Bradford Cox rocks in a weird, dreamy way
Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that rock music is in a bad way.
That is to say, rock music can hardly be considered a viable commodity anymore, much less one that can attract the screaming teenage legions of decades past. The old dinosaurs present for rock’s initial blast have aged into oblivion, now no more than wrinkled faces above their sleek guitars; the womanizing misogynists of ’80s cock rock glory just can’t muster the hair to match the act anymore; and Kurt Cobain arguably ended rock’n’roll iconoclasm in 1994 with a pair of self-inflicted shots —...
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