NOISE: How I Got Uncool

It's Rob Halford's fault. And Freddie Mercury's. In honor of VH1 Rock Honors, a rock 'n' roll self-portrait

By Skylaire Alfvegren

It's been more than 20 years since the mighty Priest was sued by the parents of two stoners in Reno whose suicide pact was allegedly prompted by subliminal messages in the song "Better By You, Better Than Me." There was a time when music with guitars and tight pants was demonized due to satanic overtures and blamed for youthful degeneracy.

In the interim, it has become my contention that music with guitars and tight pants has been responsible for far fewer aesthetic nightmares, far less crime and far more fabulosity than gangster rap, electronica and all those hyphenated art-school subgenres that have sprung up since to compete for the space between your ears.

It was the blackest day when Freddie Mercury announced that he was HIV-positive; he died the next day, November 24, 1991. No one in my ninth-grade class understood why I was so despondent. Aside from Rush (and the Ramones, gimme some credit), Queen had truly saved my young soul. In fact, Freddie had provided the template, at least in my head, for how to be.

At the time, friends would force me to listen to Nirvana; I was having none of it. Rap was rearing its ugly head, both musically and aesthetically. All in all, it was an ugly time.

There will always be flaccidity in popular music; but there will always be power chords to do battle against it. I've never been cool, and frankly, I couldn't care less. I have been teased mercilessly about my taste in music, but, hey, I got the Priest boxed set for Christmas. (And if any readers care to further my education, donations, gladly accepted, can be sent in care of the Weekly.) I will be curled up in the lap of the gods come Thursday. Thankfully, kids today have begun growing their greasy hair long, and I take this as a sign that, yes, it is safe once again to raise your fist and say, "For those about to rock, we salute you."

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