Ten Years of Stylus Magazine

Success Will Write Apocalypse Across the Sky

DICK CLARK’S swollen marbly-warbly tongue-wag, that-was-then-this-is-now shtick comes ripping. Stage right: Ryan Seacrest pulling upskirt cam on some faux blonde, neo-kuntry chanteuse whose life’s quasi-ambition involves lots of things punctuated by, “awesome.” Ball begins to drop. Clark says something. Sounds like, “Ehung yonv earse mhusicks searseo onze decksades…,” but is really a cute segue to the beginning of the end.

The Year 2000. Dokken and L.A. Guns release live recs. Radiohead’s Kid A causes northeastern comp lit majors to start reading No Logo as non-fiction. Sonic Youth and Pearl Jam are still putting out records even though their groupies aren’t putting out. Faith Hill shows up on MTV dolled up as a dominatrix; Britney in red latex; Eminem and ’NSync and Santana playing Zonk, which provokes an epic dick-off sans ruler. Best album title of the year: Limp Bizkit’s Chocolate Starfish and the Hotdog Flavored Water. Best single: Eminem (feat. Dido), “Stan,” ‘cause I’ve seen at least 33 teens-to-twenty-somethings dew the dancing pole to that ditty. Hottest coose in music at the time: Aforementioned Faith Hill as dominatrix (can’t remember what vid that was in). Notable deaths: DJ Skrew, Benny Orr, Big Pun, Pee Wee King, Dennis Danell, and Screamin’ Jay Motherfuckin’ Hawkins. Best record of 2000: Lil’ Bow Wow’s Beware of Dog, motherfucker. Worst was Limp Bizkit’s aforementioned Chocolate Starfish and the Hotdog Flavored Water. U2 contiues to persist with the charade they can offer something better than The Unforgettable Fire. They can’t.

Guns N’ Roses launches a comeback to launch the New Year, 2001. Wannabe coke-whores mix with basement losers: it looks like a Billy Joel concert, for fuck’s sake. Roxy Music reforms. Stephen Malkmus continues to look “too UVA” and make records no one but class-conscious enthusiasts could make out to. What else rhymes with “discourse networks”? Bunch of Iraqis financed by the Bush Administration build passenger plane simulacra and crash into the twin cocks of capitalism. English-speaking world declares fatwa on reason. A direct fucking result: Atlanta’s Mastodon begins to arrange King Crimson, post-Gabriel Genesis, ELP riffs into “Killer tunes, brah.” A band named Isis releases a record called, SGN>05, which is binary code for, “Years from now you’ll be loved by kids who own all the complete seasons of Scrubs on DVD and consider phone sex an ‘edgy activity.’” L.A. Guns release another record. Victoria Beckham no longer mistaken for Alyssa Milano because she’s a coke-whore wannabe. Sticking with the timeline, she unleashes a self-titled recording. When the title track is played backwards, it says, “Ruuuuusty Piiiiiipes.” Tied for best single of 2001: Missy Elliot’s “Get Ur Freak On,” and the remix of Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue” —both coming to a Steve Madden Shoes location near you. Anthrax, Obituary, Prince, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, and a bunch of other has-beens release “Greatest Hits” programs. Xenakis dies. Jawn fuckin’ Fahey dies. John Lee Hooker, John Hartman, and Joe Henderson die. 2001 was a bad year for dudes with “J” names. Fucking Chuck Schulinder dies. It’s too bad that Jason Newsted didn’t die. Instead he leaves Metallica, which he ruined, for Voivod, which he also ruined. Janet Jackson, Miss Jackson if yr nasty, strikes a “Farrah” pose for All For You. Alternate cover-art revisits the 1993 Rolling Stone cover of her cupped tits I musta jacked off to a thousand times. The Monkees persist with playing stadiums to seniors toting oxygen tanks. U2 also continued to persist with the charade they could offer something better than The Unforgettable Fire. They couldn’t.

2002: Wilco tricks David Fricke into believing they are the Beatles instead of Godley & Creme. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot gives birth to Pitchfork Media. Suddenly all artistic creations are seen as whole numbers, or decimals, or lines that may or may not form whole numbers or decimals. Fucking Nazareth release a live album! Yes! I buy it at Wal-Mart and crash my car while air-guitaring. Dokken is still putting out records. Tom Waits still thinks he’s in blackface. My favorite dwarf, Ronnie James Dio (Alignment: Chaotic, Evil), puts out Killing the Dragon. I buy it, listen to it three times, throw it away. Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots is released by the Flaming Lips, even though its companion-piece film of the same name written by Charlie Kaufmann isn’t released until 2011. Starring Jessica Simpson, Scarlett Johansson, and the guy that played T.C. on Magnum P.I. it is (roughly) about two shallow women courting the guy that played T.C. and an ancient theologian’s proof for the existence of God, commonly referred to in academia as the “Self-Thinking Thought Defense.” Yes releases the best-titled record of 2002: In a Word: Yes. A band named Isis releases a record titled Oceanic, which is Hindi prophesy for, “We shall be sponsored by Ocean Pacific in 2011.” I go see the Rolling Stones for the fifth time and swear, “I am never going to pay this much fucking money to see the Rolling Stones again.” LeAnn Rimes is hot. I had a baby sitter who thought Yngwie Malmsteen was hot. David Fricke was never hot. Sonic Youth releases Murray Street, which sounds like Mountain covering Uriah Heep covering Traffic. Godspeed You Black Emperor releases Yanqui U.X.O., which sounds like Sigur Ros covering Yes’ Tales from Topographic Oceans, only worse. Peggy Lee dies. Joe Strummer, Jam Master Jay, John “The Ox” Entwistle, Earle Brown, Dee Dee Ramone, and Layne Staley die. Fuckin’ Dudley Moore and Waylon Jennings die. “If that’s all there is, my friends, then let’s keep dahn-cing. Let’s breakout the boooooze an have ah ball.” Best song title of 2002: “Cum-cum Mania,” by Félicien. Best song of 2002, “My Neck, My Back,” Khia. Worst song of 2002: Anything by Shakira or Oasis or Blink-182. Worst records of 2002: Nelly’s Nellyville, Linkin Park’s Hybridville, Pink’s Missundaztoodville. Best record of 2002: Something Tobias C. Van Veen wrote about…

All anyone can remember about 2003 is Phil Spector’s hair. Johnny Cash came down with pneumonia, went into hospital, died months later. Every kid who’d never listened to country music before is suddenly donning the Cash “bird” tee and drinking Pabst. Avril Lavigne is one of them. In a last-ditch effort to save her already flatlined career, Madge flicks tongues with Britney and Christina and gives everyone over the age of 30 a limper dick than they had already. Jessica Simpson is still stupid. Bruce Springsteen and Eddie Vedder and Jeff Tweedy get political. All of their Republican fans wonder why three men making tons of money off people living comfortably are uncomfortable. Radiohead, who don’t even live in the U.S., releases a record about living in the U.S. and electing a president not fit to be president. Everyone under 25 not only buys the record, but also buys Thom Yorke’s politics. According to a graphic artist friend of mine, Hail to the Thief’s cover-art is not shit, but an example of “lettrism.” As with all other –isms, I call bullshit and move on. Pantera, the Bee Gees, and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones broke up. Mickey Finn died. Warren Zevon died. Thirty-four year-old Elliot Smith stabbed himself in the heart and died. Pat Benatar, however, is still alive. Alice Cooper released a record. Motörhead and Monstrosity and Metallica released records. Metallica’s St. Anger sounds less angry than anything Avril Lavigne has released to date. Chan Marshall isn’t so Joy Division anymore. Instead she’s playing with Dave Grohl and Eddie Vedder and making songs that only serve to anger her Republican fan-base. Stryper goes on a reunion tour. Skinny Puppy goes on a reunion tour. Liz Phair spreads her legs for her fourth solo record, but Capitol fit a Fender between them. Best record title of 2003: Cracker’s O Cracker, Where Art Thou? Best song of 2003: 50 Cent’s “In Da Club (explicit).”

Britney Spears marries the first guy she gave a handjob, viz. Jason Allen Alexander, tuggin’ 2004 on off. Marriage annulled 48 hours later. Billy Corgan attempts to out-drama Spears, goes Internet on the other two drips in Smashing Pumpkins. Brian Wilson comes back to planet Earth long enough to realize finishing Smile would mean he could buy more dragon’s breath. Wilson completes aforementioned album after its gathered 37 years of fairy dust. All the 50- and 60-somethings who regularly juice, still wear crystals and copper bracelets and body paint are overjoyed. Mötley Crüe and Megadeth reform. Aerosmith releases its trillionth, imaginatively titled record: Honkin’ on Bobo. Dimebag Darrell is murdered. All blogs shut down for four minutes, 20 seconds. Bathory mastermind Quorthon dies at 38. I am genuinely saddened and then brought to tears of laughter by all the, “See ya in Valhalla, bro,” posts all over fucking Internet BBS. Creed splits up. Orbital splits up. Phish splits up. Windir splits up after vocalist Valfar freezes to death on the way to his mountain cabin. Davendra Banhart releases Rejoicing in the Hands, a concept record about the first guy he gave a handjob. Bjork, whom I’d like to give a handjob, puts out a record of beat-boxing. R.E.M. continues to believe they are relevant. Lots of 30- and 40-somethings empower their delusion by purchasing their terrible records. Wolfmother shows every American teen all they need to do is grow their hair out and play Big Country songs through a Big Muff to make money. A band named, “Grizzly Bear,” shits in the woods. ODB dies. John Balance dies. Johnny Fuckin’ Ramone dies. Laura Branigan, Jerry Goldsmith, Illinois Jacquet, Ray Charles, and John Peel all die. Best song of 2004: Anything off Fennesz’ Venice. Best record of 2004: Animal Collective’s Sung Tongs. Really.

It’s ’05 and copyright clock rocks out on Big Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock.” Crowded House drummer found dead. Alice in Chains bass player collared for property destruction and theft. Nine Inch Nails puts out another miserable record, With Teeth, promptly gummed by music media. Pink Floyd surviving members agree to pay-per-view snuff re: Roger Waters. Michael “Jacko” Jackson: Not guilty, child molestation. Motörhead have been making records for 30 years. Lemmy is 330 years old. Billy Corgan forgets that business re: Internet drama, trashes the rubber sheets, puts a record out. Only Rolling Stone notices. Lil’ Kim releases The Naked Truth, which is neither. Dylan Carlson comes out of his Coca-Cola coma and records Hex; fuckin’ great record that people with no musical knowledge liken to “Chicago avant-garde.” I persist with reoccurring dream involving Lil’ Kim, Mariah Carey, Coca-Cola flavored dildo, rubber sheets. Regardless, Luc Ferrari dies. David Wayne dies. Piggy dies. Nilsson, Derek Bailey, Nasrat Parsa, Hasil Adkins, and Percy Heath all die. Best record of 2005: Tossup between High on Fire’s Blessed Black Wings; Stockhausen’s Freude. Really.

Mariah Carey wins a bunch of Grammys in ’06 but doesn’t mention the Coca-Cola flavored dildo in any of her ramblin’ man acceptance speeches. Billy Corgan reassembles his punkins. Beyonce Knowles is the reason I can no longer sleep. Andy Taylor is the reason Elton John can no longer sleep. Justin Timberlake doesn’t sleep cuz he gets more ass than a toilet seat. Bow Wow Wow goes on “hiatus.” Alice in Chains reforms. So does Genesis. With Phil “No Jacket Required” Collins. Eric Burdon releases a record. Ace Frehley releases a record. Cat Power releases The Greatest, which isn’t. Wilson Pickett dies. Lou Rawls dies. Desmond Dekker, Gyorgy Ligeti, Syd Barrett all die. Jon Nödtveidt commits suicide; Dissection breaks up. Mastodon convince kids guitars and pompadour mix. Mainstream rock media enforces said notion with no protest. Rolling Stones play for free in Rio while people actually pay to see My Chemical Romance perform. Every private school student body in America converges on Manchester, Tennessee, for Bonnaroo. It is the single largest collection of dope-smoking, Patagonia-wearing Republicans outside of a Phish show. Sufjan Stevens cries blood. Midnight Oil are still around. Yanni, who’s also still around, is on far too much powerful pharmacology to ever shed tears. Best record of ’06: Iron Maiden’s Matter of Life & Death.

It may be 2007, but Billy Corgan, ass firmly fitted with said Coca-Cola dildo, pulls the sheet from world-awaited reunion of punkins. Again. Tenacious D amuse slow adolescents in even slower “red states.” My Chemical Romance are still around. Radiohead get with “the times” and sell a record for “what you think it’s worth,” even if I thought it was worthless. Said plan refuses to backfire. Makes band of Brits even larger than Nell Carter’s colon. Zeppelin play one-off to an audience of seniors all strangely resembling Yanni. Too much powerful pharmacology results in endlessly positive show reviews. Shakira infiltrates dorm rooms of “primitive culture majors” and nocturnal emissions of slow adolescents in even slower “red states.” Beyonce and Shakira must perform a one-off on each other in Coca-Cola syrup while on powerful pharmacology. Artillery reforms. Carcass reforms. The Eagles reform. No shit. Dio joins Sabbath. They change the name so as not to offend the lot of lawyers that attended the Zeppelin one-off. Lee Hazelwood dies. Max Roach dies. Stockhausen dies. Kevin “That’s tea, not Jack Daniels” DuBrow dies. A band named Rotting Christ releases a record Theogonia. Watain are living proof Nödtveidt ain’t dead. Manowar, thank Christ, are still around. No good records, singles, jingles, downloads, or streams to be found; Jennifer Lopez persisting with “notion” of recording career serves mastodonic QED. As does an REM live record.

Avril Lavigne does hyperbole, declares Canadia jaunt, “Best Damn Tour,” to begin 2008. Rage Against the Machine still political even if their fans aren’t. Lil Wayne still alive. My Bloody Valentine proves they are still alive, play reunion show. Michael Jackson is 50 years old. Jessica Simpson releases Do You Know, even though she’s never certifiably known anything. Beyonce flirts with alter-ego Sasha Fierce. I Google and find Sasha Grey. Guns N’ Roses release single from Chinese Democracy, “To Roger Mexico (With Lurve).” Lady GaGa gives music writers even more reasons to write about Matthew Barney. Amebix and Carcass reform. Polvo reforms. Blur and Blind Faith reform. Quiet Riot calls it quits. Toto calls it quits. Foo Fighters, Social Distortion, and Chili Peppers take a break. AC/DC releases Black Ice, which sounds like every other AC/DC record since Fly on the Wall, but nowhere near as great as Flick of the Switch. Metallica releases Death Magnetic, which sounds like every other Metallica record since the Black Album, but nowhere near as great as what Mastodon aspires to be. Worst record of 2008: Anything mentioned in I Love Music’s “Rolling ‘Metal’ Thread.” Best single of 2008: Anything John Mayer wasn’t involved in. Best record of 2008: Manilla Road’s Voyager.

American imagination becomes so impoverished by 2009; Kelly Clarkson is encouraged to record song entitled “My Life Would Suck Without You.” Madonna, convinced slow adolescents in even slower “red states” still find her fuckable, trots her granny box out for “Sticky & Sweet” tour, which is neither. Roughly 280,000 people download Clarkson’s “MLWSWY” in its first week of release; same number of times Madonna has contacted urinary tract infection. “People” think Britney’s “hott” again. (Thankfully for TMZ) Chris Brown starts beating the holy fuck out of girlfriend Rihanna. Lil Wayne reminds me that I never did enough hallucinogenic drugs and must listen to the collected works of Morris Day & The Time more. Mostly thanks to dope-smoking, Patagonia-wearing Republicans, Mastodon’s still recording records and making money from ‘em. I see Judas Priest. I see Destruction, Monstrosity, and Pollution. I see Villains perform in their practice space while I drink two-for-one Natty Lites. I see all Mastodon members in a restaurant I frequent all wearing American Outfitters T-shirts. I see the Internet declare fatwa on me for declaring fatwa on Pelican declaring fatwa on cohesive aesthetics. I see Harry Connick, Jr. walking streets of Atlanta. I ask how [wife] Jill [Goodacre] is. He flicks me off and says, “Fine.” I see Willie Nelson. He puts on a better show than every other performer I’ve ever seen other than Rob Halford. Gorgoroth’s Gaahl comes out—and retires—not necessarily in that order. Whitney Houston doesn’t appear to be huffing fluorocarbons any longer. Anyone enjoying Houston’s music is likely huffing fluorocarbons. Blue Cheer, Hanoi Rocks, Juliette and the Licks (!) disband. Michael Jackson is dead. Billy Powell, Ron Asheton, Lukas Foss all die. Brittany Murphy dies. Ali Akbar Khan dies. Ron “The News” Stallings dies. Alice in Chains release a record. Harry Connick, Jr., Jay-Z, and Megadeth all release records. Only one of them is (partially) good. Thanks mostly to Gates of Slumber, Iron Man, and Slough Feg, I don’t go totally mad. George Strait releases Twang; Jay Retard Watch Me Fall; Morbid Angel re-releases Blessed are the Sick. Best record of 2009 is anything Adrien Begrand didn’t write about. And of course, Dick Clark’s swollen marbly-warbly tongue-wag, that-was-then-this-is-now shtick comes ripping. Stage right: Billy Bush pulling upskirt cam on some faux blonde, neo-kuntry chanteuse whose life’s quasi-ambition involves lots of things punctuated by, “awesome.” Ball begins to drop. Clark says something. Sounds like:

– Stewart Voegtlin