Mary Lucia: musings on bad behavior in rock 'n' roll
by Mary Lucia
August 24, 2016
Bad behavior. In rock 'n' roll, that is mighty subjective.
Often times it's rewarded, expected and glorified, and it helps build a mystique that guarantees the stories will be told for years to come. We've all heard about drug-fueled debauchery on private jets and struggling bands grinding it out on tour, trying desperately to keep from losing their minds.
With that in mind, here's a little game I like to play: Take a well-known tale of excess and stupid backstage/onstage behavior, and apply it to another musician.
For example, Alice Cooper's infamous show when someone in the shirtless audience threw a live chicken onstage. Cooper whipped it back into the crowd thinking it would fly. Not so much, Vincent. "Fore!" Imagine Morrissey doing that during "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want."
While we're still in avian territory, how about Joan "Blizzard of Oz" Osbourne biting the head off a dove. What if God was one of us?
Thankfully, animals don't need to be sacrificed to add to a band's legend. What about harmless old-school antics: throwing TV sets out of hotel windows, casual Satanic worshipping and showing up two hours late for show time?
Canadians have a reputation as being laid-back reasonable folk. But for all we know, Feist has her breaking point, too. Fed up with government funding of the arts, a low crime rate and accessible healthcare, Leslie might very well have it in her to relieve herself in an ice bucket and send it down to the hotel lobby in the elevator. "One, two, three, four, tell me that you love me more."
Does Ray LaMontagne have a little G.G Allin in him? After an accidental ingestion of gluten-filled backstage snacks, might Ray, during the more soulful part of "Hold You In My Arms," drop trou and shove a Shure mic … never mind.
Has Justin Vernon considered snorting the remains of his father? Give it some thought, Bon.
Does Lucius practice Black Mass rituals in between maintenance of their outstanding matching coifs and stage garb?
When are Cold War Kids going to light their pants on fire in the van?
Will Colin Meloy carve Anton LaVey's name into his stomach with a rusty guitar string while performing on NPR's Tiny Desk Concert?
How long before Adele drives a Prius into a swimming pool because the beast master told her to?
Will either Avett Brother smear Skippy onto his bare chest while walking on the hands of the crowd at Red Rocks?
Flash to The Cactus Blossoms' live TV appearance on Ellen, where we find them planting pyrotechnics in the kick drum, causing some hilarious permanent hearing loss.
There will never be another Jello Biafra, so Vampire Weekend don't need to worry about releasing their inner Frankenchrist.
You get it, this has gone far beyond interesting or clever. It's just a little view into my head and what keeps me up at night.