A person can, indeed, be too old to rock.
In 80s leotards and day-glo paint buzzing in the black light, three middle-aged women strut onto stage to the buzzing pulse of synth rock beats. From the beginning, everything promises mayhem. One of the 'Chicks' fingers a few keyboard keys and swivels a dial. The crowd surges, eager for noise; for distortion; for something destructive.
They are all disappointed.
In the late 90s, Chicks on Speed spat in the face of grunge, post-punk, and anything else that tried to define itself as the new 'rock.' With a distinct middle finger erected toward radio, these three junked out performers did not so much as produce melodies as they did destroy them. In the days of chickie crooners The Cranberries and Hole, when Chicks on Speed screamed, hard-lunged, "we don't play guitars" over dirty, ripped-off computer riffs they meant to say, "we don't have to do this the way you think we should. Up yours." But, of course, in those days they were out of their heads.
The new, sober Chicks stand before me like models of soccer moms or third-grade teachers. Their bones are brittle; their muscles stiff. Instead of freaky gyrations about warm leather, they appear concerned about the moral future of college students. Their latest set includes songs with refrains "Fashion! It's very hard!" and "My Space, your space; whose space is it?" (an obvious attack on the 'theft' incurred via downloading music. And let's face it, if you're not FOR downloading music, your either a dinosaur or a goddamn cop so get with the programme). These hackneyed ballads to hippie happiness turn previous rebellions to jell-o. Some dykes need to ease up on politics and just get on with it. Seriously, we get the point. Girl-power is all good, but for shit's sake chill on the leso porn. In the new millenium, it appears Chicks on Speed are losing their identity while trying to compete with Peaches.
Even their early songs did little to entice the eager 20-something crowd--most stood breath-heavy and sweaty, waiting for something to dance to. One could backstep from the stage, past the sound engineer struggling to stay awake, to the back and on to the outside to get a better show. A regular night on Wellington's Cuba street--punks, bums, and gangs--played to the audience on Indigo's balcony. Only the fading pulse of a desperate attempt to stay current filtered through the glass doors. Tired, but mostly bored, the crowd smoked cigarettes and downed VBs. There was inspiration somewhere, and they'd wait for it.
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