There was a time when music was raw, unpredictable, and even a little dangerous. Now, it seems, everything’s about flawless choreography and constant kindness to the crowd. When did music become all smiles and sugarcoated perfection? Thankfully, rock has never fully embraced that mindset — and hopefully never will. Could you imagine? How boring would that be?
Of course, we’re all familiar with the arena rock pleasers these days, who, dressed up like pop icons, seem hardly different from the most polished R&B or pop artists. But let me tell you: rock is alive and well. The best example? The Brian Jonestown Massacre, led by the ever-iconoclastic Anton Newcombe, in Amsterdam just a few days ago.
Picture this: Anton walks on stage with his band, guitars in hand, but rather than launching into a hit, they take long, rambling pauses between songs. Anton plays guitar with his back to the crowd, grumbles at the sound engineers about his voice levels, shouting, “Let us play!” (One of the engineers — a woman — I’m pretty sure is a long-time roadie from the band. I recognized her from a show they did eight years ago in Paris. So is the anger a bit overplayed?)
As the pauses stretched longer, the crowd began to lose patience. All started loudly booing. And what did Anton do? He didn’t flinch, he gave the crowd the (virtual) finger. It was raw, unfiltered, rock & roll at its finest. Then, as if nothing had happened, the band launched back into their music, sublime and sprawling.
Between songs, Anton complained about his “shitty gin and tonic” to whoever would listen. Eventually, someone from his team handed him a replacement — but not before he had a fan in the front row taste the original to confirm it was, indeed, undrinkable. These little moments — chaotic, unfiltered, and slightly absurd — are exactly what remind us that rock isn’t about curated image. It’s about the unpredictable, the human, and yes, sometimes the rude.
The night ended with a long round of applause. One by one, the band members were congratulated by the crowd. And as we stepped outside the venue, there was Anton, standing with a few bandmates. One brave soul shyly asked if he could take a picture of him. The rest? They passed by, clearly intimidated or just respectfully silent.
It reminded me of the legendary Jesus & Mary Chain concerts back in the ’80s, when things would often end with the venue in ruins and the crowd infuriated. I’m not saying we need to return to that level of chaos, but it was refreshing to experience a concert that wasn’t afraid to be messy, imperfect, and real.
Rock is not dead.
