete. Tell me they threatened you with blackmail that included video of you with midgets, Vaseline and Andy Dick. Tell me they attempted to cauterize your sack to the inside of your leg. Tell me you were just doing it for a blog.

Anything. Tell me anything. Just don't tell me you willingly went along with this. I've gotta believe in something real, man. Drummers are real. Aren't they? They're the 2 and the 4, the alpha and the omega, the Count Chocula to the rest of the world's Frankenberry. Don't take this one away. Don't crush my world. Please, for the love of all things holy and sacred, make me believe that there is something holy and unsoiled by commercial lust.

Eagerly Awaiting Your Reply,

Jeff

p.s. Chris Gaines called from 1999. He wants his soul patch back.

Posted by Jeff at January 3, 2005 01:53 AM | TrackBack
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