I just don't get Bon Jovi elitists. They swarmed out of the woodwork on
Thursday, as I work in Times Square, Center of the World, and 30 floors below me the city was revving up for the NFL Kickoff
Concert. It made our building rumble. I was all twittery; I scoped out the best viewing location and spent the latter half of
the day sprinting between the glassy conference room and my jumbled cube.
And that's when the bashers came, one by one, out of their holes. Those too-hip for eighties rock, way-past-it downers whose iPods are stuffed with nothing but bach, condescending scoffers who think the "hair band" phase was a crock. "Pfft, you like bon jovi," they said. "You're so un-cool."
Pretentious posers, all of them.
I'm the first to admit that Bon Jovi isn't grade-a, life-changing, Grammy-worthy, musically-challenging, lyrically-provocative, history-making music. I listen to it occasionally, but sparingly, as its chronic sameness can sometimes grate on my nerves. It's on my playlist but below a bevy of more worthy artists (currently musicians like Zero 7, Coldplay, Ella, Janet, Norah Jones, Peter Gabriel, Prince, Tori Amos, Sting, U2, lotsa showtunes - and we'll discuss that another time).
But seeing Bon Jovi live is, always has been, and continues to be the most musically pure experiences of my life. Those who say you have less "culture" or are less refined because you can jam to Gershwin at your desk one minute then run into Times Square and rock to "Living on a Prayer" the next are not merely misguided, they're missing out. They live in their cerebral, musically-exclusive world without ever knowing how much fun they don't know how to have. Simply not liking Bon Jovi is one thing — thinking others lesser mortals because they do…that's just snobby.
I'm not a birthright Bon Jovi fan, as I'm not from Jersey. I'm from Staten Island. In the eighties, the Staten Islanders wore their hair large, but only cautiously so; the Aqua Net was only pulled out on special occasions (Aussie sprunchspray, Aqua Net's second cousin, sufficed for everyday wear). Our hair height never truly defied its gravitational limitations, as it did in our western neighbors' neighborhoods. And we didn’t have the acidic attitude or backscratcher fingernails of Brooklyn girls either; we were the tame ones, sandwiched between the state that had the name and the borough that played the game.
But the one thing we all learned, inevitable as pimples and puberty, was Bon Jovi. Perhaps it's to do with the singalong nature of the songs. Perhaps its Jon Bon Jovi himself, who married his high school sweetheart and sings about love without restraint. Perhaps it's that the music doesn't seem to know sadness. It's all about keepingthe faith, and loving people forever, and staying together through the worst, and bouncing back from defeat, and staying strong and true to yourself. It could be Christian rock if it wasn't so damn sexy.
Or maybe it's just that it's fun.
Whatever it is, you put fifty thousand fans together in one open space, plug Bon Jovi in, and you get three hours of pure music, of pure good spirits, of fifty thousand people knowing every word and where everyone goes in every beat of every song. You get nostalgia without the bittersweet, high school memories without high school horrors, a place where you don't think - you just sing. And you sing as loud and hard as you possibly can.
And to those people who prance around flaunting their too-good-for-the-hair-band status - I feel sorry. I feel sorry that you didn't get to have fights with your sister over who would wear the "Welcome Home, Bon Jovi" T-shirt to school after the homecoming concert. I'm sorry you didn't get to make out at a grade school dance with "I'll Be There For You" playing in the background. I'm sorry you don't know what it's like to just throw back your head, laugh, dance and sing with the utter abandon only present at Bon Jovi concerts. I'm sorry you can't live your entire adolescence through one hard-pumping song.
But mostly, I'm sorry you can't understand. And I'm sorry I can't understand you either.
And that's when the bashers came, one by one, out of their holes. Those too-hip for eighties rock, way-past-it downers whose iPods are stuffed with nothing but bach, condescending scoffers who think the "hair band" phase was a crock. "Pfft, you like bon jovi," they said. "You're so un-cool."
Pretentious posers, all of them.
I'm the first to admit that Bon Jovi isn't grade-a, life-changing, Grammy-worthy, musically-challenging, lyrically-provocative, history-making music. I listen to it occasionally, but sparingly, as its chronic sameness can sometimes grate on my nerves. It's on my playlist but below a bevy of more worthy artists (currently musicians like Zero 7, Coldplay, Ella, Janet, Norah Jones, Peter Gabriel, Prince, Tori Amos, Sting, U2, lotsa showtunes - and we'll discuss that another time).
But seeing Bon Jovi live is, always has been, and continues to be the most musically pure experiences of my life. Those who say you have less "culture" or are less refined because you can jam to Gershwin at your desk one minute then run into Times Square and rock to "Living on a Prayer" the next are not merely misguided, they're missing out. They live in their cerebral, musically-exclusive world without ever knowing how much fun they don't know how to have. Simply not liking Bon Jovi is one thing — thinking others lesser mortals because they do…that's just snobby.
I'm not a birthright Bon Jovi fan, as I'm not from Jersey. I'm from Staten Island. In the eighties, the Staten Islanders wore their hair large, but only cautiously so; the Aqua Net was only pulled out on special occasions (Aussie sprunchspray, Aqua Net's second cousin, sufficed for everyday wear). Our hair height never truly defied its gravitational limitations, as it did in our western neighbors' neighborhoods. And we didn’t have the acidic attitude or backscratcher fingernails of Brooklyn girls either; we were the tame ones, sandwiched between the state that had the name and the borough that played the game.
But the one thing we all learned, inevitable as pimples and puberty, was Bon Jovi. Perhaps it's to do with the singalong nature of the songs. Perhaps its Jon Bon Jovi himself, who married his high school sweetheart and sings about love without restraint. Perhaps it's that the music doesn't seem to know sadness. It's all about keepingthe faith, and loving people forever, and staying together through the worst, and bouncing back from defeat, and staying strong and true to yourself. It could be Christian rock if it wasn't so damn sexy.
Or maybe it's just that it's fun.
Whatever it is, you put fifty thousand fans together in one open space, plug Bon Jovi in, and you get three hours of pure music, of pure good spirits, of fifty thousand people knowing every word and where everyone goes in every beat of every song. You get nostalgia without the bittersweet, high school memories without high school horrors, a place where you don't think - you just sing. And you sing as loud and hard as you possibly can.
And to those people who prance around flaunting their too-good-for-the-hair-band status - I feel sorry. I feel sorry that you didn't get to have fights with your sister over who would wear the "Welcome Home, Bon Jovi" T-shirt to school after the homecoming concert. I'm sorry you didn't get to make out at a grade school dance with "I'll Be There For You" playing in the background. I'm sorry you don't know what it's like to just throw back your head, laugh, dance and sing with the utter abandon only present at Bon Jovi concerts. I'm sorry you can't live your entire adolescence through one hard-pumping song.
But mostly, I'm sorry you can't understand. And I'm sorry I can't understand you either.
Oh yeah - hi! And welcome to my site. Poke around, have fun.
Wow first to post on the first thing ever on her site. even if it is 3 and a half years since she first posted it. and I liked the sept. 11 one