Leave it to the New Yorker…

Once again, some­one writ­ing in the New York­er puts to pen the thoughts that I’ve been loose­ly throw­ing about on the state of Rock n’ Roll

Jer­ry Lee Lewis was rock and roll. Gene Pit­ney wasn’t. The Pre­tenders were rock and roll. The Bee Gees weren’t. Elvis Costel­lo was rock and roll for a while, and then he wasn’t.

By this stan­dard, the moody croon­ing of Creed and friends doesn’t qual­i­fy; nor does the self-effac­ing are­na rock of the Dave Matthews Band. But there does seem to be a new crop of bands that favor short, spiky songs gal­va­nized by angst and anger. If these bands?the White Stripes and the Strokes are the best known, and among the best?aren’t exact­ly new, they’re a return to some­thing old­er and more dis­tinc­tive: to the spir­it of punk and, before that, of the British Inva­sion.

(thanks dan­no for the link)

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