So many of us rock'n'roll fans buy into the mythology of it all. But I have often wondered, at the top tiers, apart from the music, the idolisation of the audiences and the implied streams of sex and drugs, what else is left at the end of the day?
Well, there are a number of options. Drug addiction, decay, tragedy (or tragicomedy) and an early death; perhaps a few flops and a crawl back to the mansion and sodden reminiscences (perhaps followed by a reunion/final tour which is critically acclaimed by folk who were never there at the start, but which critically disappoints everyone who was, and everyone who was a fan until those appalling limp todgers flipped from between the flies).
Or perhaps extravagant, opulent mansions, models and bimbos and more drugs. And, perhaps, trainsets.
Of course, that kind of tier isn't reserved for rock 'n' rollers or film stars. One similarity is that wealth - and fame - tends to create an artificial bubble in which people seem to exist rather than live. And such existence is surely at odds with the realities and usefulness of living a life, with sharing, exchanging, and engaging with real people (not just acolytes and servants).
Oh, sure. I know. It's horses for courses. Not everyone thinks the same way, not everyone loves the same music, and that's fine.
However, have you ever taken the time to look at how those in the top tier actually live? Apart from Ozzy, of course: he was unique because at one point his bubble was open to the public (via a TV director).
Here's a link to that time when Peter Criss sold his house in 2019. It's a long driveway and the house doesn't have immediate neighbours. Which I completely get. But... bubble. Right there: bubble.
Now, I know many of you will be admiring the decor and the layout. But not me. Because it looks far too bloody cheesy and twee, if not "ye quaynte". Frankly, it reminds me of a house which is always going to be 'someone else's'; the only room with anything resembling normality is the telly room, with the cumfy his 'n' hers sofachairs.
No books on shelves of course. Not a book in sight. Nor any records. Nor a drum kit or drum room; no pesky KISS memorabilia either. Perhaps those photos weren't published - most real estate agents seem to think records, CDs, books and magazines are the kind of clutter which distracts from the house.
Anyway, aside from the telly room, the place looks utterly uninspiring, devoid of life. I might add that any house which has a fucking bar tells you all you need to know: surely, what a bollocks of a life. If you want to visit a bar or a pub, go visit a bar or a pub. Sure, have some bottles on a sideboard with a few glasses.
Oh, alright - so he's famous and shy ... but you wouldn't want to visit this bar, there's no beer on tap, there are no wine bottles on display, and it's mostly spirits lurking on shelves. No, this looks like a pretty dull life to me. Not quite lifeless, of course, but pretty shallow. Sure, we all know folks who have lives which are a bit like this, but here the property and decor is somewhat more crap and ... I don't know. I reminds me of one of those furniture emporiums with multiple display rooms.
Here's Henry Rollins' place. Alright, this is a lot plainer. The blurb explains that it is in a "private and gated celebrity compound" (which sounds terribly exciting). As you can see, a drab concrete driveway (which looks like an open culvert) leads to a "home [with] lots of privacy, with no neighbors nearby[;] with its steel beams and tons of concrete, it has an industrial feel to it. Rollins' bunker-like Los Angeles home has three [huge] bedrooms and six bathrooms inside".
Six bathrooms to accommodate folks in three bedrooms? But wait, the real estate agent adds that it "has a recording booth". But I'm carping: there's a smallish gym; the kitchen is big and it looks easy to move about; the seats and chairs look comfortable, and the place does look airy and open, designed for real people to sit down and talk, whether it be on the balcony (with its view of trees and a hill) or inside. It's a joint designed for living with people and not having to deal with neighbours.
Sure, it's a bubble. But it seems like a good place to hang.
Far, far too much ugly concrete, but hey, he didn't design it. Also, in the link, beneath Rollins' place is Joe Perry's joint, which ... reminds me of Kriss', with that weird decor straight out of a showroom. I'll just add that regardless of worth or talent, any guitarist who gets a place with a guitar-shaped swimming pool is, in my opinion, a total knob.
Here's Rod Stewart's US$70million LA Mansion. Could this pad demonstrate the difference between a songwriter and a musician? This stately home has apparently been hoiked from the boondocks in the UK and shifted to Beverly Hills. Let's quote the blurb:
"The first floor has two sitting rooms with intricate moldings, traditionally decorated and filled with Old World treasures. There is a gourmet kitchen next to the tea room and the den with fireplaces and loggias, a wine room, an exquisite dining room that seats 20, a bar that rivals the best of the European taverns with a large mirror and several oil-painted Renaissance nudes, French doors that lead to the covered loggia, manicured grounds, a wood-paneled library, wood-inlay floors, and in case one bar isn’t enough there is also a green speakeasy perfect for a nightcap – perhaps following a Rod concert. There is also a 4,500-square-foot guesthouse."
"Okay", you're thinking, "when do I move in?". Mmmmmm. Truth is, if I were gifted something like this I'd probably sell it straight away. The decor certainly doesn't suit me - too bloody arriviste palatial. I ain't royalty, thankfully. The attempt to make the place look open and airy fails as soon as you try to negotiate the cluttered, crowded and awkward foyer. The white, black and gold scheme looks frankly like showing off rather than projecting space (it doesn't help that the gilt decorations resemble those at the White House, which seem to be plastic stick-ons from a hardware store painted gold).
The decor, "collectables" and artworks resemble purloined European cultural mishmash, and yes, those faux-antique dining-room chairs look damned uncomfortable. No pics of the kitchen, nor any bookshelves or record-listening rooms, nor the rooms for Rod's model trainsets, his memorabilia or collection of shrunken heads (spoiler: I made that last bit up) nor even a rehearsal room for Rod and his band to, uh, kick out the jams every now and again. But the two bathrooms are nice: I like big baths.
Sure, if I owned it I could get rid of all that pretend 17C-20C royalty claptrap; and since the rooms are indeed a good size I could put some useful and fun things in there. But for half the US$70m I could find lovely big places with plenty of rooms that suit me (I'll have two in Australia and one in Europe, ta very much), and still have bags of room for guests, books, film, music and rehearsing. You know, the important things in life.
What do Kriss and Stewart's joints tell me? First, you're gonna be employing multiple servants just to keep the place dusted and the brass polished. You'd want a cook and an apprentice too; a few gardeners. A secretary. And probably a butler, to put visitors in their place. Sure you could live without all these folks. But the place would get all dirty and dusty, the garden would get all overgrown and people would think you're just like regular folks, when you want to send a message that you know. You're special. So special... And we couldn't have that.
Second, though. Why on earth do people buy places like this? They look so unpleasant. I mean, really. I feel like people don't so much 'live, laugh and love' here as exist and fill their inadequacies. In retrospect, I don't think they're trying to impress the rest of the world, but themselves; maybe trying to prove to themselves that they're alive. They don't look like homes to me.
Third, applied to the wealthier, more useless rock and pop stars past their prime and relevance, perhaps Spotify is a positive boon. Perhaps musicians like Rod won't be able to buy any more of these 'look at my big bank balance' homes, and, after moving house, Kriss might perhaps splash out and get himself a record-listening room, a drum room and a shelf for his Kiss stuff.
Life is such a simple thing, really. Sure we have needs. And sure, we like to surround ourselves with lovely things. Why not, after all? But what's our life about - existing in these artificially cultural, expensively outfitted rooms bereft of soul? Or endlessly feeding one's avaricious vanity at all costs?
Which brings me to "Melania", the recently released autohagiography. The reviews are mostly negative, although some are fairly kind. Have you ever seen any pictures of Donald Trump's penthouse?
Okay, now remember I said, it's horses for courses? Same thing. It's really gold-and-white overkill, a cultural mangle which is, I suppose, intended to impress and awe the visitor, but ... looks pretty uncomfortable to me. The living room is far too big - it's clearly designed for multiple groups and parties or something. Schmoozing. Plenty of room for the waiters to scud about. Certainly not intimacy. Can't see the telly room, or the record-listening room, or any bookshelves. I mean, they'd clutter the joint up, wouldn't they?
Also, the Trumps have the same stupid faux-antique chairs which are supposed to be 'classy' but you don't want to sit in them for too long. And gold decor, especially with white, still looks cheap and tawdry to me. It's like a bloke past forty with a red sports car with an ambitious blonde: tacky, and the equivalent of wearing t-shirts with '" still got it" or "I have a tiny deformed winky-wee".
Like, you know, a dictator's pad inspired by 1970s German porno. If memory serves, Saddam Hussein had been gifted gold-plated AK-47s and a Heckler & Koch MP5SD (the plating would have rendered the guns useless) and numerous gold-plated bathroom accessories. I expect his wardrobe had a selection of safari suits too, with flares, clunky shoes and love beads.
What do these folks get out of this obscene display of wealth? Well, as you know, 'the journey' (AKA 'the pursuit') is really the only thing in many people's lives. Because without this degrading, amoral pursuit of power and gold, their 'purpose', their lives would have no meaning. And I have to say, I think they would be incapable of enjoying a life simply interacting with people and the rest of the world, away from the servants, sycophants and other opportunists. However, all this is one more aspect of our human nature, as I expect you know.
Everyone except the wealthy knows that you can't buy good taste, and just because you know what you like, it don't mean that what you like is any good. Honestly, you can't make real life up. Remember the dress Melania wore to her hubby's last inauguration? White with thick black lines? Looked like another page from the Epstein files, complete with redactions. Was she making a point? Or just unconsciously gauche?
Mind, Melania is a person who lives with someone who, long after being a high school jock, asserted that it was okay to grab women by the pussy' and clearly meant it. Aside from his obvious corruption, he's also considered a rapist and a molester. Why would you want to live with someone like that? Well, I suppose it's all part of brand Trump: the director of 'Melania' also had a pile of sexual misconduct allegations aimed at him.
It takes a lot for me to say this, but Rollins' place, while I wouldn't refuse it if offered (ha!) looks pretty good. Useful. Where you can be in your bubble if you need to, but have folks over and everyone will be comfortable. Also, this link shows you that somehow Rollins has what Stewart and Kriss and Melania and Donald don't have: a book collection and a record collection.
What's so good about that? Well, a library allows us to choose what book or music suits our mood today. Which way of understanding ourselves and our friends, perhaps via a faux-world which takes us out of our bubble, shall we plunge into today? Which historical period shall we visit? Travel takes us out of our bubble, too, but maybe some folk think travel is like work, or touring (which of course it isn't).
Remember what John Waters said? “We need to make books cool again. If you go home with someone, and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.”
I'd add to that, CDs and records, but add a caveat: maybe not Henry Rollins.
I mean, ugh.
